Favorite Friend

Biting Down

If my dad has one thing, it's impeccable timing. Like birds know when a thunderstorm is coming, he seems to have some kind of sixth sense for when things are going to shit; except he doesn't lie low or hide away, but flies straight into the dark clouds.

I'm coming over this weekend, is the text I wake up to on Thursday morning. Can't wait to see la familia.

I glare down at the message for a few seconds before I force myself out of bed. It's already two in the afternoon; I couldn't fall asleep last night because every time I closed my eyes, all I saw were different angles of Aaron and Chloe sitting together on the bleachers, their laughter echoing in my ears over and over again, contorted and taunting.

Even now, all I can think about is Aaron's hands on her waist as he lifted her up and twirled her around, like they were in some fucking romcom and this was the scene were the whole cinema was supposed to go aww.

Meanwhile I tip back my meds and blink into the grey light filtering in through the blinds, faintly illuminating the growing chaos that swallows my room. In the mirror on the wall, I can see myself, frail looking in my boxers and the huge shirt I wear to sleep, skin ashen and eyes sunken in. I have no place in a romcom. I'm more the type to star in one of those depressing indie short films that Aaron loves, but apparently this is too pathetic even for him.

And fuck, there I circle back to him again. It's a goddamn carousel from hell.

I set my pill container down on my nightstand with more force than necessary before I pull on the first clean clothing items I can find. By now, the sadness has turned into anger; anger at myself for being so fucking stupid and ruining the only good thing in my life, at Aaron for immediately moving on and replacing me like nothing happened, at Chloe for being so perfect and pretty and so nice that I can't even blame Aaron for liking her, at my dad for deciding to suddenly come over and pretend like he misses us, at the entire goddamn universe for fucking me over again and again.

Once I'm dressed, I pull the door shut behind me and make my way downstairs. I can hear mom talking to abuela in the kitchen; I'm confused as to why she's here for a moment before I remember that she has a shorter shift on Thursdays and that I slept in so long that she's back already.

"Hey," I murmur as I trudge through the door.

"Good morning! You slept in," mom says. She's sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee in her hands. Opposite from her, abuela is squinting at one of her crossword puzzles through her thick glasses, absentmindedly petting Frida Kahlo with the hand that isn't holding the pencil.

I only nod and grab a bowl from one of the cupboards.

"How are you feeling?" mom asks. The question sounds innocent enough, but I can tell by the way her eyes are tracking my movements that she's analysing me.

"Fine," I say without looking up from the cereal I'm pouring. "How was work?"

"Oh, it was the usual."

For a few minutes, the only sounds filling the kitchen are Frida's soft purring and abuela muttering something under her breath in Spanish as she tries to think of the answer to one of the questions. I carry my bowl over and sit down at the end of the table. On the wall, the clock tick tick ticks.

"So..." mom finally says, "Did your father text you?"

I pause, the spoon wobbling in the air for a moment before I put it down. "Yeah. Why is he coming?"

"Didn't he say? He told me he misses y-"

"Mom."

She visibly deflates. "Feli, I-"