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I breathe through my nose, taking a sip of coffee to calm my mind. Slowly exhaling and repeating the process once, twice more. A third time, when nothing seems to be working.
“It always matters,” Mia answers finally. “You do realize I’m worried about you, right? If I haven't made it clear already? Everything that’s happening, everything you’re not telling me, I’m reacting out of worry.”
A little bit of honesty at last, and yes, I did know. I nod at her, at the expression I can’t really place, the small tight smile making her lips purse.
“We might need more coffee for this,” Lucia says to no one in particular. She gets up from the table, and I dare a small look at Mia.
My chest tightens to force the words to remain inside rather than tell her what will happen tonight with Ricardo, even when he warned me to keep it between us. Secrets, as she said. The things I do not tell her and the information she keeps from me. I might never be able to get them all out.
I force myself to ignore all of that.
“I know you’re worried. Which is why I’ll tell you this. I went to the Painted Hippo with Ricardo yesterday and met one of the dancers. Her name is Sarah.” I pause, spearing through some bacon. “I’m going out tonight to see her dance and have a few drinks there. I don’t want you to worry, so I’m letting you know where I’ll be. Do you need a time frame, too?”
Silence fills the kitchen, and my pulse races as I wait for Mia to put the kibosh on me. “What time will you be home?”
I lift my brows. “Do I have a curfew?”
“Do I really need to answer?” she throws back.
“I’m not sure when I'll be home. Right now, I’m just happy to have met someone who seems like a nice person. And you know Ricardo will be there. He might be a little distracted with all the naked women shaking their tits, but he’ll have his guards.” I offer her a grim smile. “I’ll be watched every second of the time I’m gone. Do I have your approval?”
The word tastes disgusting on my tongue, and I ask the question with enough bitterness and snipe to have Mia chuckling. “I want you safe. Especially right now with the transition happening and…you know.”
Lucia rolls her eyes, clearly not a part of this conversation.
“I know,” I reply. “And yes, lovely weather we’re having, isn’t it?”
A laugh is all I can ask for, and the one I receive is small, tight, but present. Which makes lying to my sisters even harder than it was to start.
Dressed in a slinky garnet-colored number with a slit up the side, the straps holding it in place across my shoulders barely there, I sit next to a sullen Ricardo and try not to shiver. It’s been a decent day weather wise and we both agreed a jacket would take away from the devastation of the dress.
He is far enough down the seat to avoid touching me, his focus on something outside the window, something not visible as the car rolls down the street. The hum of the tires on asphalt is the only sound in the heavy silence because I alone hear my heartbeat. It thuds in my ears, my pulse a death knell.
“If you don’t relax, then they’re going to be able to smell your anxiety coming from a mile away.”
“I notice your voice is a little strained, too.” I scoff. “Maybe you need to take your own advice.”
Ricardo is silent for a moment before he says, “It never gets easier. I always use whatever time I have in the back of the car to settle myself.”
I try to reconcile the idea of him relaxing and centering himself with the man I know and come up short. “You expect me to believe you do your deep breathing and you’re suddenly able to get calm and controlled?” I jeer.
He shrugs. “It’s only a matter of getting myself to a place where I can fool others, even if it’s not the truth on the inside.”
It’s impossible to see his full expression in the dark, the intricacies of whatever expression he’s wearing while he stares at me, but the flashes I get in the passing lights give me enough to go on. A little bit of vulnerability before we both have to put on the best show of our lives.
“Sometimes I even convince myself the calm is real,” Ricardo continues.
His eyes scour me from across the street, and my stomach clenches.
“It’s not real, though,” I argue, pressing a hand to my stomach, although it does nothing to soothe the knots there. I start to shiver. “And you always look like you’re so put together. I have a hard time believing you have an issue with any of…” I trail off, waving my arm uselessly in the air in front of my face. “This.”
“This, as you succinctly put it, takes effort. It isn’t something you waltz into and fake your way through.”
“Except that’s what you’re telling me you actually do.”
“I fake confidence sometimes, yeah. Who doesn’t? It’s great to be a cocky asshole when it gets you what you want, but do you really think it’s sustainable?” he asks.
He’s always come across that way to me.
