Chapter 18 ARTAN #2
The inside of the house is a mess. Moving boxes stacked against walls, some opened and half-unpacked, others still sealed.
Dishes piled in the sink, the smell of old food faint but noticeable.
Clutter on every surface, the kind of chaos that suggests people living in a space, without making it home.
Nothing like what I imagine Lily would have tolerated when this was her house. She keeps Luan's apartment spotless, everything in its place, surfaces clean and organized. This disorder would drive her crazy.
I see her face tighten slightly as she takes in the scene. See her eyes move from the dishes to the boxes to the general disarray.
Henry doesn't offer us seats. Doesn't offer drinks or any of the normal hospitality someone might extend to guests. Just stands there in the middle of the cluttered living room, hands shoved in his pockets, looking uncomfortable and vaguely hostile.
The silence stretches. Awkward. Tense.
Lily breaks it, stepping forward with the bags extended like an offering. "You mentioned things were expensive. So I got some essentials for the baby. Diapers and wipes will be delivered regularly by a subscription service, but I thought you might need bottles and sheets and clothes."
Henry's expression darkens immediately, anger flashing across his face before he can control it. "We prefer to choose things ourselves. If you wanted to help, you should've just given us money."
The words come out sharp. Accusatory. Like she's done something wrong by caring, by trying to help in the way that felt safest to her.
Lily's face goes red, embarrassment and hurt warring for dominance. "I'm sorry. I just thought—"
"You thought wrong."
The dismissal is brutal. Casual. Like her effort means nothing, like her care is an inconvenience rather than a gift.
My hands curl into fists automatically. I have to consciously force them to relax, to not reach for this man who just made Lily feel small in the house that used to be hers.
A woman enters from the back hallway. Softer features. The kind of face that suggests she might actually possess empathy.
"Henry, don't be rude," she says, her voice carrying gentle reproach. Then to Lily, smile apologetic and genuine, "I'm Sarah. It's so nice to finally meet you. Henry talks about you all the time."
She looks at the bags Lily's still holding, then back at her face, reading the situation with quick intelligence. "I'm sure Lily kept the receipts if we want to exchange anything for different colors or sizes."
"Yes," Lily says quickly, too quickly, relief flooding her voice. She fumbles in her purse with shaking hands, pulls out the receipts and extends them like a peace offering.
Sarah takes them with a warm smile. "This is very thoughtful. Really. Thank you." She touches her still flat stomach. "And I'm sorry about the mess. We're still settling in and morning sickness has been absolutely brutal. I was actually napping when you rang the bell."
"I'm so sorry we woke you," Lily says, already backing toward the door, already retreating. "We should go. Let you rest."
She's moving before Sarah can respond, before Henry can say anything else hurtful, before the situation can get any more uncomfortable.
I follow her out, the door closing behind us with soft finality.
Outside, the afternoon sun feels too bright after the dim interior. Lily walks quickly to the car, her shoulders rigid, her face carefully blank in that way that means she's holding everything in by sheer force of will.
All the joy from the store is gone. Erased. Replaced by hurt and embarrassment and the particular kind of pain that comes from being rejected by family in the place that used to be home.
I wait until we're both in the car, doors closed, privacy restored.
"Wanna go eat something?" The question comes out on impulse, driven by the need to fix this somehow, to restore that happiness I saw earlier. "We missed lunch."
She looks at me, surprise flickering across her face before settling into something grateful. "I could eat."
I drive us to Pilsen, weaving through traffic with the kind of automatic precision that comes from years of driving in this city.
The neighborhood transforms as we cross into the predominantly Mexican area, vibrant colors blooming on building facades, murals covering entire walls with explosions of art and culture and pride.
The taqueria I have in mind is small, family-owned, the kind of place you only know about if you live nearby or someone who loves you brings you there.
Bright yellow paint on the exterior. Hand-painted signs advertising specials.
A small outdoor area with mismatched tables and chairs, each one painted a different cheerful color.
We sit outside at a corner table, both of us positioning our chairs to face the street, our backs to the building.
Our legs touch under the small table, knees brushing, and neither of us moves away from the contact.
