I don’t say anything back, chest going a little tight.
“Hey, how’s the beach?” he changes the subject before making me answer, which I appreciate.
I watch one of the exits for Waco go by, along with a sign that says that it’s 95 miles to Dallas.
“It’s great. The Gulf is as brown as always, but I’m excited about the conference.”
Maybe I should be concerned about how easy it is to lie to him, but I’m not.
He lied first.
It shouldn’t even count as lying. I mean, we might be trying things again, but it doesn’t mean I owe him my whereabouts at all times.
We’re still in the beginning stages, too. We haven’t even slept together again yet. Plus, I don’t want to fight.
And during all the years weweretogether, Z got weird any time I brought up Dallas.
“Hey, can you hand me back to Bruiser?”
“Don’t let the jellyfish bite,” Z jokes, but something in his voice sounds off.
I frown as Bruiser comes back on the phone, talking a-mile-a-minute about the experiment they did in science class today.
He’s far less chatty than normal, though, because he’s impatient to go off with his dad.
He’s always like this when Z’s around. The kid still idolizes his dad.
It’s hard not to want to give the family I know Bruiser still dreams about a second chance. If Z is really willing to change and put in the work… well, didn’t my dad prove that real changeispossible?
“Homework before screens,” I remind him.
“I know, I know,” Bruiser says. “Gotta go. Dad and I don’t wanna be late.”
He hangs up in the middle of me telling him I love him.Punk. But I’m still smiling, chest squeezing.
Bruiser’s really been a trooper during all the changes and disruptions of the past few years.
It hasn’t been easy, that’s for damn sure, but I’ve tried to shield him from the brunt of it.
Still, there was no getting around the fact that I was kicking his father out of the house.
I mean, we all got kicked out of the house—only house I ever lived in that felt mine, with a front and back yard and a white picket fence, the whole shebang. As in, we would’ve been evicted if we hadn’t moved first—we couldn’t afford the lease after suddenly being so deep in debt.
Now Bruiser and I are back to living in a trailer east of I-35 while I try to rebuild something out of the ruins.
I don’t know where Z’s been living for the last couple years, and I haven’t wanted to know. Probably in his long-haul truck, the one thing he managednotto gamble away. Yes, I’m still pissed.
Everything else was in my name, so my credit was destroyed. I couldn’t just up and start over. Maybe that’s why I haven’t been able to let Z back in again yet.
I’m only now making stable money renting a chair at a tattoo shop in East Austin, mostly taking walk-ins because I’m at the bottom of the totem pole again. But at least it’s a paycheck.
My phone lights up, and I almost don’t answer when I see Ximena’s name.
She and I have only been talking regularly again for the past few months.
Before that, it was a year and a half of her dodging my calls, keeping things surface-level when she did pick up, and making excuses about why she couldn’t meet for coffee.
And I got it.