Page 140 of The True Garza

Brook clears her throat as she approaches the table. “What’s for dinner?”

“Cauliflower au gratin, roasted potatoes and carrots, roasted beef tenderloin, and buttered corn on the cob.”

Brook sighs dreamily as she pulls out a chair and sits. “If you weren’t already obsessed with my ugly sister, I’d ask you to marry me.”

“And he’d run faster than Usain Bolt,” I tell her.

Ignoring us both, he grabs a beer from the fridge, twists off the cap, and leans back against the kitchen island.

“You’re not eating?” I ask him.

“Not hungry. Eat up.”

Why is your voice so dead and your eyes so empty? Stop hiding from me, dammit.

“Heal slower, Lonny,” Brook says around a mouthful of food, “so we can have more home-cooked meals like this.” She stuffs more food in. “Like,oh my god,this is so good.”

“I’d marry you, Brook,” True says after a while, though his narrowed stare is fixed on me and not her. “You seem to have a zest and appreciation for life and all it has to offer, so at least I know you won’t leave me a widower.”

Brook looks from him to me, from me to him, and then to me again, before she ducks her head and shovels more food into her mouth. “Unfortunately, I don’t do love triangles.”

Her phone rings then. She picks it up to show me the screen. Uncle Walter. When I nod, she answers and puts it on speaker. And for the next fourteen minutes, we listen to him do what he does. Lecture and dictate.

He reminds Brook that she isn’t getting any younger and needs to settle down. Preferably with a “man of the law.” With me, he pleaded that I make amends with my mother. At some point, Brook hit the mute button, and we had our own mocking conversation while he prattled on.

After dinner, Brook leaves for “the bathroom” but doesn’t return—her way of avoiding doing the dishes.

I get up and hop over to where True is loading the dishwasher. “Let me help.”

“No.” He lets out a frustrated sound, then turns andagainlifts me up and deposits me on top of the counter. “Keep quiet.”

I’m not complaining, though. If lifting me around is the only way he’ll touch me these days, I’ll take it.

“I love you,” I tell his back.

“Fuck off.”

“I love you, I love you, I love you,” I say. “What are you gonna do, run again? Go on. Run, coward.”

Ignoring me, he finishes loading the dishwasher, then cleans the stove, sweeps the kitchen floor, and wipes down the counters with disinfectant. He’s such perfect husband material and doesn’t even realize it.

When he’s all done, he lifts me down and takes me back to my chair, whispering in my ear, “You’re lucky you’re in a wheelchair.”

Sweet shivers rush down my spine. “My ass isn’t wounded. You can still take me over your knee….” I grip his bicep. “I deserve to be punished for breaking the rules and falling in love with you, don’t you think?”

His expression remains impassive, but there’s a crack in his voice when he says, “Good night, London.”

He peels my fingers off his arm. And, a minute later, there’s the beep of the alarm followed by the sound of the door with his departure.

Later that night, I awake to the feel of my bed dipping and warmth enveloping my body as a strong, protective arm drapes across me.

Without needing to open my eyes, I snuggle into the warmth, and whisper, “I still love you.”

He doesn’t respond.

But one day…one day, he will.

~