And this, this is what I like most about her. I don’t have to question where I stand with her, even if it breaks me to know she has felt any less than the brilliant woman she is. I don’t want to blur this line she drew in the sand while I marked on concrete. I don’t want to give her something she’s going to take as more than what it can be—a friendship.
But I do want her to know she should expect more than that from people around her. “It’s a shame something as inconsequential as me grabbing a bottle of tequila at the store makes you feel seen, because you deserve more than just being tolerated.”
Her soulful eyes suddenly look at me with such raw sincerity, I have to blink back my own reaction just to brush away the feeling I refuse to acknowledge. “That’s the kindest thing someone has ever said to me,” she mutters under her breath, breaking me a bit more, making me want to pull her into my arms and hold her tight.
But I can’t. I rise to my feet. “Let me grab you some. Mixed? On the rocks? Salt and lime?”
“On the rocks, please.”
This girl is full of layers, and I have the urge to unpeel them all until I know them like the back of my hand. “Coming right up.”
She nods, and I head inside to get her drink. How did we go from not talking to each other in three days to sharing tequila and tea on my front porch after working my ass off all day? It is an unexpected and welcomed turn of events.
“Here.” I hand Riley her drink and take a seat by her.
“We don’t have to do this. I told you, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”
“I know.”
“I also have never heard you form as many words as you did when you were on the phone.”
I chuckle.
“See? You usually communicate through backchannels and sounds that can only be described as onomatopoeias, not full sentences, and whoever you were talking to was getting an earful.”
Who even talks like this? She’s such a walking contradiction. Can’t name some things correctly and brushes it off when it’s brought to her attention, but then uses academic terms and figurative language like it’s second nature to her. Like she’s a linguist, and the world is her paper. “Did you major in English?”
She spits part of the tequila she had just sipped. “What? No.” She giggles. “Close. In communications.”
I’m taken aback, and, judging by the look on her face, she realizes it too.
“Oh, don’t even get me started.”
I know I don’t know her that well, but she doesn’t strike me as someone who would want to do anything like that, but maybe she loves it, and she’s just on break before continuing her studies. She’s eloquent, I give her that.
“Did you love it?”
“No. That’s why I’m here.” No hesitation, not even a slightmoment of second-guessing herself about it. One hundred percent honesty. It’s inspiring. “I’m trying to find my way again.”
“Your way to what?”
“Myself.”
I nod slowly as I take a sip of whatever perfect tea this is, leaving the door open for her to continue if she wants.
She opens and closes her mouth a few times before saying, “You didn’t ask for me to come out here and lay all my issues in front of you.”
“No, but I don’t mind if you want to share.”
“I know, but?—”
“I want to know if that’s what’s keeping you from telling me. But if you don’t want to talk, that’s good too.”
“Dominic Diaz, are you asking to be my friend?”
“What?”
“That’s what friends do, you know? Get to know each other, listen to one another, share drinks at nine pm on empty porches on a serene night while bonding over generational trauma.”
