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“I just…it’s been a really hard year. I’ve—” I start, but don’t know what I want to say.
“I don’t know what it is, but I’ve picked up on enough to know that you’ve been going through a lot.”
I take a deep breath, “I want to share it with you. I do. I just…it’s hard to find the words to start. It’s hard to say the words.” I mentally berate myself, thinking of how I used to be able to say anything, everything without second guessing, without overthinking. I used to speak my mind so freely. But now it feels like there’s a hand around my throat, keeping everything I really want to say down and only letting up the bullshit that just placates people enough, that just lets me get through each day.
“I can share something with you first. If you’d want?” he offers. I look at him, grateful that he’s willing to open up to me also. I nod.
He takes a deep breath. “I don’t want to compare anything, especially since I have no idea what you’ve been through and are going through. But I had a really hard time a few years ago. I told you that I tore my ACL in my senior year. I lost my chance to play soccer, which broke me. I mean, that was my whole world. But then, my girlfriend of four years—the girl I was convinced I would be with for the rest of my life—broke up with me after graduation. It almost sounds silly now that time has passed. But back then, in my mind, she was it for me. And after my accident she was all I had. I put everything into that relationship and thought we would go to college together, get married, spend our lives together. But she told me that I was holding her back and she left. I haven’t seen her since. I fell into a really bad depression. And it took a long time for me to come out of it. I haven’t really seen anyone since,” he finishes and looks up at me. Sadness and resolution fills his eyes. I find my heart aching for him.
“Oh David, I’m so sorry,” I say sincerely, “That must have been so incredibly hard. I'm so sorry that you went through that.”
“Thank you, I appreciate that,” he says with a smile, his dimple popping out. “I don’t share to get your pity, or because I want you to share anything, I just…I just wanted to open up to you a little bit.”
Open up your heart, the voice says.
I look down at my hands wringing in my lap for a moment. I take several deep breaths. It takes several tries to start talking. I open my mouth and close it a few times before the words finally come out. “Last summer, right after we graduated from college, my boyfriend of four years died. Very tragically and suddenly. And it just…kind of…it broke me. Completely broke me and it’s been over a year but, but I still feel completely broken.” I look up at him.
His mouth is parted, agony and despair covering every inch of his face.
“Ana, I’m so—I can’t even, I can’t imagine that pain. Oh my god, I’m so incredibly sorry. I know that does nothing, but I’m so sorry,” he gets the words out in bursts.
“It doesn’t mean nothing,” I whisper. I give him a small smile. “It actually feels good to get it out. I’m not good at talking about it, about him, about what happened.”
“Shit, Ana. And I’m over here whining about my high school girlfriend leaving me. God, I’m so sorry.” He puts his face in his hands.
“Don’t do that. Don’t diminish your grief just because you think mine is greater or more serious, or that yours is lesser than. Grief is grief. No matter the cause, no matter the magnitude,” I say, scolding him but also reassuring him. He looks up at me, eyes thoughtful. “That grief for you was real and serious. What you went through broke your heart and I’m sorry for that. But don’t compare your grief to mine and think it doesn’t deserve to be felt. It was real, it is real. And it matters.”
He continues to look at me thoughtfully before finally saying, “I can’t tell you how much that means. Your kindness. Your heart is amazing.”
I close my eyes tight, fighting the memories and sadness that comes to the surface. Sadness yes, but not guilt like I was expecting.
Releasing those words I’ve held onto so tightly for so long actually makes me feel lighter than I have in months. My chest feels the tiniest bit less tight. My lungs feel like they can get a little bit more air in than they could just this morning.
“I’m thankful for you, David,” I tell him. “You’re a good friend to Maddie and Elliot. You’ve been so kind to me, even though I’ve continually blown you off and…” I trail off.
“You don’t have to thank me for anything. I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give me. You,” he takes a breath, “you’re just, amazing, Ana,” he says and I look at him. “You really are. And I’m so sorry that you had to go through all of that. No one should experience that. It’s…it’s unimaginable. And I’m so sorry. I'm sure he was incredible,” he says with a small smile. “If you ever want to talk about him, tell me about him, you can. Whenever you’re ready, if you’re ever ready. I’d love to hear everything. Anything.”
I smile at him, a real smile that feels warm and appreciative, that fills me with nothing but peace. Hope. “Thank you, David.”
THIRTY-TWO
THEN, SUMMER, FOUR YEARS AGO
Winter and spring with Hayden flew by and there wasn’t a moment where we lost that ‘honeymoon’ phase. I’m still a stupid giddy fool every time I wake up next to him or see him walk into the room. I make myself sick with how in love I am, but I can’t bring myself to hate it.
It’s Hayden. He’s this ray of sunshine. This beacon for all to gather around and bathe in his joy and kindness. Everyone loves him.
I had finally brought him home to meet my family after New Years and they were all smitten with him. José and Isabel were teaching him swear words in Spanish and trying to get him to slip them into conversations. When my mother realized what they were doing she grabbed her purse on the dining room table and started swinging it at them. They ran away laughing and Hayden was apologizing profusely for saying such foul language. My mom assured him that it wasn’t his fault, just her heathen children. My dad found the whole situation hilarious and could not stop laughing.
It is the height of the summer now, and we are home for the weekend to celebrate Hayden’s birthday. Hayden had his first family parranda in the spring so he is a pro now with the food, the music, the beautiful chaos.
“My parents just texted that they pulled in,” Hayden says, and kisses my cheek before walking towards the front door and out to meet them. He wears a gray pair of shorts that end a couple of inches above his knees and a black tank top with his black and white checkered slip on shoes.
When the door shuts behind him I turn to my family—my parents and siblings, grandparents, a few random cousins who always show up when my mom cooks, and Maddie and Elliot. “There will be no fighting. No cursing. You two—” I point my finger towards José and Isa, “no cursing in Spanish.” They both roll their eyes. “Try to find the quieter voices inside of you, I know you all have them. Believe it or not, not every family yells.”
“It’s not yelling, mija, we’re just loud,” my father insists.
“It’s yelling, even if it’s not in anger. It’s yelling. We’re a yelling family. And not everyone is used to it. Especially families that are…” I try to think of words that won’t be offensive.