Lily's mood starts to shift as she reads the menu, her shoulders gradually relaxing, interest replacing the hurt in her eyes. I watch her face as she scans the options, seeing the exact moment when she decides what she wants, when that small spark of anticipation returns.
We order. Carnitas for her, the pork braised until it falls apart. Al pastor for me, marinated in chilies and pineapple. Extra lime. Extra cilantro.
The waitress brings our drinks. Horchata for Lily, Mexican Coke for me.
"I'm glad to see you smile again," I say, watching the way her lips curve up slightly as she sips her drink. "I was starting to miss your dimples."
She blushes, the color rising in her cheeks again but this time from pleasure rather than embarrassment. Her hand rises unconsciously to touch her face. "It's silly to be upset. Of course they want to choose their own things. Every parent wants that."
She pauses, looking down at the bright yellow table.
"I just wanted to make sure the baby has what it needs.
Essential things." Another pause, longer this time.
"And honestly, I was afraid if I gave Henry cash, he'd gamble it away.
At least with actual items, the baby gets what the baby needs. He can't bet away a onesie."
The admission costs her something. I can hear it in her voice, the guilt and fear and old resentment all tangled together.
"You did the right thing," I say, meaning every word. "That baby is lucky to have you as an aunt. You'll take care of them the same way you take care of everyone else. You'll be a great mother someday."
She looks down, suddenly shy, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth. "Thank you."
Then she looks up, meeting my eyes directly. "What about you? Do you think about being a father? You seem like you're always taking care of people too. Making sure everyone's okay. Making sure things run smoothly."
The question catches me completely off guard, hitting something I thought I'd buried years ago.
I think about how much to share. How honest to be. How much truth I can offer without revealing things I've never told anyone.
"There was a time I thought I'd have it all," I say finally, choosing my words with care. "Wife. Kids. The house with the white picket fence. The whole picture."
I pause, looking past her at the street, at people walking by living their ordinary lives. "But that was a foolish youth dream. It ended when she decided she wanted that dream with someone else and left."
The words taste bitter even fifteen years later.
"There's still time," Lily says gently, her voice soft with compassion. "You could still have that. You're not that old. How old are you?"
"Forty."
Her eyes widen in mock horror, her whole face transforming into exaggerated shock. "Oh! Well, I take that back. You're ancient."
I laugh. The sound startles out of me before I can control it. "Careful."
She grins, dimples flashing. "Decrepit. Practically one foot in the grave already."
"I can still take you over my knee," I warn, but I can't help smiling at the mischief dancing in her eyes.
"Promises, promises," she shoots back, then blushes furiously when she realizes what she just said.
The food arrives before I can respond, steaming plates of perfection.
We share everything, passing plates back and forth. My fork stealing carnitas from her plate. Her fingers reaching for my al pastor. Grease on our fingers. Lime juice sharp and bright on our tongues. The cilantro fresh and green and alive.
She's smiling again, her whole face lit up with simple pleasure. Just enjoying good food and good company and a moment of peace.
I can't hold back anymore.
Don't want to hold back anymore.
I reach across the small table, my hand finding the back of her neck, fingers sliding into her hair. Pull her toward me across the space that separates us.
Kiss her.
Her lips are soft. Warm. She tastes like lime and cilantro and horchata, sweet and bright and perfect. She opens for me immediately, no hesitation, her mouth welcoming mine.
My tongue slides against hers and she makes a small sound in the back of her throat that goes straight through me.
The kiss is long. Deep. Everything I've been holding back for weeks pouring into this single point of contact. All the want and need and desperate hope I've been trying to bury because men like me don't get things this good.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard. Her eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. Her lips are pink and slightly swollen.
"You had sauce," I say, my voice rough. "On the corner of your mouth. Wanted to make sure I got it all."
She's breathing hard too, chest rising and falling rapidly. "I don't think you got it all."
So I kiss her again.
This time she's laughing against my mouth, the sound vibrating between us. I'm laughing too, giddy in a way I haven't felt since I was young and stupid and believed happiness was something you could hold onto.
And for the first time in fifteen years, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, the dream didn't die completely after all.
Maybe it's just been waiting. Waiting for the right person. The right moment. The right reason to hope again.
Maybe it's been waiting for her.