"Well, if you wanted honesty, that's all you had to say.
I never want to let you down, or have you go
'it's better off this way.'"
- "I'm Not Okay (I Promise)" My Chemical Romance (2004)
Alejandro
I forgive myself for not understanding. I forgive myself for making mistakes. I forgive myself for causing pain and suffering to myself and others.
Inhale.
I forgive myself for not understanding. I forgive myself for making mistakes. I forgive myself for causing pain and suffering to myself and others.
Exhale.
I forgive myself for not understanding. I forgive myself for—
Shit.
What was the rest of it?
My eyebrow quirks with tension after a spent five minutes trying to chase any stress out of both my mind and body, candlelight still flickering behind my eyelids. Just—focus. A deep inhale, and an even deeper exhale to reset my mind.
I forgive myself for not...
My eyebrow twitches again.
I should call her.
No I shouldn't.
I forgive myself...
Do I really?
A chill runs down my spine, and I can suddenly feel my clothes on my skin, my hair brushing my forehead, my crossed legs stacked on top of each other, and, finally, my upturned hands resting on my knees. Annoyed, I finally open my eyes—admitting yet another failed attempt to meditate before extinguishing the candles surrounding me.
The loss of the scarce illumination leaves my room almost pitch black, allowing me a brief respite from the outside world even after my meditation is over. But a sliver of white sunlight still filters through the gap in my curtains and outlines the furniture in my sitting area—a reminder of the bright day outside of my window that tells me I can't hide in here forever. That, despite my attempts to retreat into my own head for closure, reality still pushes along whether I want it to or not.
You shouldn't known you wouldn't be able to focus, fuckhead.
Along with running, cooking, and, (most recently) Lily, meditation has been a grounding factor for the perpetual whirlwind that tends to constitute my mental state. But I should probably start being real with myself after I've tried and failed to find peace in my head several times this week.
Both Dr. Suzuki and I can tell that I'm running on dregs of stability: I'm guilty, restless, disoriented from not being able to talk to Lily, terrified of what she might say once I can, and, if that wasn't enough, debilitatingly horny after growing accustomed to being with her so often. Honestly, I wish I could just hibernate until we leave for California to avoid all the turmoil that this situation has brought on, but here I am.
I'm sure that what I did on her behalf makes me a bad person, and I know I was wrong, but I'm still so confused. I mean, honestly, it scares me that I didn't really regret the choices I made until now. I would've done it a million times over if she didn't react this badly, and I'm just...wary to really consider what that says about me.
I give one last substantial exhale as I stand, gathering my candles and placing them back into their drawer to avoid any accidents when Paola comes in to clean. And, with a press of a button, my curtains slide open once again to reveal a bright, crystal blue day through the floor-to-ceiling windows.
I check my watch, putting down the remote and lacing up my shoes once I realize that I'm due for my haircut in half an hour. I'll admit that I've been distracting myself with various appointments from the day I came back to the city—the doctor, the dermatologist, virtual sessions with Dr. Suzuki, another tattoo consultation, and even professional teeth whitening, but Anastasia Petrov would most definitely drag me to her salon by my scalp if I didn't pay her a visit while I'm home.
As one of my mom's closest friends, she's been my one and only stylist since I was old enough to get my first haircut. In fact, before I went to Stanford, there were only two occasions on which someone else cut my hair: the summer I spent entirely in Colombia, and her month-long honeymoon with her husband last spring. After I spent a year cheating on her with another stylist in California, I'm more than due for a visit.
I grab a pair of shades on the way out of my bedroom, placing them on top of my head and checking my phone as the elevator starts to descend. I'm dressed down today, wearing jeans and a t-shirt instead of my usual Italian menswear, but I still feel practically naked in the city without my shades. Well...that and the fact that I've been avoiding Jordan since the moment his jet touched down in Teterboro.
Thirty-five floors later, I'm walking out of the lobby, greeting the doorman, and dropping my sunglasses over my eyes as soon as I hit the sidewalk of Third Avenue. Jordan may have threw me a bone when he told me to give Lily her space, but I'm not particularly grateful for that advice when I know he's been talking to her all week anyway. Whether he intended it to come off that way or not, my relationship with Lily has made it plenty clear: he's her friend, not mine. Always has been.
