Haley went to the trash can by the sink and lifted the lid. “There’s nothing in the trash, Shy.”
I leaned against the wall and didn’t say anything.
“I’m gonna take a shower.” She pointed toward the fridge. “And then we’re gonna talk.”
“About what?”
“Everything,” Haley answered. “In the meantime, eat the muffins.” Then she turned and headed off toward the master bathroom.
Soon as I heard the door click shut behind her, I went to the fridge and stared at the plate of muffins. I peeled back the cellophane she’d used to cover them and took one out and smelled it. They were still warm. Saliva pooled around my tongue. My nutrient-starved brain felt swollen and slow.
I needed to eat.
Badly.
But I couldn’t.
Not with Haley still in the apartment. She couldn’t know how hungry I was. Because if she did, she’d know how different our lives were. And she’d probably stop coming down here to use the shower.
I put the muffin back and closed the fridge and went to the couch and pretended to read. When Haley came out of the bathroom this time—hair damp, face freshly made up—she went directly into the kitchen and opened the fridge.
“What’s wrong with you?” she said on her way back into Mike’s living room. “Seriously, Shy.”
“Nothing’s wrong with me,” I answered in an even tone.
She stared at me for several long seconds. Then she threw her hands in the air and let herself out the front door.
Once I was sure she wasn’t going to come barging back in, I flung open the fridge door and took out the plate of muffins and sat on the floor and shoved the entire first one into my mouth, and I chewed and chewed and chewed, while at the same time grabbing the next one, getting ready to shove that one into my mouth, too.
And I began to sob.
I don’t even know why.
But it was the first time I’d felt tears on my cheeks since the day of my mom’s funeral. And they felt surprisingly good. They felt alive. Mostly because they reminded me of my mom, I think. And because it felt so amazing to fill my stomach.
I stayed there on the floor like that for a long, long time.
Eating and crying.
Crying and eating.
Trying not to think about anything but Haley’s muffins.
What Would It Be Like?
Maybe I’m more like my old man than I realize.
Remember how I said my sis has to sometimes drag him to the dinner table? That’s pretty much what Haley had to do for me tonight.
She came down at around seven, but she wasn’t looking to use the shower. She grabbed me by the wrist, without saying a word, and led me out of Mike’s place, onto the elevator, then into her amazing-smelling apartment where she sat me at her dining room table. “Stay,” she said, like I was some kind of German shepherd. Then she marched into her kitchen and pulled open her oven door.
I sat there, looking at my hands and thinking about back home.
Christmas Eve is always better than Christmas for us Espinozas. All the cousins and aunties and uncles show up at my grandma’s, and the whole place smells like tortillas and chile colorado, and Auntie Cecilia brings in heaping plates of sweet tamales, and my uncle Guillermo sneaks us hits off the Patrón bottle he always dresses up in Christmas wrapping paper (“A little present for my own self, esé!”). In the living room, all the men tell stories about work, while the women in the kitchen tell stories about the men. And the whole apartment is filled with nonstop laughter, even when one of the little ones knocks something over, a glass frame or crystal figurine, we all just laugh and laugh and laugh, even Grandma as she sweeps the glass shards into her ancient metal dust pan.
Home, man.
I missed that shit so much.
I missed them.
“There’s no way I’m going to let you starve down there on Christmas Eve,” Haley said, walking back into the dining room with a plate full of food. She set it down in front of me.
“I wasn’t starving,” I said, staring at her beautiful dinner.
She lowered her eyes at me. “Yes, you were, Shy.”
“Okay, maybe a little.”
Why was she doing all of this for me? I wondered. Because I’d loaned her Mike’s shower? If that was it, she was definitely getting the raw end of the deal. All I’d had to do is let her in the front door. Judging by what was on my plate, she’d busted her ass in the kitchen. She’d grilled some sort of white fish and made roasted potatoes and sourdough bread and these broccoli pieces with long stems I always forget the name of.
“You want a Pinot Gris or a Chardonnay?” she shouted from the kitchen.
“Are you talking about wine?” I called back.
She came out with a second plate of food and set it down across from me. “Of course I’m talking about wine. What else would I be talking about?”
“When it comes to that stuff,” I told her, squirming in my chair, “you’re gonna have to dumb it down a little. All I know is red or white.”
She stood there, staring at me. “Well, they’re both white. White goes with fish.”
“So, that settles it then,” I said. “We’ll go with the white.”
“I know, but—oh, forget it.” She went back into the kitchen and came back with a bottle of wine and poured our glasses full. “Cheers,” she said, holding up her glass.
“Salud,” I said, the way my old man always does.
We clinked glasses.
After the half dozen muffins I’d wolfed down for breakfast—that’s right, I ate every last one of those bastards—I was no longer desperate. But my entire body came alive when I started putting down Haley’s perfectly grilled fish. This was real food. With real nutritional value. I felt like I was turning from a floppy, stuffed bear into an actual human being.
The wine wasn’t hurting, either, and Haley was quick to refill our glasses.
“Oh, and don’t think you’re getting off the hook,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“The truth game,” she said. “Just because I didn’t take a shower tonight doesn’t mean we’re not sharing.”
“This dinner’s amazing,” I said, pointing at my half-empty plate.
“It’s just baked cod.” Haley paused for a few seconds before adding: “But thank you. I need to be better at taking compliments.”
“You go first this time.” I stabbed another piece of long-stemmed broccoli. I don’t know why, but I was excited to hear what Haley had to share. Maybe I was kind of getting into her corny game.