Page 8 of Becoming Us
We went our separate ways, and I walked home, tugging on my headphones and shutting out the world, one song at a time.
As soon as I pushed the door open, I was greeted by the telltale sign of a gathering—soft, generic jazz drifting through the house. My mom loved playing that kind of music whenever she had friends over.
The faint scent of white florals and expensive candle wax floated down from the foyer chandelier. I stepped inside, shoes clicking against polished wood floors so clean they practically glared and peeked into the living room. Sure as shit, there she was, laughing loudly with four of her friends, wine glasses in hand.
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. The charm was on full blast.
I took a step back, hoping to escape before she noticed me.
“Muñeco! Come in here, say hello,” she called.
No such luck.
I pressed my lips together, plastered on a fake smile, and stepped inside. She tugged me close as I offered a polite hello.
“Noah, look how big you’ve gotten!” one of them cooed.
“So handsome. You’re the spitting image of Andrea,” another chimed in.
I was used to that one. She lit up every time someone made that comparison.
“Isn’t he? He’s getting called in for the big jobs too—just like his mom,” she gushed.
“Really?”
“We’re doing a shoot forVoguenext month.” She lifted her chin proudly, taking a slow sip from her glass.
“That’s amazing, Noah. Are you excited?”
They all turned to me, expectant.
“Oh yeah. Can’t wait.” The lie came as easy as breathing.
“He just needs to keep watching what he eats, and he’ll keep this streak going for sure,” my mom said, flipping her hair over her shoulder and tossing me a wink, like it was some fun little inside joke between us.
And there it was again—that dull ache under my ribs.
A laugh escaped me, hollow and automatic. Too practiced to sound real, but they didn’t notice. They just chuckled along like parrots.
I angled myself toward the door. “Speaking of which, I haven’t had lunch.”
“Tell Jasmine to make you something.” And with a wave of her hand, I was dismissed. I guessed she was done with the show-and-tell.
I slipped into the kitchen, ignoring the sting like always. My dad and Ilana were both there.
“Hey,” I said, heading to the fridge.
“Hey, Noh,” Ilana replied without looking up, grabbing her plate and making a quick exit.
She especially hated it when Mom had people over. I got to be the spitting image; Ilana got labeled the “smart one.” And lately, that didn’t sound like much of a compliment.
I stared into the fridge, sorting through shelves while my stomach twisted. I bypassed anything remotely filling and grabbed a Coke, not thinking too hard about it.
“That supposed to be lunch?” My dad arched a brow, unimpressed.
I shrugged, dragging my soda closer.“I had chips earlier.”
He glanced at the door to the living room, then pushed off the counter. “I’ll make you a sandwich.”
