It’s rare for me to speak about my mom. I don’t dare mention her to my father, and Heath already has so much to worry about. Talking about her is bittersweet—remembering what I lost hurts, but remembering what I had is healing. It’s a weird mix of nostalgia and grief I don’t think I’ll ever get used to.
“I’m not saying this so you feel bad. You were right to be upset at me for what happened.”
“I thought you didn’t show up because you didn’t feel like it.” Liliana’s voice is soft and careful. “I mean, I texted you, and you never answered.”
“I know. I should’ve answered you as soon as possible, not days after.”
Her head jerks back, forehead creasing. “Days after?”
I nod. Her shoulders fall.
“What did you text back?”
My own forehead wrinkles in confusion. I search into my memories for an answer, both to her question and why she’s asking. “I said something like, ‘I’ll explain the next time we see each other.’”
Understandably, she didn’t answer, and I accepted maybe there wouldn’t be a next time. Liliana blows out a breath of air and looks down at the table.
“I never saw that text. I blocked you at the end of finals week.”
“Damn.” I make sure to lace laughter in with my response. “That makes sense. I deserved it.”
“Grant.” Those painted blue nails extend across the table to pat my hand, and warmth expands over my body. “I assumed you didn’t think the final was worth showing up for or something. If I had known the real reason-”
“I didn’t tell you. There were enough opportunities.” Since she pointed out I hadn’t made an effort to apologize in the months I’ve been coming here, I’ve wondered why it nevercrossed my mind. Was I too distracted by seeing her again, or was I not ready to discuss my mom after Keller started forcing himself into my life?
It doesn’t matter. It’s less about what I didn’t do, and more about what I’m going to do.
“You should’ve told the professors. I’m sure they would’ve made an exception or given you a chance to make up.”
“They emailed me to ask if I was okay.” I’ve never been a star student, but I have a natural talent for art. My professors used that reasoning when they reached out to check in. It took too much energy to explain myself more than once, though. “I couldn’t be bothered to answer them. Our comms professor was the only one I replied to.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him it was my fault you weren’t prepared, and he should fail me but pass you.” I let the weight of my words hang in the air. I never followed up to ask if shedidpass, but her quick breaths and softened eyes leave little to guess. Affection I’ve only ever had for her flares. “I didn’t forget about you, Liliana. Not for a second.”
It’s everything I’ve ever wanted her to know. A sick feeling has been eating away since she accused me of forgetting her, like that was even a possibility.
Liliana blinks. Stills. Nods. I’ve pushed my luck enough tonight so I won’t attempt to analyze her thoughts. But her posture is looser and her arms are laid open. I’ll take those as symbols she doesn’t hate me, and she understands I’m not a messed-up guy. Just a guy who messed up.
Before I can repeat none of this was to make her feel bad, or force her into forgiving me, she says, “In undergrad, you told me your mom was the person who got you into art.”
“That’s right.” The bittersweet feeling runs up my neck. “When I was a kid, my mom used to read me a book every nightbefore bed. But I always cared about the drawings more than the words.”
“I was on the other side of that. The words mattered to me, and I barely looked at the drawings.”
There’s an underlying meaning there I don’t think she intended, but one I’ll hold onto. Long before we found each other, we were two halves of something. I smile knowingly.
“Is that why you love reading? Those stories are why I love art.”
“It probably started there, sure, but I don’t think it was as intense as you. You’ve been drawing your whole life.”
“You remember.” It was our first real conversation—bonding over the shared situation of us growing up as only children. She told me about the time she spent with her parents, learning about her culture, and I described the art hobby my mom encouraged me into. “My mom told me if I felt passionate about something, I should chase after it. Illustration was the first thing I felt passion for.”
Liliana hums. Her eyes flit over mine before falling to my exposed forearm. “Is that why you got the tattoo?”
The black ink covering my skin twists when I move to stare at it. The phrase “I would rather die of passion than of boredom” stretches across my left arm, with a dove accompanying it. It’s the only tattoo I’ve ever considered getting, a month after my mom’s passing.
“Yeah. This was my mom’s favorite quote.”
