roberto & nia

10. nia+robert

robert runs like death or the police are chasing him out of cadence's house, tearing through shrubs and kicking flowers from pots that break into one million stone pieces beneath his feet. they scratch and scrape and scratch-scrape his legs, but still he keeps running, pushing, past houses that dash and blur into one another.

his mother should be taking her midday siesta. if he walked into his backyard – on his heels of his feet, so the soles of his shoes would hover silently above the ground – he'd see her brown arm, with all her spider tattoos sprawled across it, dangling on the grass, while the rest of her body swung slowly in the green hammock.

her car keys are attached to her wrist on a bracelet. the car is on the side of the street, in front of the trashcans, behind the mailbox. when robert arrives onto the grass of his house, the earth is extremely still. the rustle of the leaves slides into a hush. he breathes so quietly he has to bring his hand up to his nose to make sure he is still alive, press his fist against his heart to make sure it's still beating. and it is in this space – the space between stealing his mother's car, and driving away to his girlfriend's house to piece their entire relationship back together – that robert allows himself to doubt. to miss. and to remember how smoothly the music had fallen on his ears – how nia's music was the loudest. how he listened for her the hardest.

he breathes out loudly through his mouth. the breath rattles around in the atmosphere. catherine's breath. like her hands were squeezing his lungs. but he felt something, even then.

"i love you, catherine."

robert speaks and waits for the world to respond. he is met with silence.

he loved her.

how beautiful and lovely and together she was – like she knew herself and himself enough for the both of them, so he could afford to forget. like the safety pin over the torn parts of his personality. oftentimes being with catherine felt like leaving little parts of himself outside her bedroom door: the parts that liked rap and the color pink and enchiladas and holding a girl's hand that didn't stick fingernails into his palm – they were drowned and quashed and stomped on and forgotten.

but this is what relationships were: sacrifice. the giving of one's self. cutting your arm off when you only had one. swallowing cough syrup when you had no cough. it's why his parents marriage hadn't worked out — his mother was never sick, and his father was constantly drinking syrup. this is how things fell apart.

robert couldn't even remember what being apart felt like. memories of separateness were foggy, and foreign. he knew there was a time before catherine, but it all seemed to fade it comparison to the present. fade, or maybe his eyes were broken. too broken to see what was behind him.

and in front of him — catherine was going to college. the idea of college had been looming over robert's life like a black plague, singing in his veins, eating the flesh from his bones. college means separation, and separation meant to be alone. to be alone was to die, robert was sure. to be with her felt like dying too, sometimes — quite like being buried alive — but to be away from her completely was certain, permanent death.

so he climbs over the gate in front of his house and removes the key from his mother's wrist. to save his life. to resurrect himself from the dead.

his mother stirs on the hammock lightly, one eye blinking open at him.

"roberto. roberto, mijo, ¿què pasa?"

"nada, mama. i'm just going to hang out at xavier's house. play basketball, or something."

"mmh." she hums softly and pats his arm, her eyes closed.

"divièrtete, roberto. say hello to kiana for me."

"i will, mama, i will. see you later."

"see you, roberto."

"robert, mama," he says finally, agitation in his voice. "my name is robert. you know that."

"that's not the name i gave you," she says coldly, staring deeply at him. he can see his reflection in his eyes. he looks frightened, and tired. like he needed to sleep for one hundred years. he feels one hundred years old, with a century's worth of heartache rested on his back.

"you used to be roberto, before you met her. when you were born, and until you met her. tú recuerdas, mijo. bertito."

"when i was ten years old, ma. i'm sixteen now, remember?" robert answers forcefully. "and so what if i changed my name because catherine's like robert better? so what? at least i do what i can to keep a relationship."

his mother's eyes flash wildly at him. robert knows he has pierced a vein, and watches the blood pool at his feet.

"¡cierra tu boca," she spits, banishing him to silence. "roberto delarosa, you will not leave this house ever again, ever, if you think you can talk to me that way."

but robert is already down the street, starting the car, with one window rolled down, all the others sealed up, because catherine liked it that way. she had told him on their six month anniversary — she had screamed so loud she almost hit streetlight when a butterfly flew into the car one the way to the restaurant. and she had blamed him for it — for almost killing them, with your stupid fucking windows that let bugs in the fucking car.

the sun burns like the day at the lemonade stand all over again. his chest heaves and his skin burns but he keeps only one window open, because catherine liked it this way. and he loved her.