Page 51 of Don't Tell Me How It Ends
“And you’re dramatic. It wasn’t that bad. I actually kind of liked it.”
Of course, I’m lying. If I wanted a mouth full of dirty seawater, I’d jump in the East River.
His dimple digs into his cheek even before his smile appears, and he gestures toward the tray. “Have at it then.”
“Hell no. But I will share some of my pasta with you. That’s just the kind of girl I am.”
“Gee, thanks,” Ro says unamused.
But he pushes the extra plate over to my side of the table just the same.
“So, if things are going better, why haven’t you moved back here yet?” I ask, after a surprisingly comfortable silence. “Did you start getting too hard?”
It was meant to be a casual continuation of Ro’s earlier idiom, but I’m not surprised it leaves him choking on a crustacean. It’s a saying that requires a little context. And ample warning.
He switches to water once he’s recovered. “We still need help at the shop till we can set up something long term,” he says as if every son would uproot their life like he has. “I grew up at that garage, so it’s easier for me to slide back in than train somebody new right now. I can paint from anywhere. And take dope design gigs that pop up unexpectedly.”
“Zo’s plans are dope enough to get you out of retirement?”
“She has some cool ideas. And I never officially retired, I just recommitted elsewhere.”
“I like that framing,” I admit.
“That’s all life is.”
And I wonder if those four simple words might just be the key to it all. If anyone can teach me something about the art of reframing, it’s this artist quietly watching me from behind his glass.
“What?” I ask, touching my mouth to feel for any errant Tajín.
His eyes heat slightly as he follows the movement. I pretend not to notice.
“You,” he says, lifting his hand toward the city at my back. “Here. It makes sense. I’m trying to imagine you in Kansas. I can’t see it.”
“It’s just a place,” I tell him, but since it’s Ro, I already know I’ll say the thing I usually don’t. “My dad’s from out there. Kansas. It’s where he went to school—also for education, actually.”
“Ah,” he says, decided. “So you were following your dad.”
My lips purse at the oversimplification, but I can’t fault him for it. I lived it and still don’t really understand.
“No?” I say, like it’s a guess. Because it kind of is. “I didn’t even tell him when I applied. I didn’t tell anyone. I knew it didn’t make sense so I didn’t wanna have to defend it. I mean, I hated this man, and here I was walking in his footsteps.”
No wonder I’m so fucking lost. I followed a ghost expecting to end up found.
“I grew up watching basketball with him,” I say, smiling at a memory of Dad for the first time in a long time. “He’d buy me theseChalk ’EmKansas shirts, and I’d wear them around all proud, knowing nobody out here knew what it meant. It was like a language only the two of us could speak. Our little secret.” I sigh at how silly it sounds now that I’m supposedly all grown up. “Things were hard here by the time I applied to schools. Zola was already living with her ex, and my mom was in a deeply toxic cycle with husband number two. I needed to not be here,but I didn’t know where to go. When it was finally time to decide, the only other place that came to mind was Kansas. So—”
“So you left.”
I nod my confirmation.
“I knew it was a mistake almost immediately,” I say aloud for the first time. “But I was too proud to admit I had no clue what I was doing. I kinda hoped even the wrong decision would buy me enough time to figure it out, but admittedly there were some holes in the plan.”
I hope my laugh doesn’t sound as forced as it feels.
“Because now I’m back here with a degree that feels like a lie and connections that don’t matter.”
“Did you at least hit your dad up while you were out there?”
I’m shaking my head before he’s even finished asking the question.
