Page 108 of Lost Love on 6th Street

“It’s not fair.”

“To either of us.”

Having her close slots something into me I didn’t know was missing. Maybe my body always knew there was another piece of me out there in the world. That our family was a little bit incomplete.

We hold each other tight for a while. The only sound in the room is the tinkling of her dog’s tags as he gets up and pushes at her hip with his snout.

Claire pulls back, red-eyed. “You should be mad at me. I think.”

“For being born?” I ask.

“I mean, I don’t know,” she says.

“I’m not mad at you.” I’m not even mad at Diane.

All my anger is saved for my father.

He had it all. The house, the kids, the wife.

Perfect. At least that’s what I would think if I had all those things. I’ve dreamt of having that. With Eleanor.

And he had to go and fuck it all up. And why?

Because he could. Because he didn’t think. Because he didn’t care.

And if I’m my father’s son, what the hell am I capable of?

Would I fuck it all up too?

35

ELEANOR

The last time we were sitting at this taco truck, we were strangers. I was taking photos of Luke being a charming cowboy. A flash-in-the-pan friendship.

Now, he’s my boyfriend, and life is way, way more complicated. Not even the framed photo in my bag can change my mood. I should be celebrating.

How can I, now that Luke’s whole world has changed? And maybe mine too.

Across the picnic table, Luke stares at his plate of tacos. Untouched.

“You should eat,” I say.

“Not hungry.” He swigs his Topo Chico.

It doesn’t feel good eating with someone who isn’t touching their food, but I’m starving. Today, I burned more calories than I know what to do with—all because of this feeling.

When Luke revealed his father was Frank, I didn’t know what to think. The first thought was that I was an idiot for never asking his dad’s name, although I never wanted to pry. The second thought was . . . why didn’t he tell me? Am I not trustworthy? Does he not think I can handle it?

I’m all out of sorts with what to think about our relationship at this point.

“What do you think of Shortbread?” I ask.

Luke manages to crack a smile. A small one, but still a smile. “He’s great.”

“Yeah, I think so too.” I sip my horchata.

More silence. I eat. He doesn’t.

---