I merge into the current of bodies marching down Fifth Avenue, moving closer to the street since I'll be walking for a while. The Upper East Side is quieter than usual today, streets so uncharacteristically clear that I could probably get away with taking a taxi to Anastasia's. But I elect to stay on the sidewalk anyway—a stroll on such a beautiful day may do the impossible and actually help clear my mind.
The bright, colorful summer clothes of the people moving around me form a spinning kaleidoscope: pinks, purples, blues and yellows swishing against a backdrop of tan brick and leafy green trees. And, as I pass tall, chateau-style apartment buildings, upscale boutiques, and outdoor cafes, I try my hardest to imagine Lillian Bennett in this environment—sitting at a patio table with a house salad, shopping for a party dress, or rushing to school in a plaid skirt and saddle shoes. But I just can't.
Even with my photographic memory and the knowledge that she lived here for all but three years of her life, it's impossible to superimpose her into my surroundings. The Lily Jordan knew back then and the Lily I know now are lightyears apart, although I wish more than anything that I could have experienced both versions of her.
Maybe then I would've known better than to make this mistake in the first place.
As different as the Lillian of California may seem from the Lillian of New York City, her past self informed much, if not all, of the person she is now. She's told me herself that her relationship with Jordan serves as a guide of what not to allow when it comes to her boyfriend, yet I somehow ended up following his playbook down to the page.
I'm sure there's some idiom in the same vein as 'the apple doesn't fall too far from the tree' that could explain the similarities I share with Jordan. But what does that mean—for me, for her, for us? If Jordo and I are as alike as we're starting to seem in our relationships with her, then it's only a matter of time before I get the same outcome he did. That's just...not an option.
I can always try something that I'm sure Jordan never did when he was dating Lily: admitting my mistake and working on not repeating it in the future. But I still can't erase the past. What I did was never malicious, and maybe Jordan would have had the same justification if it was his misstep, but I know the discussion doesn't end there. Maybe I don't really know why I did it, or what it says about how I view Lily, and that's why I can't waltz to Lake Tahoe without...
Is that limo following me?
I lift my shades and whip around in one instantaneous motion, left hand curling into a fist and elbow raising to knock the lights out of whoever may jump out of the stretch Audi. But, when my arm swishes through air, I'm left staring dead at the limo as it comes to a leisurely stop beside me.
The back window rolls down, heavy tint revealing a familiar face, and a mixture of half-anger-half annoyance drags my heart down into my stomach. My upper lip curls instinctively in an expression of distaste, and words of frustration leave my mouth before I can stop them.
"For fuck's sake."
"Wow, you actually made me jump."
Jordan folds his arms on the window sill and grins at me, pale eyes radiating pure satisfaction.
"I'm glad," I shoot back, eyes flicking to the front of the Audi before begrudgingly returning to him. "A limo? What, am I late for prom?"
"I got one for Asher. He's actually the one who spotted you." Jordan turns to look behind him, head lowering when the neighboring seat is completely empty. "The fuck are you hiding for? Ash—get your ass off the floor; you're being ridiculous."
"So you're stalking me now?" I interrupt, struggling to hide my amusement as a petrified Asher slowly raises into my line of sight.
"We're not stalking you. This was just...a nice coincidence," Jordan answers for him, facing me completely once more. "You've been even harder to pin down than usual; I just wanted to check up on you."
"I have a therapist for that," I say plainly, lowering my shades and beginning to walk away, but, like clockwork, the limo starts moving to keep up with me.
"Maybe, but Dr. Suzuki is legally barred from reporting back to Lily. And, lest you need me to remind you, I'm your only line of communication with her right now."
Jordan's voice is starting to slow down, a familiar signal that he's getting irritated, but I don't even spare him a glance.
"Is the fact that you're talking to my girlfriend while I'm giving her space seriously supposed to make me like you more?"
A theatrically exasperated groan.
"You know, you don't have to take it out on me just because you fucked up. Look—I've been in the doghouse a million times; I know what you're going through better than you do."
"So why would I listen to you?" I finally turn to look at him, lifting my shades again. "What don't you get, Jordan? You're like the worst parts of myself compressed into a satellite that just keeps...circling me no matter how far I run from it. Yes, you have experience with Lily, but she broke up with you for a reason. You had months to work on it without me knowing, and you still didn't get her back! Was that not a hint that you didn't have all the answers?"
His expression devolves from annoyance into a dark glower, but I don't wait for his response.
