Chapter 7: John

The best thingabout my day has become working at the storage unit with Isamu. It's the most relaxing break that I could ask for in my busy schedule. Isamu is bent over the table saw, cutting what will soon become the cabinets of his van, while I lick sauce off my bento box.

Of all the jobs I've worked, I've never worked one where my employer does more work than I do. But Isamu has stuck to his word; he only asks for help when he needs it, but otherwise leaves me to my devices—unless he wants to talk my ear off.

I flick on my Polaroid camera and capture the empty dog bed in the corner. I'm trying not to find some deep meaning in it—trying not to be one of those types of artsy folks—but there's something sickeningly satisfying about watching Inu never use it. I can put a pin in that and let my therapist dissect tomorrow.

"You get any good shots of her?" Isamu asks, the table saw quiet.

I look over at him, snapping the little rectangle film between two fingers as it develops.

"Nah, sorry. I don't really take pictures of people... or dogs."

He gives me a contemplative look that I meet with an unenthused one. I have therapy tomorrow; the last thing I want is to have a secret sharing session right now. Being scrubbed raw in therapy once a month is enough for me, and since Isamu came into my life, it feels like my emotions have been scattered.

"I want to ask why, but you're glaring at me like if I do, you might put my head on this table saw next," he says with a teasing grin before turning away to grab a new piece of wood. "What can I ask you that you'll answer right now?"

The table saw starts up again, purposefully giving me time to think about it. I think, if a gun was pressed to my head, I could write an entire autobiography of photos. But not a single one would contain a picture of a person.

The thing is, life is not permanent. It ends in a guaranteed final breath. A moment where everything about us ceases to exist. I don't care about that moment, or anything after. I care about this, right now. That probably wouldn't make sense if someone saw my photos. They're grainy, broken, poorly lit. But maybe I don't want a clear shot. Maybe I don't want to remember my dad showing up to my middle school graduation drunk, and after I yelled at him until I was lightheaded, not showing up at all to my high school one.

But I want to remember him.

It doesn't make sense to me. I've wished he would die—a dark wish only made at the lowest points—and I've watched him nearly succeed in fulfilling that cold, dark wish just as many times.

All that hatred, yet I still love him.

So, the photos. They're like a hazy memory of my life. The only way my life can be made palatable.

But when the table saw finally shuts off, all I can say is, "I always take the best photos with my other camera."

"What are the best photos?" Isamu asks, looking away as he aligns the newly cut wood.

"In the Appalachians, when it's cold like this, the leaves start falling and everything becomes this explosion of autumn. It's my favorite time of year, but I doubt I'll be able to make it this year with school and work."

Isamu turns back toward me and purses his lips. I watch, with something akin to horror, as his face breaks out into a sly grin.

I don't allowmyself too many comforts in life—I'm generally too busy for it. But, once a month, I pack a blanket into my backpack and sit on the soft velvety couch across from my therapist to bitch about life.

"So, you're frustrated because your friend asked you to call out of work to visit the mountains with the rest of your friends?" Dr. Little asks, eyebrows raised.

I fight the urge to pull the couch pillow against my chest and groan.

"My client, and I'm frustrated because I don't have the budget flexibility to take time off work," I tell him honestly.

"John, I know we've talked about this before, but there's no shame in taking more than four years to finish your degree. You could take less classes and rest more, or take a co-op and work to save money during the school year."

I wave the notion away. I just want to get this over with as quickly as possible. Only two years left.

Dr. Little smiles at my brush off. He's used to me by now.

"Okay, well then, let's just focus on your frustration. Do you not want to go with your friend?—"

"Isamu."

"Isamu," Dr. Little says. "Do you not want to go with him?"

I bobble my head back and forth. "I want to see the leaves. Honestly, he kind of... he's always trying to get to know me," I explain, frustrated.

"And that bothers you." He doesn't even ask. He knows it does. He's sat on the chair for two years now and never gotten me to talk about my mom other than the fact that she's gone. It took him a whole year to learn about my dad. Something Isamu achieved in almost a night.

"Yes. But what bothers me the most is I actually keep telling him stuff." It's like he knows exactly what parts of the dam to poke at to get a trickle of water. He's just not ready for the onslaught if he ever makes the dam break.

Dr. Little hums and gives me another arching eyebrow, waiting for me to understand some meaning hidden behind my words that I don't see yet. CBT—Cognitive Behavioral Therapy—is all about giving me the tools to handle my own brain, but it just feels like I'm teetering between an exam and a lobotomy sometimes.

When he sees that I'm not getting it, he sighs—not unkindly—and scoots forward.

"Do you think maybe the reason you're telling him stuff is because you want to let him in?"

I scoff and shake my head. A pit stop in life is not the same as letting someone into your life.

"I'll give it thought." I watch the clock on the wall flip, telling me our time is up.

