Page 32 of Ricardo

“I can refuse to be cross-examined.”

My father laughs under his breath. There is no humor in it. “You are being childish.”

“Maybe,” I say. “So I’ll go be childish in my own apartment.”

I walk toward the foyer.

My mother follows me first. My father stays behind for a few seconds, then follows too. I collect my coat from the closet before Paul can appear and do it for me. My hands are steady, which feels like a small miracle.

“Julia,” my mother says behind me.

I turn.

She stands at the edge of the foyer, beautiful and controlled in a cream dress, her hair smooth, her earrings tasteful, her expression caught somewhere between despair and something more complicated.

“You don’t have to make everything so difficult.”

The sentence hurts more than my father’s sharper ones.

Because she means it.

Because part of her still believes I am choosing difficulty, as if leaving Connecticut, ending the engagement, starting over, and sitting through that dinner were all acts of rebellion instead of survival.

“I’m not trying to make things difficult,” I say.

“Then what are you trying to do?”

I put on my coat.

“I’m trying to breathe.”

She says nothing.

My father steps into the foyer behind her. “If this is about Harrison—”

“It isn’t about Harrison,” I say.

The lie is quick. Too quick.

They both hear it.

I do not correct it.

“It’s about me,” I say instead. “For once.”

My father’s expression shifts again, and I know there will be consequences for this conversation. Maybe not tonight. Maybe not tomorrow. But my father does not like losing authority, especially in his own house.

“Think carefully about the people you are choosing,” he says.

I hold his gaze. “The people I’ve chosen to associate with during the day are no different than the ones you associate with in the shadows. I’m just not a hypocrite.”

With those final words to make the color seep out of my father’s face, I open the door myself and step out into the night before either of them can answer.

The air is cooler now. Damp and heavy with the smell of cut grass and flowers. I walk down the stone steps, past the perfect planters, toward the car waiting at the curb.

No one follows me. I’m almost sorry for it because at least it would mean something.

I slide into the back seat and close the door.