"Maybe she has a thing for nutjobs. I don't know." I shrug, glancing ahead for a moment to make sure I don't run into anything while I'm distracted. "But I can definitely say the last thing I want to be in my relationship with her is you."
"Oh-ho-ho, that's fucking rich!" Jordan's mouth pulls tight in a snarl, his hand slamming the windowsill as he sits up straight. "My God, do you even hear yourself right now? I didn't make you this way—everything you did, you did all by yourself. And I can assure you...Lily's not mad at you because you're acting like me. She's mad at you because you're acting like you."
"Maybe she is. I'll own that." I turn my palms up to convey my last statement. "But at least she likes me acting like me more than she likes you acting like you."
"Classy," he utters, voice completely monotone. "I thought that too. And she did like me more than she liked you...all the way up until she didn't anymore. Even if you don't want my advice, this is a truth: if all you focus on in your relationship with her is not being like me, then you'll miss the bigger picture. We may be similar, but we are still two very different people. And Lily doesn't run on standardized formulas."
"Noted."
"Good." His answer is just as flat as it is unamused. "If you want to be a dick to me, then fine. But I still care about Lily, and she cares about you. So I'll see you very soon."
Before I can manage a "yeah right," he lifts his hand and the limo stops creeping through the empty parallel parking spots to merge onto the road. Asher pops out of the sunroof to yell "sorry!" at me as they drive away, and, even though my lip quirks in the beginnings of an entertained smile, my thoughts are enough to stop it in its tracks.
I hate when he's right.
Maybe Jordan downplays the osmosis that undoubtedly occurred in the span of our nineteen year "friendship," but I won't lie and say that he had any influence on how I handled things with Montoya. Even if he gave me the diction, intimidation tactics, and body language that I used to eek out a victory in that deal, I recognize that only I could have pulled it off in the way that I did. I made the choice to do what I did all on my own, and maybe he should have stopped me when I told him, but it's not like I would have listened anyway.
I was so determined—so blinded by my need to right that wrong for her—that I got tunnel vision. I didn't know enough to realize I was committing one of the most egregious sins possible. I hurt her more than I helped her, and that's what I regret more than anything.
But I there's nothing I wouldn't do for her. I would lie, and threaten, and blackmail whoever I need to a million times over if it would help her in any way. Nothing is too much, too extreme, too low for the people I love. In some situations, maybe that's reckless, or overzealous, or downright dangerous. In others, maybe that's not always a bad thing. But that is me.
All me.
~ 🖤 ~
"What are you doing?"
My mom and I say the line in unison, freezing in place when we see each other. It's 9:00PM, and, while she's dressed to the nines in a black dress and heels, I'm standing in the messy kitchen halfway through the Bennetts' Tuscan gnocchi recipe.
"Making a dish that probably has too many carbs to be in the same room as you," I answer after the silence, dropping an eyebrow at her decadent outfit. "What about you? Party or date?"
Her dress already tells me the answer—form-fitting satin with a plunging neckline and a thigh slit—but I wait for her to confirm it anyway. She tips her head to the side as she approaches the kitchen, obviously knowing that I know, but she obliges me anyway with a small smile on maroon lips.
"...Date."
I give an amused "hm" as I start to remove the cooked gnocchi from the boiling water, shaking my head. My mom's dating experiences have never received judgment from me—they've just been a fact of my life for as long as I can remember. She used to hide the details when I was younger, but, by the time I got too old for the secrecy, I already had my own revolving door of women to match hers.
"Well you look pretty," I murmur, even though she doesn't need me to tell her. "Black and maroon are our colors, after all."
"You look pretty, too. You always do." She finally reaches me, hands lifting to run through my hair and bring my forehead to her lips for an affectionate kiss. "Ana styled your hair today, right? You already look more like yourself."
Her hands pat my cheeks twice before she lets go, and I blow a strand of hair out of my face before returning to my gnocchi.
"Great."
Her amber eyes narrow for just a moment, sensors obviously picking up an anomaly, but she just drags her acrylic nails across the marble counter before walking around it to sit at the bar. I don't know how to explain it, but the look on her face—the flutter of her heavy eyelashes, the slight lift of her nose—is a clear sign that she's about to start digging. So I ask a question of my own instead.
"Who are you going out with? I need to run my background check."
A quirk of her lips—she's onto me.
"Vanessa Tran. You may already know her."
"Model?"
