I smile into my pillow because I don’t need it to be quiet tonight to be okay. For the first time in longer than I can remember, I want something good, and I don’t punish myself for wanting it. I close my eyes with the feel of his kiss on my forehead and the shape of his hands on my face, and I let myself fall asleep to sleep and not to escape.
70
Bash
The house doesn’t hit me in the chest when I walk in this year. It used to. The front door would open, and I’d look at the same family photo wall, the same closet still full of her jackets no one touches, the same smell of a home that reminded me of her, and my whole body would brace for impact, brace for the anxiety. Now it finally feels like the walls aren’t caving in; the panic attack didn’t pack itself into my bag. I can breathe without any of the old anger under it. I can actually look at the framed pictures of Isabel on the wall—the cheerleading competitions, basketball pictures, volleyball, track, our baby pictures together, pictures from that overnight camp we went to one summer and tried to recreate the scene from Parent Trap in the cabin which got us banned from ever coming back, her prom photo, a picture of her on my back at the front of our high school near the huge painted rock…all memories I used to avoid looking at every time I walked up those stairs. They don’t feel as haunting anymore. They feel…like memories that should be celebrated and…remembered. She should be remembered in the happy ways.
“Sebastian,” my mom calls. “Baby, I need your help setting the table before everyone gets here.”
I walk into the kitchen and sidestep her, and she barrels past me, trying to make everything perfect like she always does on Thanksgiving.
“At your service, Ma. What do you need me to do?”
We move like machines, setting the table and finishing up some of the last food dishes while also stopping to yell at the football game on the TV every five minutes.
The aunts arrive like a small chaotic parade; all my cousins come in older and louder than last year, and the uncles start claiming chairs so they have the best view of the game. We’re hosting my mom’s side of the family this morning and then going to visit my dad’s side later today.
These kinds of gatherings used to be a minefield for me. The drinking, the loudness, and the attempt to not talk about Isabel, which would inevitably always turn into talking about her, making everyone tense up. We’ve gotten a lot better with it, or maybe we’ve just been more open now about how messy the topic is, but the fact that we can’t run from it. We don’t avoid talking about her like it’ll ruin the night or break the room; now we talk about her like it’ll bring a light to the room and bring some happiness into it…bring her back into it.
When Dad prays over the food, I close my eyes and thank God for the little things I didn’t believe I would ever experience again, like sitting at that table like this without the feeling of needing to run from it.
As soon as we’ve eaten a few bites, Aunt Jazz leans forward toward me, her eyes lighting up like she’s been dying to talk to her favorite nephew.
“So, Sebastian,” she elongates. “When are you going to bring a girl around here? Your mother and I have started a running bet at this point.”
Mom presses her lips together in an attempt to hide her smile, knowing her sister loves to be in everyone else’s business.
I laugh it off, taking a bite of green bean casserole. “When the time is right, Auntie, you’ll be the first to know.”
“You can’t stay single forever, boy,” she says, pointing her fork at me. “Are you dating at least? Tell your Auntie. I won’t tell anyone.”
My instinct is to give the standard ‘nope’, the easy out that doesn’t open it all up to be dissected. But I can’t help but want to talk about her to anyone who will listen.
“Not really,” I say, then tip my head side to side. “I mean…thereisa girl.”
Mom straightens like someone hit her on-switch. “There’s a girl?” Her eyes go wide with offense. “And I’m just now hearing about this? Sebastian Anthony Ramos.”
“I mean, there’s nothing to really talk about yet, Ma. It’s still new, and…complicated.”
“Complicated how?” Aunt Jazz asks. “You don’t want to settle down? You got commitment issues or something? Are you still being aplayer?”
“No,” I say, smiling because I can’t help it. “Nothing like that. The opposite, actually. There’s no one else. Just her. But it’s…delicate. She’s been through a lot. We’re taking things slow. We don’t even have a title or anything. Just…getting to know each other.” I pick at a corner of cornbread. “But she’s…pretty amazing.”
Dad stands to take his plate in the kitchen, and on his way past, he pats my shoulder. “You should just do what I did to get your mom.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think dancing in the middle of a bakery is her thing,” I say. “Or mine.”
Everyone groans and laughs around the table, knowing my parents’ story like the backof their hands.
Mom leans in, softening her tone. “What’s her name?”
“Lydia.”
“That’s a beautiful name,” she says. “Hmm, well, if my son is talking about any girl…shemustbe pretty special.”
I nod, not being able to hide my smile. It’s the kind I only get when I’m thinking about her. “She is.”
The conversation rolls on after that, talking about football and whose team is winning, how good the food tastes, and which cousin got into which program or sport at school. I pull out my phone and text under the table like a teenager.
