Dear Ana: Chapter 13

“Hi?”

“مرحبا.”

“Marhaba.”

I gave him a thumbs ups and threw a gummy bear at him––he caught it in his mouth. I ate two.

“Coffee?”

“قهوة.”

“Kohwa.”

“No, you’re pronouncing it with a K,” I corrected him. “It’s more of a Q sound.”

“Quahwah?”

I shook my head and laughed. Not a small snicker, or a cute and flirty giggle. I was full-on laughing, my face a complete blubbering mess. I ducked my head into my elbow to stifle the noise but it continued to echo through his café. Minutes passed before I could breathe again. I wiped my face and glanced at Noah, who was silently watching me with a small smile on his face.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not. You love this.”

“You’re right,” I snickered again. “I have never heard someone butcher the Arabic language so terribly. You deserve a prize.”

“Seeing you laugh is the best prize.”

“Right,” I agreed sarcastically.

“I’m serious,” he insisted. “It’s a nice look you’ve got going on right now––snot and tears smeared across your cheeks.”

“Oh yeah? You like that?”

“Yes,” he grinned, standing up. “I have a surprise for you.”

“That’s too bad because I hate surprises.”

“Okay, I’ll add that to the list. But since I didn’t know, can you just humor me this one time?”

“I ghosted you for several days yet you’re giving me a surprise?” I shook my head. “I guess enigmas only attract other enigmas.”

“You’re attracted to me?”

I snorted. “Yeah, you wish.”

“You have no idea.”

Thump, thump––

I laughed again, harder this time, ignoring Ana and the unmistakable hint of longing in his voice. “Now you’re just trying to be funny.”

“Close your eyes,” he demanded lightheartedly.

“طيب,” I replied, and Noah raised his eyebrows. “Okay.”

I covered my eyes as he walked back behind the counter, and started rustling around with pans and dishes.

“Open up.”

I moved my hands away eagerly. “Banana bread?”

“Chocolate chip banana bread,” he corrected. “From scratch. I seem to remember this being someone’s favorite baked good.”

“You remember correctly.”

“It’s not your mom’s recipe, but I’ve been playing around with it for a few weeks and I think I nailed it. But you are the ultimate taste tester.”

“I’m honored to be chosen for such an astound role,” I teased, cutting a piece off with my fork. I could feel his eyes watching me as I raised it to my lips and slipped the cool metal into my mouth. If I was being honest, I couldn’t concentrate enough to tell if the first bite was good or not. His gaze was like a laser burning a hole right through my skin. The rich flavor hit my taste buds then, and I momentarily forgot about his presence.

“Mmm, this is so good,” I moaned, taking another huge bite. “Seriously, Noah, you have magical hands.”

He smiled while I continued to scarf down his delicious creation.

“I’m sorry, did you want some?” I asked when there was only one bite left, but he stayed quiet. “What?”

“You’ve got a little . . .” he said, pointing to the corner of his mouth.

“Oh jeez, my bad.” I rubbed my face aggressively. “I’m such a messy eater. Is it gone?”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached out to me steadily, his eyes never leaving mine. I felt his soft finger touch the corner of my mouth, wiping something off. I looked at his finger and saw a little piece of chocolate chip. Before I could react, he brought that same finger to his lips and I watched, unblinking, as the tip of his tongue peeked out and licked his finger clean.

Thump, thump––

“I agree. It is delicious,” he murmured.

I swallowed the blazing rush bubbling up in my chest, and it burned all the way back down into the inferno that had been raging a fire in the pit of my stomach from the moment I set eyes on Noah Davidson. It was all his fault. I wasn’t susceptible to these emotions until he opened his mouth and said he liked me, which immediately made me aware of how much I fucking liked him too. I spent twenty-five years being immune to whatever this was, but now this was all I wanted.

“It’s a crime what you’re doing to me, Maya.”

“What am I doing?”

“Thinking but never sharing.” He narrowed his eyes. “It’s selfish.”

