Page 140 of Outspoken

He squeezes the handle of his luggage until his knuckles are white. “I may be a fucking kid but I’m not an idiot. Whenever I saw you growing up, you were always talking about soulmates and stupid shit. I shouldn’t have even paid attention, but you talked so much and then everyone in the family made jokes about you. You would go on about some woman you just met being your true love. Then next time I saw you, you’d be with someone new, telling everyone you’ll be marrying her now. You talk empty words and lies.” He points at the mantle. “Your mom went through some real shit. She was abandoned andsurvived. I’m sure she was disappointed having such a loser of a son. You talked like I could stay here and now what’s happening?”

A deep, sickening despair blooms in my chest, soaking into my muscles and dragging me down. An ache pulses behind my eyes. Angel was a kid and even he saw how I acted. How could a kid see how toxic I was, yet I failed to see that myself?

“You’re right,” I say, taking a step toward him. “I was caught up in feelings and focusing on the wrong things back then. I’m working on myself. But my stupidity in romantic relationships has nothing to do with what’s happening now. I started this convo the wrong way. I’m sorry. I should’ve started by telling you how much I love having you here. My mom’s gone. I’m fucking lonely and miserable, and the only thing getting me off the couch is knowing you’re here. I don’t want you to move out. Forget I mentioned anything. I’m sorry I brought that up. I thought you might want something different since you’re not happy, but I really don’t want you to go. What can I do to make you happier so you feel comfortable staying?”

He tugs his hoodie down, staring at me with hard eyes. “You’re fucking lying so you don’t feel guilty and can keep pretending you’re a good person. Just be honest. No one wants me, not even you. You wouldn’t be looking at group homes if—”

“Forget that. It was stupid of me to suggest it.” I pat my chest. “Can you hear me? I don’t know what I’m doing, and I made a mistake. Stay here. I want you to.”

He shakes his head, but his eyes relax. I wonder if he might actually believe me. He might actually release the luggage and hang his clothes in the closet and make this his home.

The despair inside me weakens its grip when I think about this being Angel’s permanent home. This storm cloud of a teenager has grown on me. He is a good kid. He’s just mixed up right now because of his shitty past. Even though I worry I’ll fail, I want to be the one to help him with that.

And I just want him around.

My hope vanishes the moment he picks up Mom’s favorite ceramic figurine of Guadalupe. He raises it above his head.

Stepping forward, I give him a stern look. “Don’t. That’s Mom’s.”

He flinches and hesitates. There’s a tense moment where my heart thunders in my chest and I brace myself to watch that figurine shatter from his wrath. But the moment passes. I exhale when he lowers his arm and sets the figurine down.

In a flash, his hand jerks to the flat screen, grabbing the top and yanking with all of his strength. The TV crashes to the tile, the screen cracking into a thousand spiderwebs.

“Fuckyou,” he yells.

Then he leaves, the door slamming behind him and knocking one of mom’s ceramic crosses off the wall.

It shatters.

She never liked that one, anyway.

I collapse onto the couch with a gut-retching sigh, hanging my head.What a damn mess.And I know it’s my fault. More of my poor decisions causing distress.

I decide to pace, too much unstable energy pounding through me. I pace in the hallway since the living room has a broken TV blocking part of the path.

Whenever Angel stormed out on other family members, they all said he went to stay with ‘friends’, though no one knows who they were. After a few days, he would reappear at someone else’s house as if nothing had happened, forcing his way in and crashing in a room. If I message him, maybe he’ll reappear here and we’ll talk. Though fully talking to a teenager might be impossible.

Either way, I need to try. I’m worried about him vaping in public and getting arrested for it, or getting involved in something shady with these ‘friends’ he hangs with.

I text him:Once you’ve cooled down, please come back so we can talk. I don’t want you disappearing. Come back here.

I shove my phone in a back jeans pocket and return to pacing. As I pass by his room again and again, trying not to throw up from concern, the trash starts to bother me. Since I need activity so I don’t get swallowed in guilt, regret, and worry—or the sudden emptiness of my house—I go into his room to pick up food wrappers. When I grab the small wastebasket near the bed, I notice torn paper with blue handwriting inside.

This is an invasion of privacy, but I pull the pieces out. Something about them nags me.

After arranging the six pieces as best I can on the bed, I realize it’s a letter. It’s not a very long one.

Angel,

Hope I got the right address. Someone told me you’re staying with Marta. I always liked her, so I’m sure things are going great. She lives with her son, doesn’t she? I heard he makes good money, so I’m glad you have somewhere nice to stay. It’s probably in a nice neighborhood.

Your dad and I are back together. He’s been getting clean, and I’m trying, too. You probably wouldn’t recognize me. I cut my hair and dyed it red. Anyway, we’re moving to Chicago next week. We didn’t text because it’s nicer to get a letter, isn’t it? You always complained about the cold, so we figured you’d want to stay in Cali. Once we get settled, you can visit if you want. But you’re better off with Marta.

Don’t steal from them so you can stay there, alright? I’ll send our new address once I have it.

Love,

Mom

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