Mangoes

Chapter 3

Luke’s house sports the last Trump sign in the city. It’s faded from the sun and one of its legs is bent from the time someone ripped it out of the ground. We’ve had arguments about it, but he insists that he can’t take it down because of his mom. I don’t see her much. We’ve only spoken once, the first time I came over, but it was just pleasantries. Luke had warned me that she wouldn’t like me being around, but some part of me believed that I could change her mind. Now, not so much. We’ve been dating for six months and every time I come to his place, I feel less and less sympathetic.

I text Luke from my car when I arrive and he peeks out the front door. I never knock. He waves at me with a grin as I get out of the car and walk up his driveway. I follow him to his room and sit down on his bed. The satin bedsheets always feel so uncomfortable. I don’t let them touch my bare skin. 

“What happened?” Luke asks as he sits down on a tattered leather desk chair. He spins slightly, side to side, eyes trained intently on mine. I look away. Direct eye contact often feels like staring directly into a very bright light.

“I was sick.” Luke doesn’t know about my myriad visits to the psych ward. 

“Why didn’t you text me?”

“Why didn’t you text me?” 

“I did, but I figured something was wrong and I wanted to give you space. Honestly, I thought you had ghosted me. But then I get this weird cryptic message about soulmates and I have no idea what to think. Hey, are you okay?” 

I realize that my face has scrunched into a pained expression. Luke sits on the bed next to me. I’m bigger than he is, so the slope of the mattress pulls him closer. I think of the demonstration of a bowling ball and a tennis ball on a flexible sheet used to demonstrate gravity. He leans into my orbit and places his head on my shoulder. Tears well in my eyes and I rest my head on his. We fall backwards onto the bed and I wrap myself around him. I wipe my runny nose on my sleeve and bury my face in his neck. We lie there for a time, silent, melting into each other as the familiarity of his touch makes my brain surge with endorphins. He strokes my hair, and before long I feel the heaviness of sleep begin to take hold. 

Someone knocks on Luke’s door. I squeeze him tighter for a second and then let go. He stands up and opens the door. From this angle I see just a sliver of his mom. She glances at me and then asks Luke a question I can’t parse. He replies with a nod and a quick, “Yeah, no worries.” He shuts the door and turns back to me. 

“Let’s go get something to eat. My mom’s having friends over and she doesn’t want me around for the next couple of hours. Wanna go to Beni’s?”

***

I slip into the passenger’s seat of Luke’s car and tilt all of the dashboard fans away from myself. Luke always has his car’s fans on full blast. I listen to him talk about his new favorite video game character. I tell him about Mason’s mango tree. Luke’s expression shifts when I mention Mason, though I’m not sure what it means. We pull into a parking structure off Main. Luke grabs a ticket from the machine and stuffs it in his pocket, then parks in a spot on the second level. We get out and descend the stairs into the street. It’s only a couple minutes of walking, but I get winded. I didn’t move much in the hospital, just laid in bed all day except to go to group therapy. I nearly slip on a patch of slush just outside the restaurant, but catch the door handle and steady myself. We go inside and sit down at a spot near the back. I face the door, like always. We’re right next to the open kitchen and the clanging of utensils crowds out our attempts at conversation. I like the noise. It gives me something to listen to besides chewing.

Beni’s is our favorite spot in town. We’ve gone countless times because Italian is the only cuisine Luke and I both like. I would prefer Indian or Mediterranean; Luke likes classic diner food and Asian fusion. This is our compromise, the sliver that is our Venn diagram. Spanning the wall opposite the door is a mural of workers picking grapes in a Sicilian vineyard. A plume of fire bursts from one of the stoves in the kitchen, illuminating the art for a moment before dying down. Luke shouts over the din from the kitchen, “Bee, honestly, where do you see this going?” 

Before I can muster a response the server drops off two menus and two sets of utensils. “What would you guys like to drink?” 

Still stunned by Luke's question, I just manage to stumble through the words, “Diet Coke.” Luke orders hot water with lemon. When the server moves on to her next table, I look back at Luke, who is rolling his napkin into a tight ball. “I don’t know, same place any relationship goes. Why do you ask?”

“It’s just, I’ve been thinking. When I thought you had ghosted me I went through this rollercoaster of emotions. I don’t want to be treated like that. Like, I know you were sick but were you too sick to send a single text?”

It’s not like I hadn’t considered his feelings. By the time I had regained some connection to reality in the hospital, I knew I had to contact Luke somehow. I should have asked my mom to text him, but I don’t know his number and there’s no way I was giving my parents the password to my phone. I figured I would address the situation once I was better. 

“I’m sorry. I really don’t know why I didn’t text. I’m sorry.” 

“Bee, if you’re going to do this the next time you’re sick, I don’t think I can handle that. It feels like you didn’t care enough to talk to me. I’m supposed to be there for you when you’re going through stuff, but you have to let me in. I don’t know if you’re as invested in this relationship as I am.”

The server returns with our drinks, a welcome distraction. Neither of us has picked up a menu, but we tell her we’re ready to order. I get chicken parmesan, same as always. Luke gets spaghetti with pesto, same as always. The server takes our order to the kitchen and I stick a straw into my drink. I stir, ice clinking against the glass. Anything to stall what’s coming next. 

“Honestly, I don’t know,” I say. “Everything you’re saying makes sense. If I were as invested as you are, I would have texted. Since I didn’t, that means I must not be.”

“Spoken like a true mathematician.” Luke gives a sad-eyed smile, stretching back in his seat. “I was anticipating this. I think it’s best we parted ways.” 

We eat our food quietly. He pays for mine, though I insist I want to. He drives me back to his place. He plays NPR on the radio and we listen to a story about a man who was a humanitarian aid worker in the Sudanese civil war. We say goodbye and hug one last time. I drive home and don’t look back.

***

I get home just as the sky begins to darken. Mom is already there. She’s unpacking groceries and making soup in the only pot I own. She’s watching some game show on her phone. I give her a quick hug as I walk through the kitchen and living room, where my mom has set up a bed on the couch, to my bedroom. The walls in most of my apartment are bare, save for a whiteboard and some conference posters. My bedroom, however, is covered in decorations. I hung up fake plastic vines, something I’ve done in every place I’ve lived since high school. Album covers on printer paper line the top of the walls, along with family photos and botanical posters. I have a map of the world above my bookshelf. Before I transitioned, I wanted to color in the countries I visited, filling the map as I traveled the globe. Now, I’m afraid to go to swing states. Traveling most of the world is off the table. I sit down on my bed, a mattress and boxspring without a frame. I reach into my pocket and pull out the little brown pill I stole from Adi. I stare at it, rolling it between my fingers. I may not have lost a dog today, but I lost something important to me. I squeeze it a bit and find that the capsule has some give. I stand up, lock my door, and swallow it dry.