I laughed then, and beneath it, someone shushed someone else on the other side of the closed door. Slips of shadow suddenly disappeared from the slice of light at the floor.
—No, you’re right, there’s a bunch of them, I told him.
—Come tomorrow. I don’t have work but I need breakfast anyways.
This was his way of inviting me—of saying he wanted to see me. The difference between me and my mom and Leidy was that I could sometimes see between his words, behind what he said; I could sometimes hear the sad echo of what he wanted to say. It wasn’t a skill I learned or that I could summon when I really needed it—sometimes I just had it, I suddenly just understood him. Whenever this happened, it was like getting a gulp of air after holding my breath at the bottom of a pool. I hadn’t felt it since the day before he moved out of the old house, when he brought his leftover boxes to my room and shoved them against the wall, saying only, I don’t need these. But he’d already written Lizet Ramirez on them in clear, thick letters using black marker, above a drawn-in blank square in which I’d write a Rawlings address he didn’t know. I didn’t say anything then—I didn’t want him to know I understood his gesture, and him putting our house up for sale a month later would erase all the guilt I’d felt for staying quiet that day. But him keeping the viewbook, him showing it to Rafael, even if it was just to brag: I wanted to acknowledge that. I wanted to say something. So I forced out the words.
—Papi, I went by your apartment today.
—I know, he said. I was at work.
I pretended to cough like he had, tried again.
—I know, I said. I mean, I met your roommate. I talked with him.
—Who, Rafael?
—Yeah, who else? I said. He’s nice.
—He’s fine. He told me you came by. What’s the big deal?
He shifted the phone to the other side of his face—the scratch of him losing his patience—and just as suddenly, it was gone: I was no better than Leidy or my mom at reading him. But he’d been right; I ended up needing every single box he’d given me.
So I said, I’ll be there. Just tell me what time.
*
The next morning, just before leaving the apartment, I kissed Mami goodbye on the forehead as she was waking up, her car keys already in my hand. I whispered a reminder of the lie I’d told her the night before: that me and Omar were getting breakfast and talking things out, but I’d be back early, with more than enough time to properly shellac myself in hair gel and makeup for Noche Buena.
Before she pulled the comforter back over her face, she said, Be sweet to him, Lizet. He loves you so much. He knows you, you love each other.
—I don’t know, Mami. I think it’s over.
—Don’t ever forget that, she said into her pillow. Be careful.
Leidy was already up, warming milk for Dante. I’d let both her and my mom believe it was Omar and not my dad on the phone.
—You want some more advice? she said as I walked past the kitchen. She gave me some the previous night, gems like, Don’t be the first one to say sorry unless he brings a present and Don’t wear a black shirt because you’ll look more pale.
—Not really, I said.
—So you’re gonna break up with him then?
She turned away from the microwave, where Dante’s bottle spun in a slow circle on a glass tray, and faced me.
—I don’t know, I said. I forced a grin. Let’s see if he brings a present.
The microwave beeped as she said, There you go! and nodded at me. She snatched the bottle and repeatedly throttled it up and down, her bicep flexing with each shake. With her other hand on her hip, she said, You do you, girl, you gotta do you, as I shut the apartment door.
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