“I’m curious, Noah. You keep commenting on how much I think, but you know what’s really concerning? How much you don’t think. I mean, how can a gifted and accomplished man like yourself be so . . . thoughtless?”

“It’s always either or with you, isn’t it? Overthinking and under thinking are not the only two options. There is such a thing as simply thinking, period. You should try it sometime.”

“I can’t help it.”

“Your face says otherwise. You don’t even try to hide it. Your eyes literally vibrate like they’re trying to keep up with a million different thoughts. Your left brow slightly scrunches. You bite your lower lip. It’s like you want me to know you’re thinking something good and that I’m missing out. It’s taunting. If I didn’t enjoy looking at you so much, I would almost describe it as cruel.” He leaned into the table, smirking. “Do you want to know what I think?”

I kept my voice nonchalant but my insides were aching. “Not really, but you’re probably going to tell me anyway.”

“I think you were thinking about me.”

“I wasn’t.”

His smirk didn’t falter.

“Stop giving me that look,” I demanded.

“What look?”

“You know what look.”

The smirk just got bigger. His hands were on the table, and I watched as he slid one of them forward until the tips of his fingers were just barely touching mine.

Thump, thump––

I didn’t move my hand.

“Are you ever going to tell me why you’re always wearing gloves?”

No.

“It’s a fashion statement,” I lied. “I like looking different from all the basic bitches in this town.”

He chuckled. “You don’t dress like someone who cares about fashion.”

I gasped in mock horror. “How dare you insult my wardrobe?”

His fingers inched closer, laying partially over my hand.

Thump, thump––

“I wasn’t complaining,” he assured me. “You make jeans and sneakers look good. Runway good.”

I glanced down at our matching shoes. “Your sneakers are cleaner than mine, though. And newer.”

He kicked my foot playfully.

Thump, thump––

I kicked him back.

“Are your feet longer than mine?”

“Duh, I’m taller.”

He nudged me again. “No, you’re not. I’m at least a head taller than you.”

“Tall for men and tall for women are completely different.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” he asked, nudging me again. “I’m still taller. In women and men. When I hugged you the other day, I could practically tuck you under my chin.”

“Okay, settle down. You’re like two, maybe three inches taller, max.”

“If only there was a quick and easy way to see who’s right . . .” he said, sighing dramatically.

“I let you hug me once, Noah, you need to get over it.”

He smiled. His foot was pressed against my foot, rubbing my ankle gently, and his hand was entirely covering mine.

Thump, thump––

“My God, even your fingers are longer.”

Thump, THUMP––

I slipped my hand out from under his and took my foot back.

“I’m going to go get another piece,” I explained quickly before he could get offended.

He stood up and grabbed my plate. “I’ll get it for you.”

His voice was light and his smile was bright, but his eyes. His eyes were hurt.

The living room light was off as I pulled up to my house––that meant no one was up.

The weeks following my breakdown in the kitchen were awkward, to say the least. I avoided Mikhail like an infectious disease, even if it meant not having dinner multiple nights in a row. Even if it meant asking my mother to do my laundry because he’d decided to set up camp in the basement, instead of in his old room. It made me feel slightly less terrified knowing he wasn’t on the other side of the wall, but not enough for my mind to let me actually go to sleep for more than a few hours a night. It was getting harder to function with all the all-nighters I was pulling. I found myself dosing off at both my jobs, at the café with Noah, while I was driving . . .

It was a mess. I was a mess. The dark contour permanently stamped under my eyes wasn’t helping to keep my nightly activities a secret, and I knew Noah was starting to notice. As promised though, he never asked.

I unlocked the door quietly, not wanting to trigger anyone’s attention with my arrival. To my surprise, I found my mom sitting on the couch in the dark.

“Salam Mama,” I greeted her, taking off my shoes.

“Wait, come sit with me for a bit,” she said when I was about to head upstairs.

I sat down at the edge of the couch and looked at her, waiting.

“Where have you been?” she asked. “Do you think I haven’t noticed you staying out later for the past few weeks?”