Isamu

John's camerabag is sitting on top of the picnic basket I packed. I can't tear my eyes away from it; it feels like every secret about him is poured into whatever he secretly takes photos of. It's like that camera is attached to his soul.

How much can you know about a person based solely on the secrets they keep?

I don't hear John approach behind me until it's too late, and I take a quick step backward to hide my prying. When I played basketball, I'd watch teammates and opponents stumble and fall, and always wonder why they didn't catch themselves. But now, it happens so fast that I don't realize I'm falling. Before I know it, I've tripped on John's foot and suddenly I'm on top of him.

Thighs. Chest. Arms. Groin. All of mine pressed against him as I bear all my weight on him. Like heat but everywhere and deeper than just skin. His breath sweeps against my hair. His calloused hand slides against my bare waist, where my shirt slid up, to steady me. His heart beats rapidly in his chest pressed so tightly against mine.

A roaring that isn't just my ears makes both of our necks snap to the storage unit opening, where Gonzales's Mustang is pulling up. John makes a noise of discomfort and I quickly roll off him, face aflame at my own stupidity.

Inu comes over and snuffles against my chest as I sit on the floor, while John scrambles up.

Gonzales smirks at me when he gets out of the Mustang, Aaliyah on his heels. I glare back, begging him not to point out my blush.

"Ready to get a move on?" Gonzales asks, clasping John's hand and bringing him into a hug.

"You sure your Mustang can handle the curves?" I ask, attempting to distract myself from the flex of John's arms, thighs, hips.

Gonzales turns and blinks at me slowly, while a sly grin splits John's face.

"His what?" John asks slowly.

"His... car? I mean, I know it's not like any of us have a better option. I just wasn't sure that it could handle the curves in the mountains. Those roads get tiny, you know?"

"Yeah, but what type of car is it?" Aaliyah asks, hand pressed to her mouth.

"A Mustang," I say tentatively, suddenly unsure.

John turns to grab his camera bag, laughing. I keep my eyes trained on Gonzales, so I don't have to pretend I'm not checking him out. Inu nuzzles me again, but there isn't a way for me to tell her my heart rate is elevated for reasons that aren't PTSD responses right now.

"Isa. Pollito. Amor. You think this is a Mustang?" Gonzales asks, pointing at his car.

I shrug and pop open the trunk to put the picnic basket in. "Is that not—" But it's obvious it's not a Mustang. "What is it?" I ask instead.

Aaliyah laughs and gets into the backseat. I open the other backseat door, commanding Inu inside before following her. My knees are pressed to the back of John's seat and I regret ever suggesting we spend two hours cooped up in a car together. I can't stop thinking about his body against mine. Sturdy. Rugged. There are too many ways to describe it that I can't even put into thought without erupting into a blush again.

"What type of car is it?" I ask again as Gonzales gets in and starts it up, the engine roaring.

His radio is playing some soft pop.

"This is a 1969 Camaro. It's a classic, Isa."

I huff and sit back in my seat, still not understanding the difference or why it matters.

Aaliyah begins to whine as John starts to explain why a Camaro is different than a Mustang. I understand her half-hearted complaints when, an hour later, he and Gonzales are gushing over the "beautiful intricacies" that differentiate a 1969 Camaro from any of the following versions.

I can barely see John, but the excitement in his voice is palpable. If I had known cars were the way to get him to talk, I would've taken researching vans more seriously.

Gonzales groans as his phone rings, knowing his and John's car talk is coming to a close.

John picks up the phone from where it's connected to the aux cord on the upgraded stereo.

"It's a random phone number," John says, voice monotone now that it's something he doesn't have the energy for. "Probably a spam caller."

I lean forward, putting my arm on Inu. She glares at me from the corner of her eyes, but I look away and reach for the phone before answering the call.

"Hi, thank you for calling Bojangles. How may I help you?" I ask in my most upbeat customer service voice I can muster.

"Isamu," starts a warm, accented falsetto voice. "Can you give the phone to Chuchito?"

My insides turn to cold liquid as Gonzales's childhood nickname rings through the speaker. He lightly presses the brakes, his hands gripping the steering wheel as if he could choke the life out of it.

"He's not here right now," I say, leaning further to put my hand on Gonzales's shoulder as he pulls off the road and puts his head against the steering wheel.

Gonzales's mom sighs on the other end of the phone, and I wonder if I should pull the aux cord out of the phone to save everyone from hearing whatever comes next.

"Tell him to stop being—" she pauses in anger, searching for the words in Spanish. I was there for enough fights in our childhood to know most of them were in a language I didn't understand.

"We're expecting him at Thanksgiving dinner," she ends up saying.

Gonzales slowly reaches for his phone, still clutched in my hand, and presses end on the call.

