We Are the Ants(72)
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
Diego blushed. “We’re just friends—”
“That make out,” Charlie added. Diego blushed redder than ketchup, and I flashed my brother a death stare. “What? Don’t leave your door open if you don’t want me to record video of it and post it to SnowFlake.”
“Henry, if you’re going to have a friend you sometimes make out with, I have to get to know him.” I couldn’t believe we were discussing my nonrelationship with Diego in a restaurant on Christmas Eve. How could I explain my feelings for Diego to them when I didn’t understand them myself? Not that Mom gave me the chance. “You were saying, Diego?”
Diego managed to remain calm, though I have no idea how. When he spoke, his voice was even, flat almost, and barely rose above the background noises of the restaurant. “I spent two years in a juvenile detention center for breaking my father’s arm. Both arms, actually. And his nose. He also had a fractured skull, but that probably wasn’t entirely my fault.”
And the table descended into silence. Even my brother, who had a smartass remark for everything, was struck dumb. After Diego told me he spent time in juvenile detention, I’d tried to imagine what he’d been put away for. Nearly killing his father never made the list.
“My father believed in Jesus,” Diego said quietly, “but he believed in meth more. He’d go on binges, spend weeks high and crazy, beating up my mom and sister. When he sobered up, he’d find the Lord and beg forgiveness, and we were supposed to accept that. My sister kept me out of -trouble when she was home, but the day she turned eighteen, she packed a bag, boarded the first bus out of Brighton, and left. I was ten.
“For my thirteenth birthday, my mom fried up fresh fish for dinner and baked me a cake. Carrot, because it was my favorite. My dad came home, tweaking, and laid into my mom. Sometimes he used his fists, but that night he grabbed the dirty skillet off the stove. It was one of those heavy, cast-iron skillets that my mom had gotten from her mom who’d gotten it from her mom.” Diego clenched his jaw, shook his head. “I don’t actually remember what happened after that. My court-appointed shrink said that I’d been suppressing my anger for years and that I might have experienced a psychotic break.
“I pled to a lesser charge on my lawyer’s advice, but my one condition was that I be allowed to live with Viviana after my release. So here I am.”
No one ate a single bite during Diego’s explanation. Charlie was still holding a loaded fork, but had forgotten it entirely. Based on what Diego had told me, I knew his father was abusive, but I wasn’t prepared for the truth. Here I’d been whining about my life, and Diego had lost a chunk of his for protecting his mother from his bastard dad. If anyone should have wanted to not press the button, it was Diego.
“Jesus Christ, Henry, you sure know how to pick ’em.” Charlie chuckled like this was a joke.
As soon as Diego stopped speaking, Mom began to eat again. Small bites that she chewed about a hundred times before swallowing. When the waiter passed nearby, she waved him down and ordered a vodka tonic.
Diego squeezed my hand under the table. I didn’t squeeze it back.
Zooey rubbed her belly and offered Diego the table’s only smile. “That must’ve been a horrible way to grow up. My psych professor says we never truly know what we’re capable of until we’re put into a hopeless situation.”
“It’s true,” Diego said.
Mom wiped her mouth with the cloth napkin and set it on the table. The waiter returned with her drink and she drained it before saying, “I hope you learned how to deal with your anger while you were in juvenile detention.”
“Not living with my father helps. And I paint.”
Charlie slapped the table. “Shit, I’ve got two rooms that need painting. When my little bro pisses you off, come on over and grab a brush.”
Zooey’s eyes lit up. “Could you do a mural for the baby’s room? I’ll pay you.”
I tried to intercede, but Charlie and Zooey sank their claws into Diego, and he’d soon agreed to paint the baby’s room, though he refused to accept money for his work. Charlie and Zooey got caught up wrangling over the color palette and only stopped when Diego suggested a combination of colors. He got along with my family better than I did.
Mom signaled the waiter for another drink. After he dropped it off, she cleared her throat to get our attention. “How do you like the restaurant?”
I hadn’t given the place much thought. I’d been so nervous about Diego joining us for dinner that I’d barely noticed the surroundings. “It’s cool, I guess.” Neptune’s was a quaint seafood restaurant with views of the intracoastal. Small and chummy, the decor was thrift-store chic, and the food was outstanding. It wasn’t a normal dinner joint with bland selections you could find anywhere. The menu was inventive and playful and definitely not cheap.
Zooey was more enthusiastic. “My dad adores this place. He brings all his clients here.”
“Five stars,” Diego said, looking down at his completely clean plate. “I’d definitely eat here again.”
“Good.” Mom leveled her gaze at me and Charlie. “Look, I’m going to need you boys to pitch in around the house. Things are going to be tight for a while.”