Favorite Friend

Million Dollar Bills

Traditionally, menudo is said to help with hangovers, but in my family it's considered the cure for all things. However, staring down at the broth and smelling the meat and spices, my stomach turns.

"I don't really feel like eating anything yet, mom," I mumble.

Her expression only grows even more concerned at that, her eyes momentarily travelling down to my upper body. She looks up again when I shift a little and draw the blanket up higher to hide my chest. I hate the way she always stares at me, like there's reason to worry, like she's afraid that from one day to another she'll see my ribs protruding.

"Maybe your appetite will come back later," she says and slowly stands up. She turns around to leave, but pauses at the door and looks at me again. Wringing her hands, she quietly says, "You know you can always talk to me, right, mi amor?"

I feel a little bit like crying. "I'm fine, mom. I promise."

"Take the day to rest, okay?"

"Okay," I whisper and watch as she leaves, pulling the door shut behind her.

Once she's gone, I set the bowl down on my nightstand and grab my phone again. I read over everything I've typed, once, twice.

In the end, I hit delete.

+++

Three days go by with not a single sign of life from Aaron.

I try to distract myself by babysitting Andrea and Isabel, watching documentaries, riding aimlessly around the town on my bike, but I can't get the memory of the night on the playground out of my head. I type out at least five different versions of my first message but don't send any of them. At night, I lie awake and stare at the ceiling and imagine him in a hotel room half a world away, and I try not to wonder if he thinks about me too.

On Thursday afternoon, it takes everything in me and three reminders from mom to force myself onto my bike and ride down to the bus station. There, I realize that I forgot my ticket, but the bus driver waves me inside anyway; it's not like he doesn't know me.

For twenty minutes, all I do is stare out the window at the desert and dust and the few run-down buildings rushing by outside, a blur of red and brown with nothing to hold my attention. The bus is almost unbearably hot, to the point that my shirt is sticking to my back by the time I get off twenty minutes later.

Melissa's office is in a tall office building right around the corner. Even after years of coming here, I still have to swallow hard before I press the bell with her name tag on it. A moment later, a buzzer sounds and I push the door open, entering the stairwell with the familiar scent of floor cleaner.

I take my time climbing the stairs, but still arrive at the door slightly out of breath, straightening my shoulders and wiping my sweaty hands on my pants before I enter.

"Felipe, honey!" the older woman behind the front desk exclaims, beaming at me. She's so short she can barely see over the counter, her eyes twinkling at me behind her glasses. "Always so on time. You can go right through!"

Nodding, I try for a smile and walk past her desk to the door at the end of the empty waiting room. Even though Melissa knows I'm coming, I still give a knock and wait for her "Come in!" before I enter.

"Hello, Felipe," Melissa says, momentarily looking up from her laptop to gesture at the couch. "You can have a seat, I'll be right with you."

I nod and slowly sink down on my familiar spot on the bright yellow couch. Before my first session with her, I always imagined a therapist's office to be dark and claustrophobic, with a brown leather couch you have to lie down on while a stern-looking, old white man with glasses stares you down and scribbles notes in a leather-wrapped notepad.