“Well, you haven’t been hounding me with texts like you usually do, so . . .” I shrugged.

“I don’t want to fight, Maya.”

“Neither do I,” I snapped.

Get a grip.

I took a deep breath to calm my nerves. “I’m sorry. I’ve just been going to . . . Starbucks after my shifts to get some work done. You know, to stay on top of things for when I go back to school.”

“Starbucks stays open past eleven PM?”

“Fine, not Starbucks. This café downtown.” I started to get annoyed again. “What’s with the interrogations? I’m not a child.”

“I don’t care how old you are, it’s not okay for a girl to be out this late.” I immediately rolled my eyes at her cultural double standards and she sighed. “Like I said, I don’t want to fight. Baba and I are just worried about you, especially after what happened.”

I fidgeted with my fingers as the discomfort started to settle in.

“I know Mikhail being here makes you uncomfortable, and I understand, Maya, I do. I just . . . is it so much to ask for us to be a family? Can’t we just leave the past in the past and move on? Please?”

I wanted to laugh. As if it was so easy to move on. How could I move on when nothing was ever discussed or acknowledged? How could I forgive someone who had never asked for my forgiveness? Why was that so hard for them to understand? I wasn’t a kid anymore; I was a full-grown adult. My brain had already molded into itself, with all my memories deeply rooted in its core. I couldn’t forget, and I wouldn’t forgive.

“If you guys want to act like nothing happened that’s up to you,” I said without looking at her. “I don’t want to argue anymore and I don’t want to fight with anyone, but that’s only going to work if he doesn’t talk to me or come near me.” I pushed back the emotions festering in my chest. “I feel physically sick every time he speaks to me like . . . like he did nothing! Like the last twenty-five years of my life didn’t happen. My brain can’t handle any more chaos, Mama. My skin crawls whenever I’m near him, I can’t . . .”

She reached over and started rubbing my arm soothingly. “I know, Maya, I know. I’ll talk to him okay? But . . . he’s changed. I wouldn’t have let him come home if he didn’t.”

I didn’t doubt for a second that she believed that, but my mother’s vision would forever be tainted by her unequivocal love for Mikhail. It was common in immigrant households for mothers to absolutely cherish their sons like they walked on water. Nothing he ever did would change how she felt, and Ana’s heart beating in my chest was proof of that.

I told Noah I didn’t believe in unconditional love, but that was a lie. I believed it existed, I just didn’t believe it could ever be felt for me, and this was one of the reasons why.

“I’m tired,” I whispered, the exhaustion suddenly hitting me like a tsunami.

“Okay, go to sleep.”

No, Mama, I wanted to say, I’m tired, I’m tired, I’M SO FUCKING TIRED––

“Night,” I said instead and started for the stairs, but not before I saw a shadow move through the sliver underneath the basement door.

I laid out all the bills and my most recent bank statement on the passenger seat and took out my calculator. It was that time of the month.

–2300$, –120$, –60$, –150$, –135$, –50$, –200$

I looked at my almost empty gas tank.

–80$

Zara’s birthday dinner was next weekend and I still hadn’t purchased her present.

–100$

Mama was going grocery shopping this week, right?

–150$ roughly?

No, Mikhail lived with us now and spent twenty-four hours eating.

–200$

Which left me with . . .

1.12$

At least I wasn’t in overdraft.

I could feel a sharp pain in my chest and my hand immediately flung to my throat, clutching at nothing. The water was starting to rise around me, submerging my body completely into a pool of harrowing heartache.

“Fuck,” I whispered to myself, hitting my fist on the steering wheel. “Fuck, fuck, fuck!”

I continued to cuss at my poor car until the intense tightening in my chest eventually stole the breath I needed to keep speaking. Good, I thought bitterly, difficulty breathing will lead to suffocation which will ultimately lead to my death.

But then who would help my parents pay their bills?

