Because You're Different ✔

56. Stains [Part 2]

She was in a thoughtful mood again, and I wondered if she was contemplating something that'd had happened while I was away or the asshole on the market who had wanted to pray for her. It'd been one of those "Jesus is love" types, one that probably spent his evenings singing songs about the good Lord, and he hadn't taken no for an answer. She'd been seething, her fists clenched, her lips strained, movements snappy.

"Maybe I should move to London with you," she'd said, her voice trembling, causing two boys to throw her an inquisitive look. She hadn't seen them. "Or do people pray for you there as well?"

"Not as far as I know. But I'm pretty sure nobody could find a reason to pray for me."

A sharp glint in her eyes. "You think he had a reason?"

"No. But he thought he had a reason."

I now wished I'd tackled it differently. Of course, I wanted to be honest with her, though there was a difference between honesty and saying hurtful shit. At first, I'd thought she'd let it go, as she'd been cheerful for most of the time we'd spend picking out tomatoes and spices. During the actual cooking, however, my crappy ass jokes had been met with nothing more than silence again and again and again.

She was sitting across from me, staring into nothing with a frown on her face. Empty plates, forks, knives, and glasses were covering the wooden surface of the table. On her end, a few bites of food that had escaped her spoon before they could get to her mouth were strewn about; the image had something comforting about it, after all these months of proper people using their napkins and knowing which set of cutlery was meant for which round of dinner. I was a real fool for staying that long, and I knew for sure I was never going back, no matter what that would mean for Charlotte and me. This was where I was supposed to be.

"What are you thinking about?"

The question took her by surprise: she looked up, blinking at me. I tried to seem collected, even though on the inside, I was wondering if this had been the best method to get her to open up. She never had to ask me: she'd always known what was going on in my mind. Was that because she was simply good at reading people, or because she knew me well, or because I wasn't nearly as complex as I deemed myself to be?

"You," she said, and it seemed she hadn't been planning to, seeing as how quick the word came out.

"But I'm sitting right here."

She smiled, a true smile I'd missed more than I'd realized. "Does that mean I can't think about you? Weren't you thinking about me?"

"I was."

"See? It's normal."

I chuckled. No one was more logical than this girl. "So... do I want to know what you were thinking about me?"

She narrowed her eyes a little, inspecting me for a while. Then, she shook her head. "Probably not."

Shit. I took a deep breath, trying to ignore the feeling of doom returning to my stomach. Maybe I'd been wrong. Maybe we weren't going to get through this after all. "You can be mad at me, you know."

"I was never really good at being mad at you. I'm like my dad in that way." The smile transformed into something sarcastic, something laden with pain. She gazed down again, at her own hands lying still in her lap, and I felt that this was the opening I'd been looking for.

"How is your dad?" There had been times when I'd considered calling Mr. Guevara directly; I had his number in my phone, after all. Something had stopped me every single time, and while back then, I hadn't known what exactly that had been, I now began to wonder if I hadn't wanted to disappoint him with the fact I wasn't as strong as he was. He'd braced a five-hour commute for two years to earn money for a better life for him and his wife, and I couldn't even handle a top position in one of the most luxurious parts of London.