The relationship I have with Lidia isn’t the kind you see in movies or maybe have with your own friends. We love each other to death, but we don’t go around talking about it. It’s understood between us. And words can sometimes be awkward, even when you’ve known someone for eight years. But today I have to say more.
I prop up a framed picture of Lidia and Christian that was tipped over. “Christian has got to be crazy proud of you, you know. You’re Penny’s shot at happiness in a world that makes cheap promises and has no guarantees and doesn’t always reward those who never did wrong. It’s like, the world will just as easily screw with a good person as it will a not-so-good one, but you devote your days to someone else selflessly anyway. Not everyone is programmed like you.”
Lidia stops sweeping. “Mateo, where is this random flattery coming from? What’s going on?”
I carry a bottle of juice over to the sink. “Everything’s okay.” And everything will be okay. She’ll be okay. “I should probably head out in a bit. I’m tired.”
I’m not lying.
Lidia’s eyes twitch. “Before you go, could you help me with a couple more chores?”
We move silently through the living room. She scrubs oatmeal off a pillow, and I dust her air conditioner. She collects cups, and I arrange all of Penny’s shoes at the door. She folds laundry, peeking over at me, while I break down some diaper boxes. “Could you take out the garbage?” she asks, her voice cracking a little. “Then I need help assembling that little baby bookcase you and your dad got Penny.”
“Okay.”
I think she’s catching on.
I place the envelope of cash on the kitchen counter when she leaves the room.
Even as I grab the trash bag out of the bin, I know I won’t be able to return. I step out into the hallway and throw the bag down the chute. If I go back in, I’ll never leave. And if I don’t leave, I’ll die in that apartment, possibly in front of Penny, and that’s not how I want to be remembered—Rufus’s approach is really smart and thoughtful.
I pull out my phone and block Lidia’s number so she can’t call or text me to come back.
I feel nauseous and a little dizzy, slowly making my way back downstairs, hoping Lidia understands, and hating myself so much I race down the stairs faster and faster. . . .
RUFUS
6:48 a.m.
Who put down ten dollars I’d find myself on Instagram on my End Day? Because you’re now ten dollars richer.
The Plutos still haven’t responded to a single text or phone call. I’m not freaking out too hard because they’re not Deckers, but damn, could someone at least let me know if the cops are still on my ass or not? My money’s on everyone being passed out. I’d nap too if you put a bed in front of me. A chair with armrests would work as well. Definitely not this lobby bench that could seat two people max. I’m not about to rest fetus-position style, that’s not me.
I’m scrolling through Instagram, expecting to find a new post from Malcolm’s account （@manthony012）， but there’s been nothing since nine hours ago when he uploaded that unfiltered photo of a Coca-Cola bottle with his name on it. He’s Team Pepsi in the world war of Pepsi versus Coke, but he was so happy seeing his name in that bodega fridge that he couldn’t resist. The caffeine only got him more hype before the fight.
I shouldn’t call that thing with Peck a fight. Peck couldn’t even get a swing on me with the way I pinned him.
I’m texting Aimee an apology, even though I only half-mean it because her little shit boyfriend unleashed the cops on me at my own damn funeral, when Mateo comes running down the stairs at a dangerous speed. He’s bulleting to the front door and I catch up with him. His eyes are red and he’s breathing hard, like he’s fighting back a serious cry.
“You good?” He’s not, that was stupid to ask.
“No.” Mateo pushes the lobby door open. “Let’s go before Lidia chases me down.”
I’m eager to get a move on too, believe me, but his silent mode isn’t gonna fly with me. I wheel my bike alongside him. “Come on, get whatever it is off your chest. Don’t carry this around all day.”
“I don’t have all day!” Mateo shouts, like someone finally pissed off he’s dying at eighteen. Turns out there’s some fire in him. He stops at the curb and sits down, straight reckless, probably waiting for a car to knock him out of his misery.
Down goes my bike’s kickstand, up goes Mateo as I slide my arms under his and pick him up. We move away from the curb and lean against the wall and he’s shaking, like he really doesn’t wanna be out here, and when he slides down to the ground, I go with him. Mateo takes off his glasses and rests his forehead on his knees.