"I thought you had her number blocked," I say because the silence is stifling. John is silent, gazing out the window as if he wants to be anywhere but here, but Aaliyah is clenched tight, protectiveness over her boyfriend making her a fierce figure.

"I do. It's a new one." Gonzales groans and leans his head back on the seat before reaching back for Aaliyah's hand. It looks uncomfortable as he twists their fingers together, but I still wish I had that domesticity with someone.

When Gonzales came to my door with his sister, I can't say I was surprised. I knew he and his mom had a tough relationship. I just never knew the entire extent of what was happening.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Aaliyah asks.

"I can step out, if you want?" John offers, already undoing his seatbelt, always eager to leave when things get emotionally vulnerable.

"No, John. It's fine," Gonzales says. "Yeah, Liyah. Just give me a second. I'm really mad right now, and I don't want to be."

My anxious mouth fights the urge to make fun of Gonzales for having such a handle on his emotions. It might add to my own anxiety that he makes me feel so out of touch with my emotions.

Inu gets up and I have to shift off her. She sniffs me, then sits back down when she realizes the elevated heart rate she's smelling isn't coming from me. I know she isn't supposed to comfort anyone else, but a car isn't really the best place for me provide physical comfort to my best friend, and it makes me kind of wish Inu would instead.

"So. My mom," Gonzales starts with a deep breath. "Liyah, I know I've told you we're not in contact, but—" he sighs. "There's a reason for it."

From the back seat, I watch John tug on his sweater zipper before looking out the window, resigned.

"We left Mexico because it was dangerous, yada, yada, but when we got here, we were alone. I mean y'all know how Mexicans are treated in the US." He scoffs. "Land of immigrants, yeah right. I was too young to remember, but we really struggled getting on our feet here. It was just the three of us: my mom, me, and my little sister. Until my mom started dating. Some of them were fine; most of them weren't, but I thought she was just putting up with it to get us stuff. I turned a blind eye to it, you know the struggle of a single mom. And we got lots of stuff, toys, new kitchen appliances, you name it." He runs a hand down his face.

I place my hand on his shoulder. It's a little awkward when he's holding Aaliyah's hand and I have to reach over Inu, but he gives me an appreciative smile.

"I didn't find out until I started applying for scholarships my sophomore year—getting ahead of the curve—that my mom had been taking out credit cards in my name. A lot of credit cards." He pulls his hand away from Aaliyah and squeezes his hands in frustration. "She took out shady loans from shady people with my name. Fucked me before I was even out of the gate. I wouldn't even be in college if it weren't for Isamu's trust fund." He turns around and smirks at me. "Pinche rich people."

I give him a soft smile back. I remember us—my dad, mom, me, and Gonzales—sitting around the kitchen table, offering to send him to college with the money my parents had put away. It's not like I had ever planned on attending and if I changed my mind, the government would pay for it.

Gonzales is family. My parents knew that from childhood when he'd show up early to our playdates and stay days on end. He's never left my side and provided me a childhood I never could've had as an only child.

"I sued her for every penny she spent and more. Paid off all the credit cards, bought this Camaro with the leftovers, and ruined my mom's life. My sister doesn't talk to me anymore because she sees it as a necessary risk, considering it was those loans that helped us afford a house in the rich kid neighborhood.

"So, yeah. That's my family."

Aaliyah leans over and hugs him from behind. "Thank you for telling us that. I know sorry doesn't mean anything, but I am nonetheless. You know my dad's a politician who signs anti-trans bills and hates LGBTQ+ people, so if you ever want to bitch about families, I'm here for you."

I smile, happy to see my brother connect with someone so deeply. Someone who understands him and won't ever make him feel like he's in the wrong. It makes my decision to venture off easier. I know he's in good hands.

Aaliyah reaches out and pats John's hand. "John's really good at listening, so you can talk to him too."

"Yep," he adds, ever the chatterbox.

I snort and then quickly try to cover it up with my words. "Gonzales, you know my family will always be here for you—your family really. You're my brother, man. I really do want to be there for you. Thick and thin."

I turn to John when I feel his gaze on me, and am surprised by his furrowed eyebrows. He's asking me a question, but I'm disappointed to find out I don't know him well enough to know what. I want to know him fully.

"Appreciate that, Isa. I just... I'm glad I have your parents at least."

"My parents are awesome. Unlike yours," I say with a grin.

Gonzales turns around and punches my knee with a smile—unfortunately, the wrong one.

"Shit!" He clutches his hand as I cackle in the backseat. "I think I broke my hand," he complains, looking down at the knuckles.

"Call me Bionic Man; I have superpowers that include not being punchable."

Gonzales turns around, fist raised teasingly. "Bring your face closer and we'll see about that."

I continue to laugh as Gonzales turns back around. The Piedmont gets left behind, making way for the soft mountains erupting in colorful trees as we wind down the beautiful roads of North Carolina.