When Bluebirds Fly | ✔

Part Three : Chapter Twenty

"It's hot outside, you don't need that," Marta commented as I wordlessly slipped on a cardigan over my t-shirt. "I saw you yesterday in the car, you met him just yesterday. Now you can wait till next week at least."

"There's something important," I lied with a sly smile, giving a sexual innuendo and Marta grimaced.

"Okay, okay. Be home soon. I don't think I can fool abuela for a longer time."

"You got it." I grabbed my sling-bag and headed out, checking my phone. Friday. 4pm.

Happy death day, Mariana Martin.

I inhaled sharply, the streets blurring in the background and I solely existed in my mind even though my feet carried me from one street to the next. My whirlpool of thoughts struck at every possibility cropping up in my mind, destroying any likelihood of an escape to a future, a future where I was not fucked up. I abstractedly stood near the bus stop and when I felt a hand on my shoulder, I flinched.

"Hey, Mariana, it's me," Sam said in a bewildered tone, withdrawing his hand.

"Why did you come here? We were supposed to meet at the bus stop near our apartment, not here," I pointed out, astonished at how he would now have to make this unnecessary trip twice by riding again two hours with me.

"Moral support, yeah?" He draped his arm around my shoulder, the thick sleeve of his bomber jacket comfortable against my neck. I had confessed to him yesterday about all the nudes and Abel on the phone while begging him to promise that he wouldn't do something stupid and accompany me to Abel's desired location. He had reluctantly agreed and today, he looked normal enough, the kind of intensity which he possessed regardless of the circumstances was evident on his pleasant face.

The bus arrived fifteen minutes late than the scheduled time and my eyes were constantly darting to my phone, keeping track of the time. Once we settled down, Sam shut my phone, pressing the screen down on my lap. I sighed, gazing out of the window at the passing rows of trees and houses.

"I think he wants money, he'll come up with something because he knows that I don't have any money. I'm sure he wants money . . . If it was something else, he could have done it that day," I said with firm certitude, suddenly finding myself breathing through my mouth.

"We'll figure a way out," he said in a low voice, tapping his fingers on the back of my hand before pulling me close in a side-hug.

"You know, I took a break from Isaac," I admitted, looking up at his clenched jaw which eased at my attention.

His eyebrows knotted in confusion. "Why would you do that?"

"He wouldn't be able to handle all this," I said, softening my accusatory tone. "It's not him, you know? In some ways, it is. Like-like I always have to be perfect for him because he's so perfect . . . And I'm not . . . With him, I feel like I should better myself every day and now it's exhausting."

"To want to be better-you shouldn't have done that. You don't know how difficult it is to find someone with whom you want to better yourself," he said, glancing at me.

"It's easier said than done . . . But I love him, I love him so fucking much it's insane . . . I want to get it absolutely right with him, but with papá and I-I moving, I just feel---"

"Is this your excuse?"

"I'm not making excuses," I said guardedly. "It's just that- it might sound harsh when I say . . . It might sound like I don't love him when in fact, I do. But it's-it's just that I feel free now in some ways. I feel less dirty."