Queen of Nothing

33. charade

I wondered how much longer we could keep this charade up--the look of a carefree pair of teenagers. Hand in hand we strolled down Guadalupe street, checking shops and restaurants and practically eating our way through the town. 

Guilt gripped at me with the way he'd put his card down everywhere without question--from restaurants to the inns we'd stayed at, I'd seen the flash of the platinum amex that he'd tap to the kiosks. From what I remembered Milo was very much upper middle class as his parents both worked in high paying jobs, his father a venture capitalist and his mother in investment banking. If anyone could afford to put their credit card down, it was definitely him over me. 

Yet, somehow, I couldn't shake the feeling that there was something he wasn't telling me.  

"So," I started as he gulped down a bottle of condensation flecked water, "your dad's not going to be upset about all of these charges? Between the hotel and the food and this dress..." 

"Why don't you let me worry about that?" He winked, "If it wasn't okay, I wouldn't be doing it." 

"Still," I reasoned, "it's been a lot. I just don't want to get you in trouble." 

He sighed with the realization that I wasn't going to drop the topic until we talked about it. "My father's a complicated man, but I can guarantee you that he doesn't worry about these things. Now can we drop it?" 

I fell silent and let him lead me through the street, suddenly starting to wonder about the nature of his relationship with his father. Did they speak often? Until this trip, I hadn't even realized that he'd been estranged from half of his family, having had to live without his sister for years in between.

Curiosity preened at me and I wanted more than anything to understand his life more now, outside of the tidbit he'd dropped at the taqueria. 

We stopped at a street performer that twirled flaming batons while the crowd "oooh-ed" and "aaah-ed" with delight. He wove through the thick of the crowd until we were at the very front, still clutching my hand. 

But he'd become closed off, holding my hand more out of necessity that want. I turned him to me gently, and he gave me a weird look, 

"What?" 

"You can talk to me," I started, "you know that right? I'll listen." 

A look of impassivity slammed over his features and there it was again, the degree of separation that seemed to haunt us, "There's nothing to talk about." 

I shrugged, "But you can." 

"If this is about my dad there's nothing to say," he looked away sharply and I could feel him tense up, "can we drop it?" 

So I obliged him, out of duty rather than anything. We moved past the street performer, to pick up coffee at this trendy cafe we'd passed earlier when I felt a drop of water on my face. I frowned when another drop fell on my back, sliding down my spine. I looked up to the once-clear sky to see gray clouds swirling ominously, "Did you feel that?" 

Milo mirrored my look of bewilderment, "Yeah, what the hell was that?" 

Droplets started to fall from the sky with increasing frequency, dazzling the payment in dark spots, when all of a sudden it turned into a torrential downpour. I flinched as the rain soaked through me and the dress, rivulets running down my face until Milo became a blur, a blip on the horizon. He pulled me under the nearest awning, as we crowded with the rest of the people on the street looking for cover. Soft jazz music swelled in the background, wafting from the cafe we'd used for cover. 

We faced one another, eyes meeting with varying degrees of intensity while something burned in the pit of my stomach, dark and meaningful. I'd always known myself on a precise level, but something at the way that he looked at me unravelled all reason. Who was I before this boy?