Athena

20. Who Is This Bitch?

I sigh, "I don't even know where to begin..."

Cruz's gaze falls on me, steady, unwavering. He seems invested in what I'm about to say. I bite my lower lip. The attention is flattering and nerve-wracking at the same time. I decide to start with the easier parent, the one who I don't have any emotional attachments to—

"Well... I guess... it's a pretty cliché story. My dad bolted when my mom got pregnant with me. I never knew the guy. He's married now. His new wife doesn't want me around, so he asked my aunt to look after me."

Cruz mutters, "Shit, that sucks."

Now, it's my turn to stall. I stay silent about the other parent, the one I miss with all my heart.

Gently, he prompts, "What about your mom?"

I take in a deep breath. The air releases from my lungs in a slow, trembling exhale. I mutter in a halting manner, "She, um, died. It happened a few years ago."

His eyebrows shoot up in shock. I shrug and give a noncommittal grunt. My chest feels tight and achy as I tell him, "She left for work one morning and never came back."

"What happened?"

I push out the words in a pained rasp, "A fucking drunk driver."

He whispers, "Damn."

We remain quiet for a while. Everything suddenly feels heavy and cheerless. I don't have the emotional bandwidth to bring up Persie. Not tonight. We barely talked about my mom, and I'm already drained.

To my surprise, Cruz doesn't rush to offer his condolences or sympathy. Instead, he stays silent and simply reaches for my hand, giving it a squeeze, as we lie side by side in bed.

It's kind of nice.

Unhappy thoughts about my mom, his mom, Chrissa, and Brody fade from my mind. It reminds me of our time in the park. I think touch is his way of comforting me, and I appreciate it. Words are nice but kind of useless. 

My mom is dead. 

Nothing anyone ever says can bring her back, and I've learned, after a while, there's only so many times you can listen to someone say I'm so sorry and I'm here for you before you want to scream. Then, the heartfelt sympathy and tearful words fade away as they get to move on with their lives, leaving me, stuck, to deal with the sadness on my own.

As the minutes tick by, Cruz's body leans towards mine, and I find myself sidling up against him. Lightly, his cheek falls on top of my head.

"Do you think of her often?" he asks.

"Not really," I admit, "I try not to think about her at all, actually. It's... depressing."

"I don't like thinking about my mom, either."

I squeeze his hand. "It makes you miss her more, huh?"

Cruz glances over to me with soft eyes. "Yeah, it really does."

I look up at him. "I miss my mom like crazy, too."

In gruff tones, he starts, "Sometimes..."

I wait for him to continue.

When Cruz speaks again, he chooses the rest of his words carefully, "I think... missing someone... simply means that... the love was real. Loss can't exist without love, right? At least, this is what I tell myself, so I know I'm not sad for nothing."

I take a moment to process his words. "Does it help? To think about love and loss that way?"

He laughs quietly, but it's not exactly an uplifting sound. "Some days it helps. Other days... it feels like bullshit."