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“Your sister?”
I nod.
Cruz looks like he swallows his own bile before saying, “Jesus, that’s young.”
I nod again, and even though he doesn’t ask me to say anything more, I find the words spilling out. “She had cancer. A brain tumor, actually. It…” I have to take several deep breaths as the image of her frail little body in the hospital bed flits into my mind, and I try to push it away without losing my shit. “She was in the ICU for months. That’s why my parents have a thing about hospitals.”
“That’s why they weren’t there when you broke your arm? Because of a bad memory.” Cruz looks murderous, and while I’m sort of accustomed to him getting offended on my behalf when I’ve glossed over my folk’s indifference to me, I’ve never seen him look this angry. It fuels me to keep talking.
“It’s more than just a bad memory. It broke them. Fundamentally changed who they are. The parents I have now—if you can even call them that—are not the same people who raised me. My dad buried himself in work and is oblivious to everything else, and my mom is stuck in a time loop where Liz died one year ago instead of two. When she called me today about going to the cemetery, she thought it was still last year. She’s too busy trying to erase her pain to realize I don’t even live there anymore.”
By the time I finish talking, I’m so riled up I bet Cruz can hear my heartbeat from across the table, but instead of the murderous image he sported a few minutes ago, he’s got a haunted expression on his face.
“What’s happening right now?” I ask.
“Huh?” He blinks at me.
“Two minutes ago, you were pissed and now you’re pale as shit. Why?”
“I… I…” Cruz licks his lips, sips his beer, then takes a deep breath. “Do you remember me mentioning my friend Xavier?”
My brow creases in confusion. “The one you were close to but not attracted to?”
Cruz nods with closed eyes.
“What about him?”
He takes a shaky breath, leaning forward to brace his arms on the table and speaking in a voice I have to strain to hear. “He was my best friend, had been since we were toddlers learning to talk. We did everything together, literally everything, and from the time we started playing football we dreamed of getting recruited to play here. And we did.”
He finally looks at me, but with eyes that are far too glassy for me to think this story is going to end well. I swallow back the lump trying to lodge itself in my throat and wait for him to continue.
“A few months before graduation, he told me he changed his mind. He was going to follow his girlfriend to the school she wanted to attend. We fought…” He sniffs and wipes at his nose with the back of his wrist. “And Xavier stormed off after I told him to go see her since he clearly didn’t want to be around me. He must’ve been speeding, cause the next thing I know we get a call that he’s wrapped his car around a tree. Died on impact.”
I suck in a deep breath and hold it, waiting to see what he’ll say next since I know all too well there’s nothing I can offer except an understanding ear.
He sniffs again and swipes his eyes. “The last thing I said to him was a stupid, spiteful comment. Chances are, it pissed him off enough to make him reckless. The idea that I could’ve caused his accident just… It broke me. I checked out. Retreated from life and just existed without actually being present. I didn’t know how to cope, so I didn’t. I almost didn’t come to school. Didn’t think I deserved to be here without him, you know.”
He casts me a guilty look before continuing. “So, I’m not making excuses for your parents, but in a way, I get it. I did the same thing. It wasn’t until my dad said the best way to keep Xavier close would be to chase the dream we had as kids that I started to come back to life. I didn’t totally buy it, since Xavier had changed his mind about coming here, but I could see my dad believed it. Even then, for the first several months, the only thing that could get me out of bed was football. I latched onto that as a way to deal.”
This feels like a moment where I should try to comfort him, but the only way to do that from across the table would be to hold his hand, and I’m not sure that’s the right move in the middle of a bar. I’ll have to use my words, which aren’t really my strong suit.
“Believe it or not, I do understand. I went through the same thing when Liz died. Not because the last thing I said was mean, but because I was glad it was over. For her, anyway. Being confined to a bed is no way to live, and I hated seeing her like that. But to be relieved about it and not a total mess fucked with my head. Except, I didn't check out. I did the opposite. My parents were already sort of broken and distant by then, so I latched on to anyone I thought would make me feel seen. I did some stupid shit, got careless, and got myself outed in front of people I knew would not be okay with it.”
Cruz nods to show he’s listening and waits for me to continue.
“The point is, I get that everyone deals with stuff their own way. Liz was an incredibly happy, sweet kid that could make you smile just by walking in the room. There was a massive emptiness in all of us after she died, and I don’t blame my parents for having trouble coping with that. However, I do blame them for being so consumed with grief, and not taking steps to even attempt to work through it, that they forgot they still have one kid left. At least when you were checked out you weren’t responsible for anyone else. You didn’t abandon anyone who needed you.”
“I guess that’s true.” Cruz mutters as his eyes fall to his glass, like he’s unsure where else to look, and for a moment both of us stare at it like it’s the most fascinating thing in the world, processing what’s been said. It’s the first time I’ve seen Cruz be almost stoic, and curiosity gets the better of me.
“Tell me something.” My inquisitive tone catches his interest, and he looks up with a questioning look of his own. “We’ve both been through some shit, and I became a bit of a grouch because of it, but you didn't. How come?”
He spins the glass on the table a minute before answering. “It’s a choice I make. I know things can change in an instant, so I choose to be positive because I don’t ever want my last memories, or other peoples’ last memories of me, to be something they wish they could do over.”
“I like that. I’m not sure I can pull it off, but I like it.”
Cruz offers me a weak smile that’s so full of understanding it’s hard not to return it. And while I’m unclear what a conversation this intense will mean for us going forward, especially after the blow job incident we’ve yet to discuss. And it’s glaringly obvious that we need to get on a lighter topic.
“Let’s get another round,” I suggest, trying to convince myself that my mouth is watering from the scent of fried food and not because I’m getting flashbacks of his dick in my mouth.
