Deep down, Nathan still believed Joe’s promise that things would change. That at some point, his family wouldn’t cringe at the mention of his name. Eventually, he would do something or become someone that would make all the grief he’d caused worth it. It was a thin hope, like wisps of smoke he’d stupidly tried to grasp.
“What do you need from us, Dad?” Joe’s hands rested awkwardly alongside his plate. His brother wasn’t used to being helpless.
“There are decisions to make, things I’ve been putting off—and I…” Beto faltered as he gathered his thoughts. “I need to know that you’ll be okay when I’m gone. That you’ll support each other as a family.”
Joe started firing off more questions, and the next few months unfolded in Nathan’s head like a movie. With Zara out of town, Joe would move from the guesthouse to his old bedroom to be closer to Beto, working even longer hours to make up for their father’s absence. Sofia would hover over Beto’s care, second-guessing his doctors to micromanage her grief. And Nathan would… wait until someone needed him.
As if on cue, Sofia moved to Beto’s side and muttered something about eating to keep up his strength. Beto gazed at her with a raw adoration that made Nathan’s eyes burn.
Maybe he shouldn’t wait to be useful. Maybe he could be a respite to his family, the person who listened when they needed to talk without judgment. He didn’t have an office job like Joe or a dozen charities depending on him like Sofia. He just had unencumbered time. Time he could use to be a shoulder they could lean on.
The wisps of hope that he could help them grew thick and weighty; all he had to do was hold on to them. Nathan stood and said, “I’m here. Like Joe said, tell me what you need.”
Beto’s expression curdled. “What I need is for your existence to have a point.”
Nathan jerked back. He folded his arms tight, as if he could stem the humiliation flooding his system. It was his own fault for thinking he could offer anything his father would want. Beto kept going, twisting the knife to ensure a hemorrhage. “Stop screwing around with your finger paints and be a goddamn Vasquez. I need you to be my son.”
After the first week of their deal, Rachel admitted to herself that she might have been overconfident about her ability to play nice with Matt for the cameras. On Monday, as they stood beside each other at a ribbon cutting for a newly accessible public playground, she could barely focus on the instructions his people whispered in her ear. “Wave at that donor. Now stand closer to Matt and hold his hand.” Rachel’s skin crawled the minute their fingers touched, and she jerked them away in full view of a dozen photographers. She’d thought she’d blown it until she saw that everyone was too busy laughing at Matt’s I was that lonely kid on the seesaw story to notice.
Once the press was gone, Matt pointedly asked everyone but her whether he should do tomorrow’s event alone. He was scheduled to sit piously in the front pew of a Black megachurch while the pastor spoke about the importance of voter registration. Hailey Dearwood, his communications director, told him it was a bad idea. “Think of the optics,” she said, and smiled at Rachel like it was their private joke.
Matt and Rachel never talked much about race when they started dating. They would sidestep hard conversations while bantering about the differences in their upbringing. But one night, a month into their relationship, Matt had been uncharacteristically quiet on the way home from one of their favorite restaurants.
“I’ve noticed something,” he said, and reached for her hand. “When we eat out together, they always ask whether we want one or two checks.”
Rachel nodded. She’d noticed, but hadn’t pointed it out because she assumed he’d call her paranoid. They were still in that murky place of caring for each other without knowing what that meant. The conversation he was hinting at was used to test the foundations of something permanent. Twentysomething Rachel would always default to the easier option, so instead of confirming his suspicions, she said, “I think that server was new.”
Matt gave her a side-eye. “It’s not just her. You haven’t noticed? It’s every time. ‘Is this one check? Are you two together?’”
“Yes, I’ve noticed,” she snapped. “What’s your point?”
“Why didn’t you say something? I’m over here thinking I’m paranoid, and you—” He sighed, like she’d put the world on his shoulders, and pulled the car over to the curb. By the time he killed the ignition, Rachel was furious. What gave him the right to give her attitude? He wasn’t owed her outrage. She wasn’t his racial conscience.