Twenty-Eight
“Show me what?” I asked for the third time since we’d left Gabriel’s room. For the third time, Ricky ignored me.
“Do you have all of your stuff?” he asked, his voice ragged.
I pulled my backpack higher up onto my back.
“Yes, but—”
“Okay,” he said. He looked at me askance, his expression still curiously blank. If it weren’t for the grip he had on my hand, I would have thought that he still hated me. I hadn’t gotten used to this boy, who was always smiling, looking so grave. But then again, his grandmother had forcibly sent him on this quest with me, not even a full hour after he helped deliver the worst news of her life. “We’re going for a drive.”
I started, giving him an incredulous look.
“Where?” I asked, trying to keep pace with his long strides.
His lips quirked just a little, and I warmed, gratified to finally see a peek of his playfulness. “It’s a surprise, okay? Just . . . go along with it for once,” he said.
I followed him up one flight of stairs to his car, piling into the passenger seat as he unlocked it. We threw our bags into the back seat in unison.
We drove out onto the highway mostly in silence, but it was a different silence than the one we’d endured over the last several days. Ricky kept his eyes on the road and one hand on the wheel, but the other reached for me, smoothing along my thigh, draped behind my headrest, gripping my hand when we stopped at red lights. An hour and a half ago, we had stood before his grandparents to tell them that his father was dying. The excitement I felt bubbling in my stomach felt reprehensible in light of that. And yet, I still felt it. What did that say about me, that the predominant feeling I had in this moment was relief?
“Is it too much to ask you to close your eyes?” Ricky said after he took an exit. I recognized it as the one to his apartment. Was he taking me home? Was he the surprise? I laughed the thought away—Abuela had some spice to her, but not “send your grandson away to dick down some girl” spice.
I glanced at him. He looked nervous all of a sudden, chewing at his inner cheek as he scanned the road in front of him. It was a better look than the anguish he’d worn before, but just as curious.
“Okay,” I said, closing my eyes. “You’ll tell me when to open them?”
Ricky made a noise in the affirmative. With my eyes closed, I could focus on the rest of my senses; the smell of Ricky’s car, lemon, judging by the small tree I’d noted hanging from his mirror, the rushing sound of traffic, the squeeze of his fingers in mine. The radio was playing “Untitled” by D’Angelo, and so I hummed along, remembering how I’d flitted around my room in elementary school, belting this song at top volume and pretending to be in love.*
“Almost there,” he declared after a moment, as the car stalled to a stop. I moved to open my car door, and he sighed, exasperated. “Stop! You’ll run into traffic. Come on. I’ll help you.”
If Ricky hadn’t just lost his father, I might have cheated a little bit. As it was, I decided to go along with it, letting him guide me blindly down a sidewalk with my arm hooked through his. After only a few meters, we stopped. I heard the creak of a gate opening, and the smooth sidewalk suddenly became mulchy and soft. Even in the crisp fall, the scent of nature was unmistakable.
Suddenly, I knew exactly where we were.
“Okay,” Ricky said, letting go of my arm. “You can open them now.”
I opened my eyes and looked up.
The woman in the mural was looking down, as though gazing at the garden below her. The corners of her ample lips were turned up in a subtle smile, her head resting on one shoulder and giving a decadent view of her swanlike neck. She was surrounded by clusters of peace lilies, every one of them turned to face her in reverence. Her cropped curls were artfully rendered, and her dark brown skin was even and bright. She was beautiful.
She was . . . me?
Stunned, I stumbled closer to the wall with my head tilted toward the sky. The sounds of our surroundings were lost to me; all I could hear was the pounding of my heart, beating away like a bass drum. No way. It was impossible. When had he—
“Do you like it?” Ricky said quietly from behind me.
“Like it?” I croaked. “Ricky . . .” You painted my face on a wall.
I finally tore my gaze away from the mural to look at Ricky. My trembling hands came up to my mouth, trying to hold back words that were stuck in my throat anyway. Through watery eyes, I took him in. His proud but shy smile. His bright eyes, reflective in the morning sun. The bob of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed nervously, his long, dark hair that, honestly, had grown on me—