“Yeah—liver disease.”
But the words don't fall as they leave him.
They collapse, said fast ‘cause slowing down would cut deeper.
“I cover the bills, groceries, shifts, just holdin’ it down.” He brushes it aside with a shrug. “Still at my moms’. Grew up there. Tryna keep the house ours.”
His thumb scrapes along the rim of his glass.
“Momma takes care of Ma. Keeps her in line with eatin’, pills, doctor runs.”
He says it offhand,
but I catch the heaviness hiding in his eyes.
“How long’s it been like this?”
“I was… eighteen, nineteen?” His head tips, counting the years. “Yeah. That’s when they first said it—Cirrhosis. So… what? Eight years now?” His jaw clamps down on whatever’s shaking inside him. “Been playin’ catch-up ever since. You learn to live inside it, you know? Routines. A system. Keep movin’ to forget you're standin' on borrowed ground.”
A system, he said.
His is holding someone’s hand through liver failure. Mine’s holding men in place until I finish coming.
We both call it a system.
Only one of us is bullshitting.
“Momma and Ma—both your parents?”
“Yeah. Two moms. Married. Maria and Paola.”
A smile lifts with their names.
“One still pissed she had to carry me for ten months. Both raised me. Both blame me for their gray hair.” He pauses as if his next words might break if he sets them down wrong. “Maria’s the one who carried me. She’s the one sick. Stage four. Doctors stopped sayin’‘terminal.’Like it'll keep 'em alive longer.”
A hollow laugh slips out.
“But they’re my family, y’know? So I do what I can. Sometimes that means haulin’ bags, makin’ drinks, and shuttin’ up the part of me that wanted somethin’ more.”
My eyes slide between his.
“Do you still want more?”
Fuck. I shouldn’t’ve asked.
But the question’s already out,
begging him to answer.
The silence smothers as it waits.
Then, finally, he breathes it?—
“Yeah.”
The smile following doesn’t fill in.
It floats, useless.
