Page 97 of Eighteen (18)

Maybe this is why people kill themselves?

My whole life can be contained in a backpack. It makes me laugh. I have four days before I’m kicked out of this apartment, I have about—

A sharp knock on my window scares the shit out of me. Mateo stares back from the other side, and then he slides the window open and points his finger at me. “You know what?”

“What?” I growl. I’m so annoyed at him for interrupting my thoughts.

“Fuck you. Fuck you, Shannon. You don’t get to fucking wallow in pity and call me a bulldozer.”

“Get out.”

“No. I’m not even in, so I’m not getting out. I’m sticking around. How about that? You’re not gonna get rid of me that easy. And you know what else? I paid your fucking rent. Now what are you gonna do?”

“What?”

“I’ve lived in this neighborhood most of my life. You don’t think I know who owns this building? So you can’t just leave. You’re paid up for six months.”

“What the fuck are you doing?”

“I’m saving you, bitch.”

I almost crack a smile.

“OK?” he says. “I’m fucking saving you whether you want it or not.” He holds up a brown paper bag with a receipt stapled to it. “And I brought lasagna. So try to say no to that. I dare you.”

“Mateo—”

“No, dammit. No. I’m good for you. I’m good. For. You. And I totally understand what you’re saying. You need space, you need to make your own way. You need all the things I got when I was your age. But you can still do that and be my girlfriend. It’s not a zero-sum game, Shannon. Life isn’t all or nothing, it’s something in between. So here,” he says, holding the lasagna bag out. “I know you’re hungry, so I brought you dinner. You don’t have to come over, you don’t have to let me in, hell, you don’t even have to talk to me. But I’m still here. I’m always gonna be here.” He balances the bag on the window sill. “I’ll just be across the street.”

And then he turns away and walks through my gate, slamming it behind him.

I sit there for a few moments, stunned. But then the smell of lasagna wafts in and my stomach grumbles so loud, and so forcefully, I get up and grab the bag. When I do, I look out onto the patio and see a candle on the little table.

What the fuck?

I take the bag and go out into the living room, staring at the little flickering flame through the slider. What did he do now?

I walk through the door and smile.

It’s set up like an Italian restaurant. Red-checked tablecloth, menu, silverware, plate, and next to the candle is a little mechanical pencil. I sit down, rip the receipt off the bag, and unfold it to reveal a full sheet of paper. Two actually. I hold it near the dim candlelight so I can read it.

It’s a list of fucking trig problems. With a puzzle on the back side that I am supposed to solve. The second sheet is a blank piece of paper that says, Show your work.

“Jesus Christ,” I say. But I say it with a smile.

I work the problems as I eat, and by the time I’m done, I have the message.

I like you, it says. Keep going.

He said that to me back when we first met. It was a way to let me know that what we were doing was real and I shouldn’t be scared.

We’re still real, is what his message really says.

I flip the second piece of paper over. I only used one side to solve the problems, so I make my own code for him to solve. My problems are stupid and easy. Two plus two and three times five kind of stuff. But the problems don’t need to be hard for him to get the message.

I need more than the answer. I need the process.

When I’m done, I walk across the street and find him sitting on his porch, waiting for me. We don’t say a word. I just open the screen door an inch, slip the paper between it and the doorjamb, and then walk back the way I came.