When I glance back at Liliana, her eyes are locked on the tattoo, finger twitching. I offer her my arm to touch. Part of me thinks she’ll brush me off and pretend her body language wasn’t asking to, but she runs her fingers over the ink. My breath catches.
“She sounds insightful.”
“She was.” The bittersweet feeling starts to subside. Grief being replaced with love and pride of being my mother’s son. “Everything I do, I do for my mom.”
Soft enough to be a whisper that no one but us can hear, Liliana replies, “Me too. Everything in my life goes back to being my parents’ daughter.”
Her touch stills. Liliana looks up at me, smiles, and leans back into her chair.
I don’t feel like she’s retreating from me. If anything, this is the closest I’ve felt to her in a long time.
I leave my arm on the table in case she wants to touch me again and send my mind reeling. She doesn’t, but after I bask in the realization that our metaphorical gap closed at least a bit, Liliana speaks.
“What about the other part?”
“Other part?”
“The blonde. You said you would tell me who he is, too.”
The electricity between us sizzles out. Speaking of my father—even if it’s indirectly—never fails to sour my mood. If I were talking to anyone else, I would make another excuse out of this. But the last thing I would ever want to do is lie to this girl.
“That was Locke. He’s my half-brother.”
“You have a brother?!” She jolts.
“Half.” I gently correct her. I can see the shock running over her expression. “And a half-sister. From my dad’s side. We didn’t grow up together, and I met them for the first time at my mom’s funeral. I barely know Locke.”
“Then why do you get so stressed out around him?”
I glance to the side and grunt. Sharing things about my mom, I can do all day, every day, for the rest of my life. But I hate sharing this part of my family with her.
At the very least, if Liliana remembered what I told her of my mom, I trust she held onto the pieces of information I gave her about my father.
He was never around, he’s a businessman, and I don’t like to talk about him.
"Locke is my father’s prodigy. His perfect son. We’re close in age, too.”
Too close. Eight months.
My brain refuses to forget that fact no matter how hard I try to. Maybe it’s better if I don’t. It serves as a reminder that my father was capable of being a dad when I was born. He just didn’t want to bemine.
“Long story short, I don’t want to be around my father, his wife, or their kids. They tried to force me into a weekly dinner.” Shaking my head, I push back my hair before tugging at it in frustration. “So I told them I was busy with a group project.”
“Hm. Let me guess. Those dinners were on Thursday.”
“Exactly. Beautiful and smart.”
I say it mindlessly, because those characteristics of Liliana are obvious to me. Not a secret, not hidden. Just a fact of life.
But her skin flushes a shade of red and I know I’m venturing into territory she’s not ready for today.
“Anyways. He worships the ground my dad walks on and he’d totally rat me out. I needed to cover my bases, so I asked for your help.”
“I see.” Her fingers tap onto the table. “While I usually don’t condone lying, I’ll make an exception since your writing advice was useful.”
“Is that so?” My mouth morphs into a smile. For the prospect of getting out of the current topic, and because I see this as an opportunity. I’m determined to hold that responsibility to my heart. I want to be every exception to her. “What are we doing, then? Don’t you have work to do?”
eleven