I knew I had no right to complain. I had a roof over my head, food in the fridge, a vehicle to get me from place to place, and two jobs that paid me every week. Some people had it worse. Some people had to live in their cars or on the streets. Some people couldn’t afford food or clothes or shelter, in this devastatingly freezing weather we were having.

I knew that.

That didn’t mean it wasn’t hard living paystub to paystub. That didn’t mean the financial stress didn’t constantly weigh me down like a backpack filled with bricks. That didn’t mean I wasn’t continuously worrying and agonizing about my family’s future, and how they were going to survive if something ever happened. That didn’t mean I wasn’t endlessly telling myself I needed to get a third job, that I should be investing, that I wasn’t trying hard enough––I mean, who needed eight hours of sleep anyway? As much as I did and as hard as I worked, there was always going to be that voice in the back of my head chanting more, more, do more, YOU CAN DO MORE!

The worst part was there was no end in sight. No light at the end of the tunnel. My neuroscience degree was fucking useless on its own. The only job I could really get with it was a clinical research position, but after thousands of rejected applications, it was clear they didn’t care about my above average transcript, all my extracurricular activities, or the hundreds of hours I spent volunteering. The only thing they required was experience. Sorry, I was too busy studying and going to school to get experience. I needed to get a job first to get experience, but every place needed experience to hire me, so it was essentially a lose/lose situation.

So the solution would be to get a higher education, right? Well, how the fuck was I supposed to go to school full-time and work full-time? I was trapped in a tiny box with two impossible ways out and no room left to breathe. How long was I supposed to stay imprisoned? When was my confinement going to end? I was born poor and I was going to die poor, and there was nothing I could do about it.

My phone beeped in my lap, but I didn’t need to check to see that it was Noah. It was Sunday, so Espresso & Chill was closed, but he’d asked me to come by later today because he wanted to show me something. I told him I would, feeling giddy and excited at the time, but no part of me wanted to see him right now. I promised I wouldn’t disappear again, so with a heavy chest, I turned on my car.

I forced the bundle of emotions eating away at me to a lower and subtler level, plastered a smile on my face, and started to drive. I reluctantly parked in front of a black pickup truck that was always there, but quickly looked away as a sense of déjà vu hit, not wanting its presence to stir up any unwanted memories. It didn’t help that more than half of this city drove a black fucking truck.

“Noah?” I called when I didn’t immediately see him inside.

“Coming!” I heard from what seemed like above me, accompanied by movement and footsteps. I took a seat on one of the plush chairs and waited.

“Hey, sorry, I was just washing up,” he said, appearing a few minutes later through the door behind the counter.

“Washing up where?”

“My bathroom upstairs. I live here.”

“You live here?”

“Yup.”

“Since when? You tell me everything.”

“Since always,” he said, smiling. “And, I don’t know, you never asked.”

“There’s an apartment above the café?” I said in awe. “That’s so cool.”

“I guess,” he chuckled lightly. “So, what did you do so far on your one day off?”

His question immediately triggered the heaping pile of anxiety I was desperately trying to keep at bay.

“I just ran errands all day. What have you been up to?”

He narrowed his eyes slightly. My quick subject change didn’t go unnoticed, but surprisingly he didn’t comment on it. I knew he was just respecting my space, but I wished he would ask anyway. And when I didn’t tell him, he would continue to ask me again and again, and when I still refused he would proceed to beg and plead and grovel on the floor until I told him.

You are literally a walking red flag.

“That’s actually why I wanted you to come by,” he said. “Well that, and I wanted to see you.”

I rolled my eyes, but I could feel my face heating up.

“Thanks to you, I finally decided what to do with the other half of this space.”

“What do you mean?”

“Come with me.” He stood up and started toward the white tarp separating his café, and swiftly pulled away a corner so we could walk through. I looked around the room, trying to understand what he was talking about. It was empty, and the floors were covered in plastic to protect them from the paint. There were paint cans littered around the room, along with paintbrushes, tape, and a sketchbook.

“I still don’t get it.”

