Yes, but I won’t admit it. “I’m just curious.”
He gives me a don’t-bullshit-me look but goes back to stir the pot. My father and I don’t get along. We just can’t see eye to eye, and I already made peace with it. He hasn’t, though.
I go out to the deck where Myka is either admiring the view or avoiding our father. Probably the former since she’s his favorite.
“Hey, brat,” I greet her enthusiastically.
“You’re the brat,” she replies, jumping into my arms. “I missed you.”
“You wouldn’t if you moved to Seattle. Leave San Diego,” I suggest. “There are many places where you could work, or you can always start your own company.”
“Did I tell you they offered me a promotion if I moved to London?” I’m not sure if she’s redirecting my suggestion or giving me some bad news.
“What the fuck, Myk?” I mumble under my breath.
I tense up. I don’t want her to move that far away, but of course, I don’t voice that. She hates when I try to meddle in her life.
I adore my twin. She’s a brilliant graphic designer. She’s smart, hardworking, and independent to a fault. Unfortunately, she got the latter from our mother. She can’t be in one place for long, or she asphyxiates. Hence, either she moves every two years within her company or she looks for another job.
“What did you say?” she asks.
“I asked, ‘what did you say?’”
She gives me a suspicious glance and answers, “They offered me a promotion, but I’m not taking it or moving. I might quit. Dad needs us. Abuelo might not survive this. I know you think I like to be away from the family, but I don’t. I like my freedom. You know, sow my oats before I settle down and have a family of my own.”
I nod. She takes my hand. Her blue eyes, so much like our mother’s and mine, stare at me. Are you ready to do this?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?”
“We never talked about her or…?” She shrugs.
“Her?” Is she talking about Mom?
“Nydia,” she mumbles.
I snort. “Listen, as long as you don’t give me shit because she doesn’t talk to you, I’m fine. We dated a long time ago. It’s over. I moved on.”
She nods, but just like my father, she gives me that don’t-bullshit-me glare.
I shrug as if promising that I’m being honest with her.
I am.
Do I care about Nydia?
No. It’s been years since the last time I saw her. Since things between us ended. I’m pretty sure she’s married or something like that.
Who cares?
Not me.
I don’t know why she hates my family or at least my siblings. Also, I don’t care to learn why she does. My brothers told me she doesn’t want us close to her or her store. I had no idea she had a store or why she’s still there. Her goal was to get out of Luna Harbor and…I don’t even care to remember. I rub my chest because even when I don’t care, my heart aches. Poor bastard, he loved her. That’s why I don’t allow him to act or think.
And above everything, it’s not allowed to feel.
Running a hand through my hair, I ask Myka, “Are you ready to go? We can leave now.”
“Dad is making us lunch,” she says and grins. “Chilaquiles.”
That’s her favorite. I shake my head and roll my eyes. “Anything for his little girl.”
She pats my chest. “You can try a little harder to get along with him.”
“He could try harder to be an understanding father.”
She shakes her head. “His dad is sick. Remember when Grandma died?”
“Abuelo is not dying,” I say, instead of reminding her that maybe she doesn’t remember what happened.
Dad was dealing with a broken heart. Mom had left because of me. None of my siblings get why Dad can’t stand me. It was me who pushed Mom—the love of his life—away.
She left because of me.
“I know, but he’s reliving all that. It was hard on him.”
Unless I’m willing to tell her what happened the day our mom picked up her things and left, I have to let her win. “Fine. I’ll try my best.”
She smiles, and that’s reason enough to keep trying to be a good son to a man who hates me.
After lunch, we leave the house. Myka drives my Range Rover while I take my motorcycle.
We head to the ferry terminal. Our first stop is Bainbridge Island. I debate calling my friend Zeke, who has a music studio on the island. Maybe I can stay there for a day or two before I go to Luna Harbor. I might need just a brief stop before continuing the trip. The blast of air as the ferry begins to move convinces me to stay, but in Seattle.
It’s an oppressive wind filled with memories. I used to love this trip. It was my favorite after we moved out of Luna Harbor.
This journey led me to Nydia. I counted the days and hours until our next trip to Luna Harbor. The night before, I had trouble sleeping. It was better than waiting for Christmas or summer. My life revolved around her. At least the first twenty years of my life. Afterward, I learned to prioritize.
Family always comes first.
She was the girl who stole my heart and promised to love me forever. Things just didn’t work out that way. Our story didn’t end badly or tragically. It just ended, and there’s nothing left of it.
With concern etched on her face, Myka reaches out for my hand and pats it. “You’re not ready.”
I glance at her and then at the horizon. How am I supposed to respond to that? Ready for what?
“Why don’t you stay behind?” she suggests.
I snort. “And give him another excuse to hate me?”
“Dad doesn’t hate you,” she assures me.
“I’m perfectly fine. I’ve never been better,” I assure her.
It sounds repetitive, but I’m trying to make her understand she doesn’t have to worry about me.
Because I am fine.
The feelings are old. The rawness of what happened or didn’t happen left me years ago. I don’t talk about it. I don’t acknowledge any of it.
Is my heart still beating? Yes.
Is it all glued and mended with duct tape so it won’t fall apart again? Yes.
Did it hurt?
All I know is that it happened.
Maybe it was over before it even started.
Maybe we were just children playing the forever game. That’s like children playing with matches. Someone is going to burn, get hurt, or die.
I almost died.
And maybe it wasn’t love.
I’ve seen love a million times, like Beacon and Grace. Nydia and I didn’t have that, or we’d be together.
“You can’t lie to me,” Myka says. “Do you want to talk about it?”
“What’s there to talk about?” I ask. “This isn’t the first time I stopped my life and changed residence because someone needs me. Am I going crazy because I haven’t been playing with the guys? Sure. I’m a musician, but I can survive a few more months without doing what I love.”
“Deflection,” she says. “Nice.”
She lets out an exasperated breath. “My therapist would say that you’re in denial. That means you’re in step one of grieving. You’re not okay.”