With one hand, Abuela clutches her rosary to her chest and with the other, she selects a puzzle piece and finds its spot instantly. I have absolutely no idea how she does that. I still haven’t even gotten one.
“Bruja,” I mutter under my breath, accusing her of using her puzzle witch powers.
She cracks a smile, grateful that I broke the tense silence—not that she’d ever admit that. But I know that the fiery anger has melted into shame for trying to make me feel bad when I won’t hit back. Besides, I’m used to being the one to offer an olive branch.
“You know I don’t want to fight either, Madison. But you’ve always been so… contrary,” she says, emphasizing the word in a way that isn’t quite disdainful and certainly isn’t approving. “With your crazy hair colors and nose rings and attitude about the world. Sometimes I think that’s my fault.”
Thoughtfully, I finger the metal in my right nostril. “Youtaught me to be strong.”
“I did,” she smiles, but it’s kind of a sad one. “But it isn’t weakness to want someone to take care of you,m’hijita,or share the burdens of life, like my Carlos,que en paz descanse.”
She thinks I need someone to take care ofme? The irony of this woman saying that to me, after the sacrifices I’ve made to ensure she’s happy and comfortable…I’mthe caretaker, now; I don’t want or need anyone telling me how to live my life—not even someone who means well.
And given my line of work, I can’t really afford to let anyone close enough to try.
I shake my head. “I know, Abuela. But I like being alone. And I don’t want to work in an office. And I like my green hair and nose ring. I just want to live on my own terms. Is that so bad?”
She sighs, and her eyes soften. “Not bad, just… difficult. Living on your own terms is a luxury few can afford,” she remarks sagely. “You seem lonely sometimes,hijita.”
“I’m not,” I say, though it doesn’t feel quite like the truth.
To her, I look lonely. I went from being a weird, closed-off teenager to a weird, closed-off adult and neglected to learn how to make friends along the way. At this point, I’m not sure if it’s because I’m bad at relationships or if it’s self-sabotage. It’s not like I don’t know the rules of engagement; it’s just that, well… people don’t just befriend people for no reason. It’s a give and take. You tell people stuff, and find common ground, and share experiences, and give pieces of yourself in exchange for pieces of them.
But I hate sharing details about myself—I can’t talk about work, and I didn’t have the rosy childhood that people like hearing about. Real relationships with real people are exhausting sometimes.
Internet friends are another thing completely. They can’t judge you if they don’t know who you really are. The anonymity is… freeing. Intimacy takes on a much different meaning when you can’t see someone’s facial reactions, and the manners people would expect face to face are all but meaningless. Online, I get to be who I say I am—nothing more, nothing less. As far as they’re all concerned, I may not even really exist outside of zeros-and-ones.
And as far as dating?
Well… it’s probably for the best that I’m not trying to date right now. I can’t imagine most potential romantic partners would be cool with the straight-up illegal nature of my income and interests.
Yeah, that’s why. It’sdefinitelynot because I’m comparing every person I meet against a certain spymaster who moderates a certain chatroom I frequent…
“I just want you to be happy. I worry about you.”
“I know. You don’t have to worry about me, though, okay? I’ll be just fine—I’m very smart and good at things.”
“Hmmph. Pride,” she says archly—a warning, though her lips twitch in hidden amusement. “It’s a deadly sin, Madison.”
“I don’t think pride’s the one they’re going to get me for,” I mutter, loud enough for her to hear, and quiet enough for her to pretend she didn’t.
After a few seconds, I reach for her hand and give it a little squeeze. She feels much more fragile than she used to, with skin like thin, warm silk and bones that might crunch under the pressure of a firm handshake.
“Te quiero,” I say softly.
She nods like the queenly matriarch she is, knowing it’s her due, and squeezes my hand back. “Te quiero, hijita.” Then, she places another piece.
We chat as we puzzle. She presses for details about every single man in my life as a potential romantic partner, asks about my cat, about my online friends, and if I’m eating enough beans. In that order. My answers are almost always the same, and, as always, I avoid mentioning any of myextracurriculars, because it would probably kill her, and her last thought would be how disappointed she was in me.
Luckily, I know how to keep a secret.
2
Wesley
I love a challenge.
I sit in the quiet darkness, watching, still as a spider in the middle of its web, waiting for prey. As usual, I’m holed up in the intentionally shabby Bugs-B-Gon exterminator van. The outside blends in well among the run-down streets and disrepair of Ulysses, NJ, but the inside is an FBI agent’s wet dream.