“I’m turning it into a bookstore,” he said excitedly. “A second-hand, thrift book store. You mentioned how expensive books were so I’m hoping to keep the prices low or let people pay for a book by donating a book they already own. I was thinking of keeping the same theme as the café, so I’m going to do deep mahogany shelves all along this back wall here.” He pointed to the far wall where he had started painting it a light sage green color. “I’ll add a few chairs by the windows where people can sit and read if they want, and maybe keep some board games and puzzles and stuff. I don’t know, I’m still working on the details.”

He looked back at me, pure delight twinkling in his eyes. “And the best part is that since it was your idea, and since your job at Tysons sucks ass and I hate that you have to work with such a bitchy assistant manager every day . . . I think you should work here. I want you to work here with me. You can choose your own hours and you can quit whenever you want, or whenever you decide to go back to school. It’s completely up to you, Maya.”

“I . . .” I started, but I was too astonished by everything he had just said.

“You don’t have to decide right away,” he said immediately. “Also you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to, but . . . I think you do. I think you’ll enjoy it. I know I’ll enjoy seeing you for more than an hour or two a few days a week.”

I was at a loss for words. Not because I didn’t agree with him––he was right. The most consistent question you were asked while blossoming from child to teenager to adult was what do you want to be when you grow up? As if what you wanted mattered. As if the universe didn’t decide what you were going to be for you. As if you had a choice. There was a time when my naïve mind fell for it, though. There was a time when I had aspirations and dreams and a zest for life. There was a time when I wanted to be everything and do everything, but somewhere along the way that stopped. Somewhere along the way, this idea of having a job that you wanted became this inconceivable concept. Job and want used together instantly turned the sentence into an oxymoron. They were opposite sides of a magnet that couldn’t be forced together. When I thought of the word job all I thought of was survival.

But maybe I was wrong. Maybe I only felt that way because soul-sucking jobs were all I ever knew. Maybe I only felt that way because all the jobs I ever set my eyes on weren’t actually what I wanted, but what other people wanted. All the jobs I ever considered, all the careers I ever aspired to have, as different as they were, they were also all the same. They were big and loud, with a money sign stamped permanently into the title. But that wasn’t me. That wasn’t what I wanted for me. I wanted quiet and soft and Noah.

And now he was offering me the chance to spend more than a few hours a day with him, which was even better than working in a bookstore, and he looked so fucking happy to be doing it.

“This isn’t the time to kill me with silence,” he said, disturbing my thoughts. “Say something, Maya. Say yes.”

“I, um,” I started again, but I was too overcome by my emotions. The feelings of sentiment were mixing in with the accumulation of grim despair that I had barely packed away earlier. I couldn’t feel one without feeling the other and everything was brimming to the top and threatening to topple over into existence.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked, coming closer. “It’s okay if you can’t. I know you’re busy with work, and thinking about school and––”

“I’m not in school,” I interrupted.

“I know; I’m talking about after your deferral.”

“There is no deferral,” I said, looking him straight in the eye so he knew I was serious. “I lied to you.”

He continued to stare back at me with a puzzled expression. “I don’t understand.”

I took a deep breath and finally did the one thing that I’d never been able to do. I told him––I told someone––the truth.

“I told you I was doing my masters and decided to differ so I could work and save up for school, but the truth is . . . I dropped out after my first day.”

I watched his face for any signs of hatred or anger while he processed my words. It was strange, though. I was prepared to feel ashamed––which I did––but I also felt a little relieved. It felt as though the bag of bricks I was carrying on my back at all times had suddenly lost a few pounds of weight. My airways, which always felt constricted and tight, started to feel a little looser. Was this how normal people breathed all the time?

“I still don’t get it,” he said after a few minutes. “Why would you tell me that if it wasn’t true?”

“Um, habit?” I said, unsure. “To be honest, I don’t know why I told you that. I guess I was just too embarrassed to admit that I wasn’t working toward anything and that being a medical receptionist and a sales associate were currently my only occupations.”

“Why would I care?”

