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The screen of the pantry distorts her already blurry vision. It looks like bars on a jail cell, leaving her trapped in a prison of her own making. She’s built walls around her so high and thick that even she can’t break them.
Nathan’s parents are yelling about something or another in the kitchen — its walls so white it’s borderline clinical. Their house always reminded her of a hospital.
And maybe that’s where she needs to be right now. The alcohol is churning in her stomach, and the oxygen feels like it’s rapidly leaking from her body like a sad, pinpricked balloon.
She can’t make out what they’re screaming about, her brain too overloaded to process any more information right now, but it doesn’t matter. The sound is all too familiar, and suddenly, she’s transported back to when she was 10. It was around that age when her parents started fighting. When she’d started hiding in her closet to muffle the noise.
She always jokes about it when it comes up, literally hiding in a closet while being bisexual. It’s always easier to defuse things with dark humor than face them head-on.
But the truth is, that’s where it all began. The anxiety attacks. The claustrophobia. The end of her life as she knew it where her family could pretend they were happy or at least happy enough not to blow everything up.
She has to get out of there. Now.
She shoves the pantry door aside and starts sprinting, through the kitchen then the foyer until she’s in the front yard. She’s not worried about being chased — no one’s ever followed her before.
She gasps, gulping down as much of the cool, fresh evening air as she can. She nearly collapses right there on their giant lawn — so enticingly green it’s a fuck you to the drought season they’re currently in. Its entire existence is a middle finger, and she can relate. She almost lays down on it, but she pushes herself to keep running. She knows the only place she has a shot in hell of breathing in is home.
And so she goes there — making her way to Ana’s place as fast as her weary legs will take her. Because she’s only been there for a few days, but that’s her home.
Ana was right when she said sometimes you just need that room. Because that room is where the smell of Ana’s coffee, strong and earthy, drifts to in the morning and where the quilt, soft and worn and handmade by Greta’s great grandmother, sits on the bed. That room is where she can be just a little more herself and the weight of the world rests just a little lighter on her shoulders.
She doesn’t know how far she goes or how she doesn’t get hit by oncoming traffic, not paying attention to cars or bikes or anything but her destination. All she knows is her lungs are on fire, and she hopes they burn. Go up in flames like the wildfires and engulf her. Scorch her whole body, like a bare hand touching dry ice. Until her whole life is reduced to absolute zero.
Then, at least, she’d feel something. Anything would be better than this numb, bottomless nothing.
She takes the key to Ana’s place from her pocket, grateful that she didn’t ask for it back when she was moving her stuff out today. Riley tells herself it was an oversight — that she’s a stupid teenager who just forgot to return it. She knows she’s lying to herself. That she wasn’t ready to accept this was really over. That she’d really fucked it all up again.
She puts her key in the knob and twists. And pulls. And pushes. And yanks. And does it again. And again. Until the lack of it opening can’t be attributed to her shaky hands.
No matter what she does, it’s not budging.
The combination of sleep deprivation and weed and vodka is dulling her senses, but this message is coming in like a blinding light, bright and crystal clear: Ana’s door is closed to her — literally and metaphorically.
And why wouldn’t it be? At the end of the day, they’re nothing to each other. Not really. If her best friend won’t even return her texts and her own mother wants to ship her hundreds of miles away, why would this person, her kind-of-ex-girlfriend-who-she-was-super-bitchy-to’s aunt, want anything to do with her?
The key drops from her hand, and she doesn’t bother picking it up. Instead, she leaves it on the rainbow mat that says “Fuckin’ PROUD!” in loopy cursive. She almost laughs. There’s not one thing about her to be proud of.
She knows she deserves this, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t punch her right in the chest. Doesn’t make it any easier to stop hyperventilating
She’s halfway through the yard when she hears a door click open, and she whips her head around. It’s hard to see in the dark, but she can make out a vague figure standing on the porch in a bathrobe — so bright-pink that Ana had called it Pepto Bismal Fabulous.
“Dios mio,” Ana says, clutching her chest. “I thought you were the pizza guy trying to break in, and I almost had a fucking heart attack. Thought you and Greta’s bruja friends put a deliveryman curse on me because I told them I still order from Amazon.”
“N-no,” Riley manages to stutter out. “Sorry.”
She sees Ana’s eyebrows furrow together, and she steps from the porch, slowly closing the distance between them.
“You okay?” Ana asks, voice so full of genuine concern and devoid of any ulterior motive it makes Riley’s chest even tighter. She doesn’t deserve it.
Riley’s the one who came here — the one who, on some level, maybe even wanted this to happen — but now, she wants nothing more than to leave. To convince her everything’s fine, that she’s fine, and go back to dealing with it alone. The isolation isn’t easier, but it’s safer. Less selfish, too. And the last thing she wants is pity.
“I just realized I forgot some of my film here, and the door wasn’t opening, so—” Riley lies, but her voice comes out shaky and panicked.
“You know that thing’s a pain in the ass. Landlord is a cheapskate,” Ana says, rolling her eyes and flippantly waving to the door. “I would’ve opened it sooner, but I was in the bath with the music loud to spite the gringos next door.”
“Right,” Riley manages out. Ana’s getting closer now, close enough that Riley can see her facial expression and knows Ana can see hers, too. She tries to make her feet turn and run, flee from her second lawn of the night, but they’re stuck in place, too heavy to move. Everything feels too heavy right now.
“What’s wrong, mija? Your beautiful skin’s all flushed,” Ana says, reaching out to brush her fingertips over her cheek.
The touch is small and lasts only a second, but it’s enough to shatter Riley completely. She musters up one more ounce of adrenaline, jerking her face away so Ana won’t see the tears starting to fall. She turns, ready to charge to the street. She doesn’t know where she’s going to go — maybe back to Nathan’s house, maybe a bench at the beach, maybe a ditch somewhere — but it doesn’t matter as long as it’s not here.