"Beauty queen." Ma stretches, face scrunching, before adjusting the pieces of hair she intentionally left out of her updo. "She was Miss New York when we were both in our twenties—back when I was still with Victoria's Secret. But she's a real estate agent now; you met her when she sold us this condo."
"Ah."
She doesn't ring a bell to me, but, to be fair, we did move into our current place almost ten years ago. Besides, chances are I'll never hear about her again after the next few weeks; I only have so much room in my memory for names and backstories.
"So...the alumni brunch is tomorrow," Ma announces after a pause, and, when I look up from draining my gnocchi, she's tracing the grey lines on the white countertop. "Are you going?"
"Is that code for 'I think you should go?'"
I lower my chin, unimpressed at her lack of subtlety, so she chuckles in the "you caught me" way that she tends to.
"Maybe, but it's tradition. And you are alumni, after all—no matter how fresh."
My old high school hosts an alumni brunch each June after graduation, a tradition that Jordan and I skipped after burning off to the Hamptons the day after we walked across the stage. It's the last thing I need to do when I'm so stressed out about Lily—surround myself with people I don't really like and discuss topics I don't really give a damn about over quiche and mimosas.
"Frankly, I'd love it if I never saw most of those people again." I pick up a chopping knife, going to town on the red onion, basil, and fresh spinach. "It's not exactly a highlight of my life that I'm keen on reliving."
"But all your old friends will be there. The whole Cabinet, I bet." Her voice is sing-songy, obviously wheedling as she tips her head to better see my face while I chop. "...When's the last time you talked to Jordan?"
And the bloodhound starts sniffing.
"Today, actually." I gather the cherry tomatoes on the cutting board, my first slice making a satisfying "chop" that resonates through my pause. "Nothing to see here."
"...Right. And is that why I haven't heard you talk to—or even about—Lily since you've been home? Because there's nothing to see here?"
I freeze, eyes flicking up to her as the knife stops moving.
"Who are you, the cops?"
"Soy tu mamá." She leans forward on her elbows, her black hair absorbing the warm kitchen light as it shines down on her. "And I hate to play the mom card, I really do, but you've made it plenty clear that I have to investigate things on my own if I want to know about them."
"The last time you 'pulled the mom card,' I was involuntarily hospitalized at a psych ward for a month."
Chop.
An expression of genuine hurt crosses her perfect features, but, like a ripple, it's quickly replaced by resolve.
"Do you think that was easy for me, Ale?" Her words are so quiet that I can barely hear them. "I wish there was another route I could've taken, but there's no world in which I'd sit back and watch you destroy your life instead of doing something—anything—to stop it. So forgive me for being cautious now."
"I'm not destroying my life. Not again. And I'm sorry for throwing that at you; I just..." I inhale deeply, knife slowing until it finally comes to a stop. "Fucking my life up—yeah, I know how to do that. Fucking up a relationship—I know how to do that, too. But handling the consequences? Finding out why I did what I did and fixing it instead of running away?"
I blow a raspberry to stop my face from falling.
"If you want me to, I'll stay in this spot until you're done talking about it," Ma says softly, even as I stare at the cutting board. "I don't have a lot of advice to offer when it comes to stable relationships, but...I do know you better than I know anything else in this world."
"It's nothing, really." I keep avoiding eye contact, shuffling halves of the cherry tomatoes around the cutting board. "I don't want you to miss your date."
"Don't be ridiculous, mi amor. Vanessa may be my dream girl, but you're my baby."
She draws out both syllables of the "baby," closing her eyes as she rests her cheeks in her hands, and I scoff in embarrassment.
"Your dream girl? Sounds serious."
"It's...getting to be that way." She finally takes her face out of her hands, folding her arms on the counter. "Which is why I know how you feel. Now what's up?"
I take out a pan and place it on the stove, firing up the burner before I add the olive oil and diced onion.
"I made a mistake before Lily and I even started dating, and now it's snowballed into this huge deal in a way I never expected." I glance up at my mom, left hand sautéing the onion. "Don't get mad, or give me that disappointed face, but I got into some shady business with one of our professors and ended up blackmailing her so she'd pass Lily in a subject she should've failed. But to be fair, she started it. I just finished it."
"Okay...we'll put a pin in that last statement and discuss that situation another day." Ma pinches her fingers together and pierces the air with them, acting out her sentence. "But, first and foremost, why would you do something like that at all?"
