Memorial(69)

And with that, Mitsuko turns back to her tablet.

I look at Mike. He purses his lips.

So I say, All right.

And I shut the door behind me.

But not before Mitsuko groans an audible, breathy, Jesus.



* * *





Under any other circumstance, I’d have texted Ximena immediately, but she never bought an international phone plan, and I won’t be fucked with a trillion-dollar bill.

I’d text Mike, but he’s sitting in the center of the sun.

I’d text Omar, but he’s on the other end of the solar system.

So I reach out to my sister.



* * *





Spring in Houston is scalding sidewalks and sun-drunk lovebugs. It’s dead grass and midday thunderstorms. It isn’t the beginning or the end of anything, just a prolonged in-between through dead-end traffic on I-45.

Mike may be back, but I still take his car. I drive to the park a few blocks away, and then I just sit in the quiet, where I can hear myself think. Everyone’s bracing themselves for the sun. The Third Ward’s residents lounge on their front steps, fanning themselves, halfway watching their kids. The daughter next door to us throws grass at a kitten, enticing the stray with Spanish. The humidity’s negligible for once, which only happens a few times a year, but once everyone’s outside, and the weather finally turns civil, the block looks less like a gentrification exhibition than a living, shitting neighborhood.

Eventually, Lydia’s car ambles toward mine. She steps out of it in shorts and a sweater, fondling a vape pen. We make our way to a swing set, dragging our feet below us, smoking as the chains clink beside us.

You better be going through it, she says. Making me drive all the way out here.

It’s not that far, I say.

You could’ve came to me.

I could’ve. Mike’s back.

That’s enough for Lydia to whistle. She leans against her swing, passing me the pen.

Is that a good thing, she asks.

It’s a thing, I say.

Sorry, bubba.

Nothing to be sorry about.

I know. But I’m still sorry.

I ask how Lydia’s been doing, and she responds with a shrug. She’s been living with our father three days out of the week. In the photos she sends me, sometimes, he looks absolutely miserable. But the thing is that he’s present, and she’s right there beside him.

I tell her that it’s cute, and Lydia scoffs.

Nothing cute about living with an old fucking man, she says.

I wouldn’t mind that, I say. If I could find one to put me up.

You’ve already got a nice little mister.

Maybe not, I say. That might be about to change.

Lydia looks at me. She turns my way, crossing her legs.

Everything changes, she says. Change isn’t good or bad. It’s just change.

Is that supposed to cheer me up?

It’s not supposed to do anything. Just throwing it out there.

Moving on isn’t a bad thing, says Lydia, yeah? It’s just a thing. And it happens to everyone. Whether you want it to or not. So do you want it to?

I don’t know, I say.

Of course not, says Lydia. If it helps, I like Mike. But I like you more.

Thanks, big sister.

You’re welcome, baby brother.

Lydia squeezes my shoulder, massaging the edge of it. A cloud drifts just above us, shielding us from the glare. I tell my sister that, worst-case, I might need to stay at the house for a while, and she turns my way, frowning, and then she exhales a mouthful of smoke, falling into a laugh.

That’s fine, she says, grinning. But I’m already sleeping in your room.



* * *





When I make it back to the apartment, Mitsuko’s asleep on the sofa. There are dishes in the sink, and Mike’s washing them, slowly. But before I speak up, he puts a finger to his lips, wiping down his hands, waving me toward the bedroom.

We’ve hardly shut the door before he wraps his arms around me.

The first thing I do is flinch.

And then I realize it’s just a hug.

All Mike’s doing is hugging me.

I open my mouth, and he shushes me.

We’ll deal with it, he says. We’ll figure it out.

But, says Mike, let’s just do this for a minute, please, and I can’t remember the last time I heard him use the word.

So I sink my head into his shoulder. Mike closes his eyes. I tremble.



* * *





When I wake up, it’s way past midnight. The living room’s silent. I figure Mitsuko’s sound asleep, and Mike’s tapping on his phone, and I can’t tell if he sees me or what.

So I ask him to pass me a pillow. I tell him I’ll sleep on the floor.

Now you’re just being fucking ridiculous, says Mike, pulling me onto his stomach.

We lie there for a moment, just breathing on each other.

So, I say, you went to Osaka.

Yeah, says Mike. Now I’m back.

And your father, I say, and I regret it the moment the words leave my mouth, but all Mike does is scratch the bridge of his nose.

I slip my fingers in his hair. Mike’s shoulders relax.

I’ve been seeing someone, I say.

I don’t know what I expect to happen, but I brace myself.