Snow

21 | not a friend, not a husband, not a father

❝if home is where the heart is,
then i do not have...
no, i do not have a pulse.❞

❘❘

"YOU MISSED OUR FIRST MEETING, NEVA."

I wipe my sweaty palms on my jeans. "Uh, yeah. I'm sorry I missed it."

"Was there an emergency?"

Between each blink, I can only see a haze of sex and smoke, sifting, and swimming through a blurry lens. It shifts, slurs, and skews—into a beautiful portrait of ink and snow.

"Yeah," I say and sniff. "There was an emergency."

As I stifle the sensual memories, I sink into my seat. His gaze never strays; it's sharp, but subtle, drilling into me with disappointment and disbelief. Under the weight of it, quiero desaparecer, but instead, I just squirm.

My hands tremble; my heart hiccups in panic. A sheen of sweat breaks out when he blinks expectantly. Without thinking, I shake my head in desperation. "I swear. There was an emergency. I'm sorry, Meir."

I don't know if I really am, but instinct tells me to keep lying.

Lies always work.

Because as it rolls off my tongue, paired with a pleading tone, everything in his expression softens. From stern to concerned, my advisor is suddenly gazing at me with an immense amount of worry. I know he believes the lie, but the way his dark eyes meet mine cautiously makes my stomach lurch.

"I hope everything is okay, Neva."

My hands won't stop shaking.

Stop moving.

I press my palms to my thighs.

Stop. Stop. Stop.

"Is your family safe?"

I know what he's saying, but I don't know what it really means. I don't know if mi familia is ever safe.

Nodding meekly, I glance away. "Yeah."

"Well, I would have appreciated an email, Neva."

"I lost my phone," I say, finding his heavy gaze on me again. "I can't...I can't really afford to get a new one right now."

Exasperation flashes in his eyes, and I nearly flinch. No es una mentira. Even with the cash in the stolen purse, I'd barely been able to scrape together enough for a Metrocard.

Meir shakes his head but doesn't say anything else about the half-assed excuse. "Okay, Neva. Well, you're behind. You haven't sent me anything."

I was supposed to send him something?

A jumble of excuses fights up my throat, knotting together until I can't even twist one into a lie.

I swallow them all. I have no excuses, other than the fact that I've been snorting lines of coke with my fuckbuddy.

After a solid moment of stale silence, Meir sighs. Those dark eyes release me, dancing down to the desk—to a slip of paper that he flicks up loosely. "We need to talk about your dissertation."

My heart plummets. "Right."

"Neva Álvarez." Meir pauses, long fingers shifting his glasses down over the bridge of his nose. "You're taking on family separation in the media."

The words feel like fucking fists, pummeling into my chest, pulverizing my heart, and stealing every last breath of air from my lungs. Why did I choose that topic four months ago? Did I really think I could handle it?