I open and close my mouth, exhaling through my nose. I can almost feel what I felt in the middle of the autumn quarter: the euphoria of being with Lily, and the horror of possibly losing her. The helplessness of watching her burn out. The pure...dissonance of seeing her working like a machine just for her grades to disagree with her effort and discipline. I admire her more than anything, and I couldn't stand her not seeing herself the same way.
"Because I thought she deserved the outcome she got, no matter what had to be done to get it. I didn't hide the truth because I thought she couldn't handle it; I hid the truth because I thought she deserved better than it. She deserved to think that she did it herself."
My mom makes a soft noise in concession, her gentle but curious voice coming back to me.
"If you did it with good intentions and got what you wanted, then where did you go wrong?"
"I went wrong when I did it in the first place," I mutter, sighing. "We didn't know it back then, but Lily was struggling because she was already brain damaged. And I...let her think getting that grade in calculus was her victory. Just for her to find out that that one little win was never hers, either. Losing that validation made her...question things, to say the least."
I pause, images of her sitting at the dinner table with that blank expression floating through my head.
"It made her question me, too—what I thought of her if I was willing to do that and then hide the truth about it. I thought what I did showed my loyalty, how much I thought she deserved, but she didn't take it that way. To her, it showed her that...that I thought of her as this helpless girl that couldn't do anything on her own. I think she took that to heart, especially after she's had such a hard year. Especially after the relationship she had before I came along."
My eyes burn, and it's not the onion.
"I feel like I duped her, Mamí. Lily didn't fall in love with the Alejandro that would do that." I curl my right pointer finger, pretending to brush a stray lash from my eye so I can chase away the moisture. "But what if the Alejandro that wouldn't never existed in the first place?"
My mom stays quiet for a long, long time, gaze pointed at the fresh flowers sitting on the counter—lilies, of course. When her eyes turn to mine, however, I get a strange feeling of deja vu...like looking at myself in the mirror.
"Who exactly is the Alejandro that wouldn't?"
Her query is short, but that doesn't mean it's easy to answer. I look away, shuffling around in the sautéing onions a little more vigorously.
"What kind of question is that?"
"One that you should be able to answer if you're so concerned about not being him."
She turns her head slightly, heavy diamond earrings sparkling in the light. Waiting on an answer. But, to my own confusion, I don't have one. I mean...how could I, being asked on the spot like that?
I've idolized this idea of a perfect Alejandro since I've had the stability to start healing from my illness, using him as my light at the end of the tunnel in a darkness that once seemed never ending. I guess I don't really know who he is, but I certainly know who he isn't. He isn't careless with others, or liable to spin out of control because he's bored, or a danger to himself and others. I guess I could say that he's who Lily thought I was—before she knew the truth, anyway.
But I just add the spinach to the pan.
"I thought so." Ma sounds more hurt than I am at my lack of a response. "Ale...do you want to know what I really think?"
"Can't be any worse than what I think you think," I answer, stirring the spinach, and she nods slowly in acknowledgement.
"I don't think there are two separate Alejandros at all, mi amor. You may be different versions of yourself at different points in your life, but messing up doesn't mean you're a bad person, or even that you regressed back into a version of yourself that you've been trying to escape. It means you're growing, learning...no one does that without falling a few times."
"Yeah...yeah, you're probably right."
I blink my eyes a few times, silently thanking the woman in front of me for giving me such long, tear-absorbing lashes. She looks like an all-knowing deity, sitting like that—one arm propped on the counter and the other upturned as she absentmindedly connects her thumb nail to each of her fingers. Even after a lifetime of seeing her on runways, magazine covers, and ad campaigns, being around my mom so much makes me forget how much of a presence she is. Her eyes catch mine despite my focus on the sauté, twinkling in victory.
"And, no matter what's going on with you and Jordan, I'm sure that applies to him too."
When I don't answer, just giving her a "really" face in response, she stands, checks her hair in her phone camera, and heads for the elevator. But that doesn't mean she's done talking.
"I laid out an outfit for you to wear to brunch tomorrow—Armani sent you a grey suit jacket that would be adorable with a white button-up and black slacks. And, if you must wear jewelry, make it silver!"
"Over my dead body!" I reply to her last comment, raising my voice to be heard even though I can't be bothered to argue with brunch anymore. "And don't stay out too late!"
Ma pauses as the elevator doors open, stepping in and then sticking her head out to blow me a kiss.
"Don't sleep in too late!"