The Art of Losing(74)

Seven Years Ago



Raf was eleven when his sister, Allie, was diagnosed with cancer. Leukemia. She made it barely a year past her diagnosis.

I remember the days after her death like a dream sequence in a movie, its edges blurry and indistinct. I remember neighbors parading down the street to the Juarezes’ house, each with a casserole dish or a Tupperware container. After dropping it off and expressing their condolences, they would come to our house and gather in our kitchen. Mom had a pot of coffee brewing constantly, even though most of them drank wine. At night, when they’d finally gone, Mom would polish off what was left in the bottles.

The day of the funeral, after the service (about which I only remember hating the itchy tights I was wearing), Mom and Dad hosted the reception at our house. We kids played outside in our black and navy finery, kicking off our shoes and ties and tights in the bright afternoon sun. It was spring, and the grass was wet in the backyard. We got yelled at afterward when we came inside with grass stains on our knees, tracking mud on the carpet.

But Mrs. Juarez pulled me into a too-tight hug. Her eyes were wet and her nose was red, and I didn’t know what to say to her. I liked hugging her, though. I missed Allie and I was sorry that she was dead, but I didn’t know how to say that. So I tightened my arms around her middle.

“Take care of Rafael, okay?” she said. “I think he’ll need his friends.”

I hadn’t seen much of him over the last year or so, and I wasn’t sure how to be his friend anymore. Boys were a weird breed that I was only just beginning to take an interest in after years of keeping my distance. But I nodded at her anyway.

That night, when it was just Mom, Dad, and Audrey left at the house, I watched out the window as Raf stood in the cul-de-sac throwing a tennis ball in the air and catching it. Over and over again. I wanted to go out there and talk to him, or at least catch the ball for him and throw it back. But instead, I went back to the couch where Mom was cuddled with Audrey, and I climbed in, forcing myself between them.

“Don’t ever die on me,” I said. Mom and Audrey nodded solemnly.

Then I looked at Dad, who said, “Have you heard the one about the three-legged pig?”

I nodded and smiled. “Too good to eat all at once.”

He winked and went back to reading his newspaper.





Chapter Eighteen



I sat through the rest of the meeting, but I barely heard a word of what anyone said. I kept replaying in my mind the story Raf had told about being found passed out, drunk and high, nearly dead. I didn’t know that version of him, and it scared me that that part of his life was so recent. It was still, and always would be, a part of who he was. And if I was his girlfriend, if we stayed together, it would always be a part of mine, too.

I had no plans to start drinking heavily or doing drugs, but hadn’t I always imagined a champagne toast at my wedding? Hadn’t I planned to go to parties and drink at college? Would I be giving up too much of my early adulthood if I stayed home or went to meetings with Raf instead of having drinks with my friends at happy hour? What would we do on New Year’s Eve?

I was spinning out, completely panicking, by the time the hour came to a close. I could see Raf sneaking glances at me as we walked outside and while he stopped to smoke a cigarette. I kept my hands in my pockets and my mouth closed as Raf smoked and as he led me to the car. I climbed in silently.

“Are you okay?” he asked me as we pulled out of the church parking lot.

I nodded. “Yeah, I’m just . . . processing.”

“You look like you have a thousand questions and they’re piling up so fast that they’re choking you.”

I managed a tight-lipped smile, and Raf looked relieved.

“I just . . . didn’t know all of that. About you,” I said. “I knew you went to rehab, but honestly? I thought you were more like Mike, drinking on weekends and smoking weed sometimes. I feel stupid that I didn’t put it together.”

Raf was quiet for a minute and I could see his jaw working anxiously while he thought. “Are you disappointed?” he asked softly.

“No!” I said automatically, but I wasn’t really so certain. “I was just surprised.”

He scoffed. “That’s convincing,” he said. He turned to me as we pulled up to a red light just outside our neighborhood. “Harley, that’s why I agreed to bring you tonight. I needed you to know that this sobriety thing isn’t a fun new group of people to hang out with; it’s not about the parties or the all-nighters at the diner, and it’s not just smoking cigarettes outside at meetings and goofing off. It’s going to be a struggle for the rest of my life.”

We pulled up in front of his house, but he didn’t look at me as he turned the car off. “I want to be with you, but I don’t blame you for pulling away and not being sure about me. I need you to really think about what being with me could do to your life. I’m not always a happy person. I get depressed and surly, and sometimes it’s really hard to get out of those moods. I could be a ticking time bomb.”

His words rolled over us like a fog. Finally, I opened the door and walked around to his side.

“I understand,” I said. And I leaned in and kissed him, just in case it was the last time, breathing in his familiar smell that reminded me of home-cooked meals and movie nights on the couch. “Just give me a little time to process.”