“Because everybody does.” My words came out harsh and glaring. “Everybody cares about that stuff, Noah. The first thing out of people’s mouths after you graduate is ‘Congrats, so what are you doing next?’ Not commenting on what stage of life someone else is in, even if it doesn’t fit into the social norm, seems easy right? Well, apparently not.” I looked away from his face, focusing on a piece of lint stuck on my shirt.

“Everybody had a plan. All my friends knew what they were doing––whether that was going to teacher’s college, grad school, writing the MCAT, or getting accepted into law school––and then there was me. Me, who barely graduated university. I got offered two outstanding scholarships when I started because my grades were so high, but by the end of my four years they had redacted both of them.” I crossed my arms over my chest in an attempt to hold myself together. “All I talked about for years was going to medical school. I dreamed about becoming a doctor and saving lives every day for the rest of my life. Everybody knew this and no one could doubt me on it either because I had the grades and the drive to accomplish it. I was high off the academic validation I got, and that spark of pride in my parent’s eyes. All I wanted was to make them proud, and to give them a better life than the one they could give me.”

I squeezed my eyes shut. “But then . . . something happened. My brain just stopped working. I don’t remember the exact moment when I need an A turned into as long as I pass, which ultimately turned into nothing fucking matters anymore. I didn’t have it in me or the time to study, let alone go to class. That’s when my grades started to slip, and then my first academic probation email came in and I––” I broke off, my voice suddenly wobbly and high pitched and I was pushing back tears.

“Hey, hey, it’s okay,” he said immediately, reaching out to me, but I backed away. I didn’t deserve his comfort.

“The fear of failure was enough to jolt me awake and I managed to pull my grades back up within the next two years. I graduated with honors just like everyone expected me to, but I was . . . gone. I thought I was home free. I thought I was finally going to be able to breathe a little bit, and maybe take a break or something to think about what I wanted but that didn’t happen.” My voice slipped into a whisper as my mind drifted to the past. “Everybody just kept asking me all these questions––Maya what are you doing now, Maya did you schedule your MCAT, Maya are you applying for jobs, Maya, Maya, Maya, MAYA!”

I covered my ears to block out their voices as the hysteria started to build in my chest.

“I was forced to watch everyone else achieve their goals while I was just trying to survive. I’m so happy for them, please don’t miss understand me but . . . what about me? When is it my turn?”

“It’s okay, Maya,” he repeated, his calm and empathetic voice soothing me from afar.

I took another deep breath and pressed my sleeve against my eyes before the tears could fall.

“I spent the next year working and trying to study for the MCAT, but my parents wouldn’t get off my back, so I told them I was going to do my plan B first and applied for my masters. That way, if I didn’t get into medical school, I would still have something to fall back on. I had no interest in studying physiotherapy, but it gave me some time to stall. I wrote all the required admission tests and got accepted, but, um . . .” I trailed off.

“But what?” Noah asked quietly.

“After my first day, I had to drop out and I . . . lied about it. I told everyone I was deferring my enrollment for two years so I could save up for school because I didn’t want to be in more debt,” I whispered, the shame clouding my vision. “I didn’t mean to lie to you or anyone else. I swear that’s not who I am, and it kills me to keep it up, but I’m so humiliated. And I figured it’s not a lie that’s hurting anyone . . . I know that doesn’t make it right, but that’s just how I chose to handle it.”

I held my breath, waiting for the question that I knew was coming.

“Why did you drop out?”

Was I really about to tell him my truth? Something I went out of my way to make sure people would never suspect? I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. But . . . glancing around at the beautiful bookstore he was trying to create, all for me. All because he noticed how much I hated my jobs. Didn’t he deserve more than what I was giving him?

“I dropped out because after seeing the syllabus, I realized I wouldn’t be able to go to school full time and work full time.”

“But why do you need to work so many hours while you’re in school? They have payment plans available after you graduate––”

“Because I’m financially responsible for my family.”

I still couldn’t look at him.

“What do you mean?”

