Page 213 of Ricardo

Once, years ago, after a donor boat event on Lake Michigan, I threw up in a rideshare while Dante held my hair and told the driver to keep his eyes on the road if he wanted to keep them. He bought me ginger ale from a gas station afterward and slept on my couch because he didn’t want to leave me unsupervised.

I unwrap the mint with clumsy fingers and pop it in my mouth.

The mint is sharp on my tongue. I think it helps.

Or maybe it’s Dante.

“I didn’t tell him your private things,” I say.

Dante’s eyes close for a second.

“Julia.”

“I didn’t.”

“I believe you.”

That makes me look at him.

He is still turned toward the window.

“I do,” he says, quieter. “I know you wouldn’t do that.”

My chest aches with the relief of it.

“Then what—”

“That doesn’t mean it’s the same.”

I stop.

He looks at me again.

“You are with my father now. You go home to him. You hear his side. He hears yours. Even if neither of you says a word about me, I am still different in both of your lives.”

His voice roughens on the last part, and he hates it. I can tell by the way his jaw clenches.

“That’s not true,” I whisper. “I don’t feel like that at all.”

“I do,” he says quietly.

I look down at the mint wrapper in my hand and smooth one corner with my thumb because I do not know what to do with my hands.

“I don’t want to take your place with him,” I say.

A bitter sound leaves him. “You couldn’t.”

I flinch.

Regret crosses his face immediately.

He looks away.

“I didn’t mean it like that.”

“I know what you meant.”

He drags a hand over his mouth. “I mean no one can take my place with him. I’m his son.”