“Which dog did you get?”
“Don’t laugh.”
“Tell me.”
“Chihuahua.” He sulks, and it’s adorable. “But I think it’s bullshit and they stereotyped me because I’m Mexican. I should definitely sue for emotional distress.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, but he looks so serious, I can’t help but laugh. “You’re an idiot.”
That makes him smile. “I hope this is okay.”
“I…don’t know what to say. This really isn’t necessary.” I don’t tell him that I could hire a private chef if I wanted to, and that before Mom passed, we had one. “This is a lot. How much did you spend on all of this? I really need to pay you.”
“Please don’t.” He pauses like he’s considering what he wants to say. “Not to brag but I have NIL deals and they pay well.”
“It doesn’t matter. I?—”
“Grief is funny,” he blurts out. He scratches his head, like he’s embarrassed he said that. “I…don’t know about you but after my…” He rubs the bridge of his nose and doesn’t meet my stare. “Brother passed away…I felt small and everything felt so…big.” He sucks in a heavy breath, like he’s struggling for words and oxygen. “Finding the energy to…brush my teeth felt like such a big task. Even after all these years, that feeling is still there. Grief…never gets easier. It keeps evolving and all you can do is adapt to it because it’s always going to be there.”
My heart leaps before it comes to a standstill. He didn’t just perfectly explain how I’ve been feeling but he opened up. He’s not being funny, he’s not attempting to get me to smile, or saying something for the sake of trying to make me feel better. He’s sharing a little bit of himself to me—the raw, vulnerable side he probably doesn’t let anyone see.
But guilt bleeds from his words, like he feels wrong for feeling that way.
“Grief is…funny,” I murmur, dropping my gaze.
He tucks a finger underneath my chin, forcing me to look into his soft, cloud-like eyes. “Very.” He smiles tenderly and something about it feels like a caress to my soul. It ignites the light in my heart again. “You’re not alone.”
I feel like we’re in this bubble and it freaks me out because bubbles can easily pop.
But this also feels different, like the bubble isn’t as self-destructive as it usually is. Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself, but I know that Daniel needs someone.
I’ve never been someone’s person and I doubt I’m what he needs. I’m probably the last person who should be comforting him. But at this moment, it can’t hurt, right?
My smile is far from what might be considered one but his eyes, like they always do, are drawn to my lips. It feels like an automatic response or like two magnets. Whatever it may be, his eyes are there, and his face glows, and my heart does the only thing it can do: it goes mad.
I don’t dwell on the condition of my heart, though, because I notice something I never have. His eyes. Light, gentle, and kind. I’ve always seen them, but now that I’m really looking at them, all I see is a heavy sadness. His eyes have always been so bright; I never noticed the shadow hiding behind them.
It feels like a stage lighting tech, who makes sure the spotlight is on everyone, making sure they’re getting enough of it while he stands in the background. The shadows.
I try to garner words, something to help me help him knowI see him.
All to show, nothing to give.The thought hammers in my head, like an incessant woodpecker, drilling and reminding me that I’m not good enough to help. Not good enough to be someone’s something.
But I don’t let myself pull back and hide in my corner of darkness. Instead, I cup his cheek, rubbing slow, gentle circles. “You’re not alone, Daniel.” And I’ve never felt more seen. But does he feel seen? “I’m here,” I opt for saying instead of asking.
Nerves are bubbling in my chest. I’m afraid I’ll say something wrong and ruin this moment.
I’ve never had a frozen-in-time moment, but this sort of feels like it. I want to encapsulate it and not let go. Store it in a safe place. But the moment gets disrupted by whatever’s boiling in the pot. The lid clinks and the boiling water attempts to spill out.
“Shit.” He scurries over and moves the pot onto the empty burner. “I promise I know what I’m doing.”
“I hope so because I don’t.” I eye the food on the counter, especially the raw chicken. I wouldn’t even know where to begin. “How long have you known how to cook?”
“Eight…no nine, I think it was. Mom didn’t play around. Our age didn’t matter in the Garcia household. She’d always tell us,‘Tienen que ponerse las pilas, porque si me muero, que van hacer?’There’s never a day she isn’t saying that. And she’s also a firm believer in equality and hates all themachismobullshit. So unfortunately, she didn’t play favorites, but I like to make Pen believe I’m the favorite to make her mad.”
The glee in his voice makes me smile. “What’s having siblings like?” The words tumble out of my mouth before I can stop myself. “I?—”
“You can ask me anything, I don’t mind.” He pours the water into the sink, making sure the potatoes don’t fall. “It’s…annoying. I’m the oldest so anything that ever happens falls on me.” My stomach painfully knots at the melancholic sound in his voice. “But uh, they’re great when they’re not annoying the fuck out of me. Pen, God, she knows how to make a situation go from zero to one hundred in seconds. Don’t ever put her down as your emergency contact. And Adrian, he would…” He chuckles emptily but mournfully. “Whine and lie about everything. He’d smile, popping those dimples—that I didn’t inherit—to get away with anything. And it always worked.”
