Tristan stares at me like I hung the damn moon. At my mouth. At me. Something molten and terrifying and electric coils low in my stomach. And… maybe it’s okay he sees me enjoying something. Maybe it’s okay that I’m not unimportant right now.
“How many?”
“All of them.”
“All?”
“Every food truck in Vegas. I check every week or two to see if a new one has popped up.”
“Have you gone to a lot of them, then? Like, have you been doing this for a while?”
I pluck up another fry. “I haven’t gotten a lot of chances recently. When I was in my master’s program, I did what I wanted with my free time, but since I graduated…” I trail off. Tristan doesn’t need to know about the whole business with Luca. Why should he? That part of my life is over. Dad cut me off. Luca’s out of the picture. I’m free.
So why does it still feel like those old obligations are snapping at my heels?
“My parents got a little more controlling. You know how it is.” I shrug one shoulder.
“No, actually, I don’t.” Tristan’s brow furrows.
“You mean your parents didn’t take an interest in your love life? They aren’t pressuring you to get married, have kids, and carry on the family line?”
“Yeah, somewhat.” He mimics my shrug, but in an unconscious sort of way. Like he’s responding to my cues, rather than mocking me. “My mom would like me to have kids and settle down.”
“Girls always get more pressure about that kind of thing.” My skin prickles. The conversation is tilting toward the gravity well of my family, and I can feel the pull—the same old collapse, the same fear of becoming too much.
Tristan’s lips press into a line. He looks like he wants to argue, but after a moment, he just nods. “Sure. Probably.”
All this talk about my parents and Luca has left me on edge. It didn’t occur to me how calm I felt until I start fidgeting again. Being with Tristan is easy. Talking about my family? Not so much.
“I’m going to get more napkins,” I say, much too loudly. I’m already on my feet and moving away from him, and from the void I’m hurling toward.
When I was younger, I was obsessed with space. This was after my obsession with dinosaurs, butbeforemy obsession with the Mariana Trench. One of the most interesting things about space, at least in the context of the kids’ science books I could get my hands on, was the concept of black holes. Black holes are terrifying, because by the time you’re caught in the event horizon, it’s too late. Everything is happening too fast, but it’s also infinite. The closer you get to the hole, the more time stretches and warps, so that to anyone being sucked into that void, time goes on forever. You’d know you were trapped, but you couldn’t do a damn thing about it.
Even at eight, I already knew that feeling. And sure, time has passed, but I’m still stuck. That’s how black holes work, and it’s how fucked-up families work, too.
God, there’s something wrong with me.
Even if Tristan can forgive my rants and ramblings for now, eventually, he’s going to figure out that I’m broken. That I’m trapped. That no matter how far I run, my family has some essential part of me locked in the outer edges of their hungry void. And the other part is trapped by a mind too big and active for my own sanity.
I stumble over to the napkins and pick them, one at a time, out of the dispenser. I know that I’m taking more than I need, but I’m on autopilot. My fists are full of napkins when one of the new customers, a guy there with a group of his friends, knocks his shoulder against mine.
“Oh, shit, sorry.” He’s laughing, and I’m sure it was an accident, but his cologne is sharp, and the food truck’s fryer is sizzling, and people are talking, and my skin is on fire. I can’t breathe. I can’t move.
The man peers at me, his smile fading. “Are you okay?”
My lips move. My ears ring. My throat locks. Every sound gets sharp and hot, like someone turned the whole alley up to eleven.
And then, Tristan is there, one hand light on my arm. “Come on, Min,” he whispers to me. To the guy, he says, “I think she needs some air. Do you mind keeping an eye on our table? I’ll grab our food in a sec. You guys can sit there, I think we’re going to clear out.”
Relief punches through me so hard my knees almost buckle. Tristan saw me. Tristan came for me.
“Oh, sure.” The stranger seems confused, but he doesn’t try to touch me again as Tristan guides me away from the truck and the people. He shepherds me over to the car and opensthe passenger door for me. I slide inside, immediately relieved by the quiet and the cocoon of the frame. I’m safe here. I can breathe again.
“I’ll be right back.” Tristan shuts the car door behind me.
In the silence and the safety, I take a few calming breaths and close my eyes. Did I just have another panic attack? Because some guy accidentally bumped me? No, it started before that.
I don’t know how much time passes, but eventually the back door opens. “It’s me,” Tristan says. There’s a crinkle of paper. I open my eyes to find that he’s packed up our food to go and is setting it on the floor of the back seat, where it can’t spill. When he’s done, he gets in the driver’s seat and passes me an unopened bottle of soda.