A laugh slipped out before I could stop it. “It’s pretty simple, Noah. I go to work so that we can have fun things like food, and a roof, and a car––you know, basic human necessities.”

“Okay, but why, what happened to your parents?”

“Nothing happened to them. My dad has a job, but he’s just an online math tutor so it’s not exactly a steady or an adequate stream of earnings.”

I finally glanced at him briefly but there weren’t any traces of judgment. Just concern and confusion.

“But the jobs you’re working are probably only paying you minimum wage, so how are you even . . . ?” He paused, the wheels in his mind spinning, and then his face slowly changed into that look people gave you when they felt sorry for you, but all it did was make you feel disgusting and mortified. “Oh . . . Maya, why didn’t you tell me? I could’ve helped––”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine, though. A minimum wage job in this economy basically makes you p––”

“I’m not . . . that. My job at the hospital pays a lot more than minimum wage. I’m just low income,” I interrupted, my face heating up and internally cringing at that word. “My dad is the smartest person I know, okay? He moved here with a student visa and went to school to become a physics teacher, but by the time he finished school, the economy turned to shit. He applied for jobs every day but the need for teachers was extremely low and the only position he ended up finding was overseas. It wasn’t ideal, and the salary they were offering wasn’t great, but it was better than nothing. My mom and I would do our best to live beneath our means to make the money last, but it wasn’t easy with all their bills, and credit card debt and inflation . . .” I paused, trying not to get angry thinking about all the money my mom had to spend cleaning up Mikhail’s messes.

“He lived internationally for ten months during the year and he stayed there for four years. He would’ve stayed longer, but . . . his health started to take a turn for the worst and he had to move back home.” I looked down at my fingers, knotting and unknotting them together in agitation. “That’s why I lost my scholarships. It wasn’t only because I was mentally burnt out, but because I couldn’t just let them struggle alone. I got a full-time job and worked as many hours as I could to help pay all the bills. I made enough that we didn’t get evicted and always had food on the table, but my grades suffered the consequences. I thought I could juggle it all but I failed. Everybody around me is chasing their dreams and living life, and I . . . am a failure.”

I couldn’t stand still anymore so I walked to one of the windows and watched as people scurried up and down the sidewalk, trying to get out of the cold. It was crazy how big my own life seemed when in reality I was just a tiny ant trying to survive among a billion other ants doing the same.

I felt him walk up behind me and touch my shoulder.

“Maya, I am so sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry you had to go through that, and are still going through this right now. I had no idea how tough things were for you.”

You still have no idea.

“I don’t mind helping them, it’s just . . . for how long? I feel so stuck. Like I’m backed into this tight corner without any direction to go. My parents had such high hopes and standards for me that I just couldn’t live up to. I want more for myself and for my family, but I just don’t know how to do it. I am their wallet. I am supposed to be their retirement fund, but I just don’t know how to––” I closed my eyes and let out a shaky breath. “I’ve had a job since I was thirteen. I worked my ass off in school, and all I got from it is a stem degree collecting dust in my room and a mountain of student debt that keeps growing like mold. I did everything right but still, nothing is enough. Nothing I ever do is enough.”

I glanced at his reflection through the window. He was staring at me with pity filled eyes.

“Stop,” I whispered, closing my eyes to block out his expression.

“Stop what?”

“Stop looking at me like that. I didn’t tell you this so you can feel sorry for me. I told you because I’m tired of lying. You deserve better than that, Noah.”

“I don’t pity you, Maya, I care about you. I can’t imagine the burden of stress and tension you must carry with you everywhere you go. You shouldn’t have to deal with this. You’re young, this kind of financial strain isn’t healthy and it isn’t fair. Please, just let me help––”

“Don’t,” I interrupted, turning around to face him. “Thank you, but the answer is no. Please don’t ask me again.”

He shook his head in frustration. “So, let me get this straight. You get to take care of everything and everyone . . . and then what? Who takes care of you?”

“I do,” I said firmly, my chin tilting up in defense.

“Bullshit.”

“Excuse me?”

