Chapter Forty

As soon as I stepped through that narrow doorframe, I felt the entire weight of the universe crumble on top of me. The longest breath I'd ever held escaped me so tightly, as my head slowly craned itself back onto the door. My hands were still wretched around the inside door-handle—a fear had built up that if I let go, that a roaming blackhole would come out of nowhere and just swallow me up. Everything was shaking, the room vibrating, though I suppose that could have just been me.

"This time next week, we blow this popsicle stand."

In my heart, I knew that I should have told him no. I knew that I should have told him that there was so much for him here. And then there was that part of me that felt he was just saying that because he was coming back from a really fucked up place.

What the actual fuck was I thinking?

My body slowly slid down the door, creating this awful squeaking sound as I went. If my aunt had been sleeping, she wouldn't have been anymore. Not that I particularly cared right now. Hands, releasing the door, cradled the top of my head, bracing for impact. Each thought that comes into my head leaves as a more complicated flurry of words.

I grit my teeth in exasperation, knowing full well I should have said something. But instead of saying something, I said absolutely nothing, feeling that this would have probably been the best idea. Truthfully, I could not have been any more wrong if I'd even tried.

A shadow crosses over mines, forcing me to draw my head up.

Sitting at the bottom step is my aunt. She wears that same silky robe that tells me that if she was not already asleep, she was just about ready to lie down. It's the reading glasses perched at the end of her nose that give her away though. There's this warm, worn smile that drapes her features that I've seen millions of times over. These days, my aunt doesn't even mind my presence, but just accepts it as a matter of fact. Long fingers perch themselves at the end of each knee as her eyes look right through the walls that I'm trying to build in that long spectacular moment in which neither of us says nothing.

"Late night?" she asks, a querying brow raising slightly.

Feebly, I sweep through my own brown, curly locks, hoping to distract her from my eyes which would traitorously give me away in a heartbeat. It feels damp from a mixture of dew, Xavier's sadness, and also sweat. There's a lump that forms hard in my throat and as much as I want to swallow around it, doing so leaves me choking on stale air.

Only after a few moments can I meet her questioning gaze. She's not like most people. Sure, she'd love to know what's going on but it's not like she's going to force it out of you. At the same time though, the way she talks to you makes you want to tell her everything. There's this feeling that you could get lost in her nurturing, motherly spirit. It strikes me as odd that she seems to radiate this, despite having no kids of her own.

Well, I guess in a way I count as her kid.

"Garth," she starts, leaning in closely. "Estás bien?"

All I could do in that moment was offer her the weakest smile that I had in my repertoire. Giving her anything else would feel like I was lying to her. I didn't want to pretend that I was okay, because look where that had gotten me so far.

At the same time, I didn't want to worry her, this woman who had given me so much without even needing to be told.

"I'm fine," I say, my voice giving way long before my face does. I don't want to clumsily carry on this back and forth in a language I should know but don't. At least in English, I know exactly what to say and what words I can hide behind. "I mean, I'm not fine, but I think I'll be okay."

Her smile remains so curt, and polite, like she's talking to an old friend. "Do you wanna talk about it?"

"Not really," are the words that invade my head.

But I can't bring myself to say them right now, so instead my shoulders tighten and slump into a nonchalant shrug. I'm doing my best to keep myself as composed as possible but that's kind of hard when you forget what composed is supposed to look like.

My body is an art museum, full of these broken things that people can't help but to see as beautiful. But beautiful things are not broken. Beautiful things are supposed to be complete.

"Life just feels like a complete and utter shit-tip right now," I say without warning.

Her eyes grow alert as she looks towards the ceiling, whispering softly. It's probably an apology. Under normal circumstances, she would just wince and move on. I guess things were different when they were totally fucked.

As she brings her eyes back down, they seem weary once more. "What's making you feel like that?"

I don't dare meet her gaze because this is how she gets to me nine times out of ten. "Just..." My voice trails off, as my head pans to the ceiling. Struggling to keep everything in, I bite at my lower lip. "I just have so much riding on a few stupid decisions and I feel like if I make the wrong choice, then there's no coming back from that."

She raises her brow again, cupping her hands together tightly. "Is this about that boy?"

I'm so startled and taken aback by this that I don't even catch my words till they tumble out. "Yeah. Maybe. No." Once again, my head is stuck in my hands. All I want is for things to make sense. "I don't know."

Her shadow shifts, and I straighten myself.

"Break it down for me," she says in a voice that's so smooth that I swear for a moment that she's my mother. "Piece by piece, tell me what's wrong."

"Well for starters, I like him."

"Well, duh." The way she says it feels like a teenager telling her best friend 'no shit.' For a moment her smile is set into this wicked line across her face.

"No Rosa, you don't understand," I say plainly.

She rolls her eyes at me, before settling back into that nurturing smile. "I see how much your face lights up whenever his name comes up. I've seen you walk through that door countless times with that same smile on your face."

Suddenly it feels like my cheeks are on fire. My hands dart to them to try and conceal my own embarrassment.

"Do you remember my friend Miss Jacobs," she asks with a lighter than light grin.

It takes a few moments for the recollection to kick in. And when I do, it's like unlocking the flood-gates. This tiny porcelain woman who always wore cardigans despite the weather. Back when I was eight, and my mother still gave a shit about my wellbeing, she would always send me to my aunts. And of course the majority of the time, she was there, always with that tender laugh that bordered on breathless.

"Yeah," I reply, trying to piece it together. And then, out of nowhere it clicks itself together. "Wait... you and Miss Jacobs?"

Now it's her turn to blush, but it's a much sadder blush than mines. "Garth, I may be old-ish but I'm not blind." It's such a perfect deflection, that I let her get away with it.

I force a smile to my face before I finally find the strength to swallow. "He asked me to run with him." Or more, I asked him to follow me to the ends of the earth. "I don't know how to say no to him."

"Do you want to say no to him?"

I pause. "I... I don't know."

Silence lingers for a moment. "If there was nothing tying you here, would you go?"

"I don't know," I lie this time.

It feels like such a flimsy lie that I'm half expecting her to call me out on it. But my aunt Rosa is not a woman who calls people out. Her motto has always been to let people come to their own conclusions of who she is.

At the end of the day, I guess it's a pretty good motto to live by.

"Here's what I want you to do," she strains, lifting herself off from the bottom step with such ungrace reserved for people who've not slept in weeks. "I want you to sleep on it. He seems to like you enough to risk everything," she says so sweetly, closing the distance and kissing the top of my head. "And you are far too mature to ever be tied down by anything life throws at you."

With that she flicks off the hallway switch, plunging our bodies into darkness.