“I’m fine. I’m gonna go—”
“Oh, no,” Ana says, lightly grabbing her arm and pulling her back. “I’m not letting you run away again. Come inside. You need to sit down.”
Riley tugs her arm, halfheartedly trying to escape. But it’s no use. Her body is completely spent, and plus, when Ana puts her mind to something, there’s no room for argument anyway. Riley lets herself be guided toward the house, but after a few steps, her legs give out. She stumbles, feeling herself drop to the ground.
Ana goes down with her, positioning herself so Riley’s practically laying on her lap.
A sob escapes Riley’s throat, raw and mangled.
“I need to go,” she protests, though she makes no move to get up.
“You need to breathe,” Ana says, stroking her hair — even the dyed blonde pieces her mother had told her looked cheap. “That’s all you need to do right now.”
Riley’s been judging her mom for her craft rooms and Furbys, but suddenly a piece of her understands because she’s acting like a child right now — being held and rocked — and part of her is embarrassed, but fuck, it does feel nice. She doesn’t remember the last time she felt cared for in a maternal way like this.
The tears are dripping down her face, mixing with the small droplets from Ana’s still-wet hair. It’s a stormcloud pouring down all over her, determined to stamp out the fire and drown her instead.
“My dad’s moving to Reno with his girlfriend,” Riley says, fidgeting with a blade of grass, voice defeated. “My mom said...she thinks I should go with them.”
Riley bites her lip so hard she draws blood, the taste metallic on her tongue. “Nobody wants me,” she says, the truth too devastating, too painful, to say above a whisper.
“Hey, I want you. You calling me a nobody?” Ana asks, poking her arm.
Riley blinks, the words not fully registering. She hears Ana sigh, feels one hand thumb her tears away while the other goes to rub her back. Ana's long nails scratch up and down her spine, and she feels her shoulders start to relax.
“I don’t know how to do it,” Riley admits after a few moments, hands buried in her sweatshirt sleeves.
“Do what?”
“Live with someone who...pays attention? Who gives a shit?” She rolls her eyes back to be able to peek at Ana’s face. “When I left this morning, it wasn’t that I was trying to freak you out. I just...I didn’t think you notice or...care.”
“So you learn,” Ana shrugs, throwing her hands up. “You think raising Greta was easy? That motherhood came naturally to me considering we’re practically the same age? Don’t argue with me on that last point,” Ana demands, holding her finger out despite Riley making no move to disagree.
“No,” Ana finishes. “It was hard as hell, but I stuck it out. And I learned. Just like you will.”
Riley purses her lips, a million objections and excuses getting caught in her throat.
Before she can reply, Ana places a finger under Riley’s chin, moving it so she’s looking her in the eye. “Everyone has their aliens to fight,” she says, face deathly serious.
Riley feels herself crack a small smile. “Don’t you mean demons?”
Ana shakes her head. “Demons are for wimps — aliens are the real putas. Any X-Files fan can tell you.”
Ana pushes herself off the ground, slapping the dirt off her robe. “Vamanos, let’s go watch Scully cut hers. This grass is making my ass wet.”
Riley lets herself be led into the house, past the flowers she brought over as a thank you for the Hamburger Mary’s job that are still displayed on the side table and her sensual kiwi photo framed on the kitchen wall. She lets herself be guided to the couch and fussed over with tea and blankets and lectured about the importance of sleep and not running alone in the dark.
They’re halfway through an episode about a psychic man with a dog when the front door opens, the sound jolting Riley to alertness.
“Hey, uh, this was on your front porch,” Greta says, a pizza box in hand. “There’s a note at the top that said he left it by the door because it looked like something serious was going on outside he didn’t want to interrupt? I don’t know what—”
That’s when Greta spots her on the couch.
“Riley,” she says in surprise. “You’re back.”
Riley rubs her palms on her jeans. “Sorry to disappoint,” she says, letting out a nervous laugh.
“She’s had a rough night,” Ana says, shooting Greta a pointed look. The protectiveness would be sweet, Riley thinks, if it was warranted. But Greta isn’t the one in the wrong. Isn’t the one who needs to apologize.
“No, I’m glad,” Greta assures Riley, and it sounds like she means it. Greta twists her fingers together, a quirk that tells Riley she’s debating what to say next. Riley wants to memorize all her quirks. “What happened?”
Riley shakes her head. She’s too drained to spill everything again, and Greta doesn’t deserve that burden. “Just family...anxiety...stuff...the usual. I’ll be fine.”
Greta moves to sit next to her, and Riley is keenly aware of how easy it would be to lean her head on her shoulder. To pretend they’re back sharing headphones on the bus or lying next to each other in her bed after their photoshoot.
But they’re not — so much has happened since then. So much that can’t be undone.
“Greta, I’m so sorry—” Riley starts.
“It’s okay,” Greta replies, shaking her head.
Greta is sweet, too sweet, for Riley. She’s soft and delicate whereas Riley is prickly and hard, and a rose deserves better than a cactus.
“No, I—” Riley tries again, but Greta shakes her head.
“It doesn’t matter right now,” Greta says, lightly taking her hand and rubbing soothing circles on it. Just like in lockdown.
It’s exactly what she needs. Greta always knows exactly what she needs — always is exactly who she needs.
Riley finally falls asleep to Greta’s voice whispering softly in her ear, “Sana sana, colita de Rana, no sanas hoy, sanaras mañana.”
Riley sleeps through the night, and when she wakes up the next morning, she thinks the lullaby is right: tomorrow has come, and she does feel like she’s healing.