“Every day you come in here with circles under your eyes, and you smile, and you laugh, but I can always tell you have a million other things going on beneath the surface. You never hesitate to jump behind the counter when the line gets hectic, and you help me clean up every night that you’re off from work. I catch you staring off into space all the time. You take shit from patients in the morning, and then you take shit from customers and from that bitch Sheila at night, but you don’t do anything about it. You just suck it up and you deal with it, and you neglect yourself while continuing to put everybody else first.”

“So what do you want me to do? I don’t have a choice. I can’t just be selfish and abandon my family.”

“It’s not selfish to take care of your own needs first. You only feel like that because you’re not used to doing so. It’s not your responsibility to take care of your parents’ financial issues.”

“Yes, it is.”

“No, it’s not––”

“Yes, it is. It’s not my dad’s fault. It’s not his fault he’s sick. He tried his best. He moved here to give his family a better life, but he didn’t realize how difficult it would be to navigate through a country that isn’t developed to help people within the minority. An immigrant that didn’t move here with prior connections or a pile of gold. My parents worked so hard, and they have nothing to show for it.” I couldn’t imagine how he must have felt every day knowing that he couldn’t fulfill his dreams.

“It’s not his fault,” I repeated quietly. “And it is my responsibility. You did everything you could to try and help your mom, and you were only a child. I know it was a long time ago, and I’m happy that you eventually got to have a family that loves and takes care of you, but I know there’s still some part of you that understands where I’m coming from.”

“Maya,” he started, but I spoke before he could.

“Sometimes you can’t put yourself first. Sometimes you have to sacrifice the things you want for the things other people need. Sometimes there is no way out,” I sighed. “All I know for sure is that I would feel a million times worse if I had stayed in school, knowing full well that my parents needed me.”

He rubbed his hands on his face in exasperation. I hated how stressed I was making him with my problems, so I quickly planted a smile on my face.

“It’s fine, Noah. Things don’t usually work out for me, but I’m used to it,” I assured him. “I shouldn’t have said anything. Just forget about it, okay?”

He lowered his hands. “No, it’s not fine. Don’t ever apologize for letting me know you,” he said fiercely. “And you’re wrong. We will always work out, no matter what happens . . . so get used to that.”

“I’m sorry I lied to you,” I said quietly.

“There’s nothing to apologize for.”

“I disagree.”

He fixed his gaze on me seriously. “You’re not a bad person, Maya. If anything, this just proves you are the best person.”

I chuckled humorlessly, “I disagree.”

“Look at me,” he insisted, waiting until I reluctantly met his unrelenting stare. “You are not a failure. That’s a pretty hefty declaration for a girl in her twenties. It’s a privilege to be able to only focus on school while you’re in school, but not a lot of people understand that. I understand, though, and I know you did everything you could.” His lips twitched into a small smile. “Your best days are still ahead of you, Maya. You have time to accomplish everything and anything you’ve ever set your mind to. I just wish you weren’t so hard on yourself. I just wish you didn’t feel like you have to deal with everything alone.”

“Alone is the only way I know how to live.”

He cocked his head to the side and looked at me sadly. I stepped toward him slowly, leaning my forehead against his chest, arms crossed tightly into my abdomen, breathing deeply.

“This isn’t . . .” He hesitated. “There’s more.”

He wasn’t asking, but I answered anyway.

“Yes.”

“Worse?”

Yes.

He sighed at my silence and finally moved. One hand was rubbing my forearm while the other was stroking my hair, pressing me deeper into him. I could hear his heart thrumming, blocking out hers. “When you’re ready, Maya.”

I wasn’t ever going to be ready. He had no idea how much I wanted to continue. How much I wanted to finally break down and let go of all the gut-wrenching burdens that had rested on my shoulders for what felt like an eternity, but I couldn’t. The comfort of having Noah’s understating was fleeting. It only lasted a minute before Ana’s thumps reigned my guilt back in at full force, dragging me into the deepest trenches of hell.

If only this was the most deceitful lie.