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“Good crazy or bad?”
We both have reasons to believe the other one is a little . . . I won’t say crazy.
Interested?
Obsessive?
I’m not sure what to categorize our behavior as, but maybe it’s as simple as the two of us wanting to learn more about the other? I followed her all the way from her job to a city over an hour away. I stalked her family on Facebook, and she knew who I was before she led me to believe. We’ve both had our share of “nosy,” and maybe that’s why we understand each other?
“Is there a difference? It usually ends the same, doesn’t it?”
She inhales a deep breath, thinking this over. “Yeah. It does.”
Neither of us looks at the other, and we continue the game. The questions stay neutral and impersonal. Questions that you could ask your friend. What’s your favorite season? Hers was summer, mine was winter.
Snow or rain?I took snow; she chose rain and told me about her thirteenth birthday party, when no one came, but her sister took her up to the roof of their villa to dance in the downpour. Her parents were furious when the girls came inside soaking wet, ruining the freshly scrubbed floors. Stausey took the full blame, saying she thought the cat had run outside.
Her mention of the cat led her to tell me about Tali, her family cat, who once jumped onto her mom’s back when she was walking down the stairs. Nora swears that the cat did it as a favor to Nora, who had just been grounded for two weeks. She can’t finish the story because she’s laughing so hard, and I decide that my favorite thing in the world is this: I love the way she tells a story, with every single detail intact. She gives a full backstory and supporting details, too. Maybe she should be a writer. She tells me about her sister braiding her hair and teaching her how to apply lipstick. I learn how her mom started to change over the years. She went from a broke cafeteria worker in Bogotá to the socialite wife of one of the country’s most prestigious surgeons.
Nora doesn’t sound impressed by her mom’s lifestyle. I can’t tell why.
“What else? I want to know the important things, not what she does for a living. I want to know your favorite things about her. Memories, things like that.”
Nora comes closer, and her fingers caress my chest. She runs an index finger through a patch of hair. “Why do you always ask the most intrusive questions?”
“They’re only intrusive if you don’t want me to actually know.” My voice sounds much sadder than I meant it to.
“Fine. My mother is . . . well, she is . . .” Nora struggles for words. “She used to make the best arroz con leche.”
“Is that your favorite dessert?”
“It’s the only one I like.”
My jaw drops. The only one? I must have heard her wrong. “The only?”
“Yep. The only.” Her voice lowers to a whisper. “Confession: Sweets aren’t my favorite; I’m more of a salty kind of gal.”
“What? What kind of fraud—!” I’m only half pretending my horror. “But you’re a baker—I mean a pastry chef!”
“And?” Nora’s smile grows, and I like the way her eyes twinkle under the city lights.
“And? This is such . . . I don’t even know who you are anymore.” I laugh.
She nuzzles farther into my chest. “So now you question me when I admit that I don’t like sweets, but not when I tell you about my mess of a life?” I hear the pain in her voice, the shame dripping from each word.
“Well, everyone makes a mess now and then.” I want to soothe the ache inside her ribs. “But I don’t think I can come to terms with this.”
