“Well, it’s good you’re here. Now things can go back to normal,” he says.
Normal. But which is the normal Lionel, the old or the new? I wouldn’t know anymore, considering how little I’ve been able to see him over the past year. It wasn’t my choice to go away, and the guilt of not being here for him is almost debilitating. I want to remind him of that every second, even though I know he’s aware I didn’t want to leave him.
He pauses, not looking at me. “Are you glad to be back?”
“Yeah, I guess.…” I stick my arm out the window to feel the California sun on my skin. “I mean, yes, but you know how you can get used to something, even if you don’t like it all that much?”
“Yeah, Little,” he says in a voice that holds too much weight. “I know.”
The car is silent, save for the softest notes of indie rock playing in the background. I turn to my window and zone out as we make our way from the west side of the city to the east, thinking about what I have to do now that I’m home. Hug DeeDee. Find out how Lionel has really been doing, because as much as I want to believe he’s as well as he seems, deep down I don’t think he is. Figure out if I want to go back to Massachusetts and face the mess I left or fight to stay here, where things are another kind of difficult.
My mouth starts watering the closer we get to the taco truck, and I’m prepared to ride around for a while, looking for parking, but then the most magical thing that can happen in L.A. occurs—we find an empty spot just two parking meters down. Lionel whips into the space and we bolt from the car to follow the intoxicating fragrance of marinated meat, fresh tortillas, and spices down the sidewalk. The ever-present line that curls around the front of the truck is discouraging but only reinforces how delicious the food is—definitely worth the wait.
Lionel orders our usual, and we barely make it back to his car before I’m digging into the bag, pulling out a foil-wrapped chorizo taco from the quartet squeezed inside. Lionel divvies up the wedges of limes and sliced radishes between us, and we lean against the back bumper to eat. Or, more accurately, I moan with appreciation as Lionel inhales carne asada and rolls his eyes.
“Don’t look at me like that.” I lick spicy-sweet salsa from the corner of my mouth because wiping it with a napkin is a waste. “I’ve been deprived of good Mexican food for months.”
“Yeah, but you get all that cool New England shit.” Lion tips back his bottle of pineapple soda, identical to the one resting by my feet. He swallows. “Chowder and lobster rolls and—”
“And it’s no comparison. Give me this over lobster any day.”
My mother texts as we’re finishing up our first tacos, asking if we’re on our way back. Part of me wants to run right home and fold myself into her arms and never let go. But the part of me that remembers how helpless and angry and sad I felt when she told me last summer that I had to go away resurfaces in that moment.
Lionel watches as I balance the phone on my knees and clumsily text with my left hand, trying not to smear food on the screen. “This about her?” When I look up, he’s pointing at my nose ring.
“Why does it have to be about anything? Why can’t I just like jewelry?”
“I don’t know… I never thought you were into piercings or whatever.” Lionel starts in on his shrimp taco. “It’s kind of front and center.”
“People were getting things pierced.” I shrug. “I guess I gave in to peer pressure. Do you hate it or something?”
By people I mean my roommate, Iris, and she didn’t pressure me. We got tired of studying one day and took a walk in downtown Avalon and then we were upstairs in the piercing loft, watching the blue-haired girl snap on a pair of rubber gloves. Iris held my hand so I’d have something to grab on to when it hurt. It was the perfect distraction, because at first I couldn’t stop thinking about how soft her palm felt against mine—until the needle pierced through the middle of my nose with a sharp prick and I felt like I was going to sneeze my face off.
“I don’t hate it, Little. It’s just different.”
I don’t like the way he doesn’t look at me as he says the word different.
“Yeah, well. So am I.”
My eyes sting as Lionel swings the car onto our street, and I tell myself I’m just tired, but fuck, I missed this place. I blink almost violently as our olive-green Victorian comes into view, with its fish-scale shingles and maroon trim and the turret at the top that houses my bedroom. We live in a historic district of L.A., the streets of our neighborhood lined with all types of gorgeous Victorian and Craftsman houses, but I swear, ours gets the most lingering looks when people drive or walk by. It’s been six months since I was home, and now I’m the one who can’t tear her eyes away.
Our parents are sitting close together on the wooden swing that hangs from the porch, but they pop right up when we pull into the drive. Saul comes bounding down first, his big arms engulfing me before I’ve even emerged from the car. “We missed you so much, kiddo.”
“Missed you, too.” I kind of can’t wait to hear him humming “Copacabana” over fried eggs.
He gives me one last squeeze and pulls back, and I smile as I take in his strawberry-blond hair that’s silvered at the temples, and the creases of laugh lines around his mouth. He has Lionel’s same oceanic blue eyes, the ones that convey every ounce of emotion.
Father and son scoop up my bags and take them inside, leaving me alone with my mother. She looks pretty in wide-legged linen pants and a white top that contrasts perfectly with her warm brown skin and short Afro dyed the color of dark cherries. She notices my new piece of jewelry—her eyebrows rise slightly as her gaze sweeps over me—but she doesn’t say anything about it.
Her eyes are wet as she blinks at me, as she smooths a palm softly over the side of my face. “Oh, sweet pea, I really missed you.”
“I missed you, too,” I say, folding myself into her hug.
I spent the first few weeks at school seething through the phone calls from her and Saul, but the longer I was there, the more my anger faded, until it mostly manifested on the days I particularly missed home and my brother.
I know she really thought she did what was best for all of us by sending me away.
I know how easy it is to believe you’re doing the right thing if you say it to yourself often enough.
two.
I wake at six thirty the morning after I return. Every part of me is exhausted and I still can’t escape the East Coast.