Page 131 of Outspoken

The screen is a serious of texts he sent on different days. Whoever he’s texting never responds.

How are you?

Hey.

Hola.

I tried ramen today. It was good.

You could probably visit.

Marta died. Do you care?

Still watching from the corner of my eye, I read the text he’s currently writing:

Hey, Mom. I know you like churches. You want a pic of the one I’m at?

When he hits send, I turn my head quickly, pretending to look at a couple passing by on the sidewalk. Angel told me before that his mom is a meth addict who lives in Fresno. Regardless, she can’t be bothered to message her son? Even when she’s lucid? Just a quick hello or anything.

I’m heartbroken for Angel while also feeling pissed at the woman who birthed him. What mother just writes her son off?

He stands, trying to look passive, but his shifting gaze and fallen brows reveal his distress.

“Hey, where are you going?” I ask.

He points at a tree. “I’m going to vape over there. I can be considerate.”

“Thanks,” I say with a smile. “That is thoughtful. But sit down a second.” I pat the bench, trying to keep things light to distract him from everything he’s going through. “Want to know some techniques for dealing with anxiety?”

He sits with a shrug, which is as much of a response as I’m probably going to get.

Sitting up straighter, I say, “Well, first there’s noting…”

I guide him through how to note the environment around him so he can stay present when his thoughts are spiraling, then I go over a few breathing techniques. Finally, I show him how to do tapping.

At first, he seems more interested in his phone, but I keep talking and showing examples, and he eventually puts the phone away. He tries a few cycles of tapping and then gives his normal shrug.

“Okay,” he says.

“Feeling less anxiety?”

Another shrug.

I stand, smoothing my skirt. “Let’s go in.”

“No one wants me in there,” he bites out.

“I do.”

For a moment, he chews his bottom lip, thinking it over, and he looks like he might go in with me. But he shakes his head and pulls his phone out again. I glance at the towering church doors. I want to honor Marta’s memory and offer support to Miguel, but I know I’m also an outsider. It’s going to feel awkward.

Angel ignores me while I stand there, glancing between him and the church, trying to decide what to do. Though I only met Marta once, it was easy to see how much she liked Angel. If she were here, I think she’d want me to stay with Angel to give him company.

I sit on the bench, hoping this is the right choice. “Guess we could enjoy the nice weather some more,” I say.

Though Angel doesn’t look away from his phone, the corner of his lip curls up.

Miguel

---