“What’s that?” she asks, crossing her arms beneath her chest.
“I have a document that needs your signature,” I reply, and her expression makes it clear she thinks this is pointless.
“What do you need this document for?” Talia asks, surprised that I’m asking for her help. I can see it in her eyes.
“Talia, I just need your signature; I don’t see why you need to know,” I say, remaining calmer than I truly feel.
“Well, I can’t help you,” she says, dropping her arms and stepping back to close the door.
I place my Clarks at the door, making it impossible for her to shut it. Then I step in a bit more.
“I know you’re not fond of me right now because of my past actions, but just hear me out,” I plead, and she attempts to close the door. Realizing my shoe is blocking her way, she tries to push me away.
“Hear me out, please!” I urge her, and she pushes against my chest, stirring memories from when Zara and I broke up, and she did the same to me. Why do women always put their hands on men?
She realizes she holds the upper hand over me for the first time and is determined to use it against me.
“No, I don’t want to hear you!” she insists, trying to force me out of her house, even as she struggles. Frustrated with her grip on my shirt, I grab her throat, and she quiets instantly. This always seems to silence them.
Our gazes lock intensely.
Then I notice her friend grabbing her handbag, likely feeling uncomfortable and deciding it’s best to leave.
“Llámame,” Talia’s friend says as she brushes past us on her way out. Talia nods while glaring at me.
[Call me.]
“I’m here to purchase something, and they need your signature. I flew all the way here to get it done,” I explain.
“That’s your business,” she hisses.
I loosen my grip and look at her. “And you have to sign the document for me to get it,” I continue.
“You need to leave!” she shouts. Her neighbor pulls open her door. I force a smile as she waves and closes it behind her.
Then I step inside.
She leans against the door, visibly frustrated. I take a seat on the sofa, watching her as she leans on the door with her eyesclosed. Finally, she opens them, walks to the far end of the room, and places the document on the table.
The silence is deafening.
“I don’t have a father because of you,” she finally breaks the silence.
“We both equal,” I respond bitterly, and she stares at me.
“Don’t you think your father deserved it? Of course, you’re going to say no since it’s your father,” I retort.
“Wasn’t your father someone who murdered people?” she asks. I remain silent for a moment before responding.
“Yes, but for valid reasons. Your father killed innocent people for no reason at all,” I reply.
“Are you sorry? Sorry for what you did to my dad?” she questions.
No.
I narrow my eyes at her.
“Where’s your camera?” I ask angrily.
