Page 59

8:32 p.m.

We’re at the end of the pier, watching the sun set beyond the dark ocean.

“You’re a really calming presence. Like these waves,” Paz says.

“I do my best.”

It’s great that Paz sees me this way, but it takes a lot of work to maintain this calm composure, especially since the night

I made Death-Cast calls. At any given moment I’m trying to stay afloat from a flood of memories that threaten to drown me.

It’s so hard to focus on my life knowing everything I know and shouldn’t know and everything I’ve done and shouldn’t have

done. I’ve been able to anchor myself by learning as much as I can about the world to trick my brain into focusing on the

random trivia I’ve cataloged instead of my many traumas. The oldest and darkest of those traumatic incidents keeps creeping

in tonight.

Paz turns away from the ocean and stares at me. “I like your earring.”

I’m grateful to have something else to think about. “It was a coming-out gift from my father,” I say, running my finger up and down the inch-long crystal that I’ve worn since June 10, 2016. “My parents already knew without me telling them, but I originally only came out to my mother because I was scared of disappointing my father like every other time I’ve gone against his vision. I needed to protect my coming-out experience to have at least one good memory. Thankfully I was wrong about my father. He was hard on himself for not making me comfortable enough to tell him earlier and promised to be better. That night we were all at dinner, and I expressed wanting to explore some new looks like painting my nails, getting my ears pierced, maybe trying on a dress to see if any of it felt right. The next morning, I woke up to nail polish, an old dress of my mother’s, and this earring, all personally selected by my father with a note saying he loves me.”

Paz looks like he might cry. “That’s really beautiful.”

“It really is. It makes me regret not trusting him.”

Paz reaches for my earring, and I lean in, allowing him to run his finger up and down the crystal like I did; his fingertip

brushes my earlobe and sends a shiver down my spine. “I bet Joaquin worked harder to show his acceptance because you didn’t

open up right away.”

“He did. It’s especially touching when you consider that my father grew up at a time where most men wouldn’t have been caught

dead wearing a single earring if they didn’t want people thinking they were gay since that was more of an insult back then.

I like to think of this earring as a personal invitation from my father to rebel.”

I’m sure Pa wishes I would rebel less these days.

“I think my dad would’ve tried to lock me in the closet,” Paz says. An intrusive thought slips in that I’m grateful Frankie Dario is dead before he could’ve tormented Paz for who he loves. “I honestly think if my dad were still alive, he would’ve bought into enough conspiracies that he would’ve become a Death Guarder.”

I stop myself from flinching at the memory of the assassination attempt and shift my attention to the many conversations I’ve

had with my parents about Death Guarders. We of course never villainize any pro-naturalist for not choosing Death-Cast, and

we do our best to not believe every Death Guarder is villainous too. That cult is mostly made up of people who are susceptible

to the many lies told about Death-Cast. There are also followers who have genuine reasons to hate us, even if Death-Cast’s

intentions have only ever been to make the world better.

It’s this thinking that reminds me that people have dimensions. My father gave me that beautiful memory and has also given

me one of my very worst. Maybe Frankie Dario had another layer to him too.

“Do you have any happy memories of your father?” I ask.

Paz’s face goes from neutral to angry.

“I said happy memory. You look like you want to fight someone.”

“Yeah, I wanna fight my dad, but I...”

But Paz already fought Frankie. And he both won and lost.

It was too soon to ask Paz to tell me something good about his father. If I’m not giving Paz the complete Rosa Encyclopedia, it’s only fair there will be some pages missing in the Paz Dario Encyclopedia too. I apologize for bringing this up.

“No, you’re fine. I was remembering the time where he took me to the movies to see Marley & Me , which I thought was gonna be fun because—”

I gasp. “Because the trailer makes it look like a comedy?”

“Yes! Nowhere in that trailer do they even hint at that dog dying. I obviously left the theater crying, and instead of my

dad telling me to man up or something, he carried me home. He could’ve easily passed me over to my mom when we got back, but

he held me until I stopped crying. It’s so stupid to give him points for that, or even think about this as a happy memory,

but I remember feeling so safe with him... and I’m angry that he didn’t give me more memories like that.” Paz rocks back

and forth as tears start spilling. “Maybe if my dad had made me feel safer then I wouldn’t have shot... I would’ve thought

twice... I, I—”

I pull Paz into a hug, and he cries into my neck. “You deserved better.”

“Or I got what I deserved,” Paz wails.

Holding Paz as he grieves the life he truly deserved is making me die inside.