Page 50 of Don’t Forget Me

“I understand,” I replied. “But what about your roommate? He didn’t ask any questions?”

“Thankfully, he lives in his own world. Barely in our room anyway. I think he got himself a girlfriend.”

I chuckled. At least he didn’t have to worry about a nosey roommate telling everyone that he came into the dorm—in the middle of the night—with bruises all over his face.

His family had more to lose if students or the administration found out. I could just imagine the chaos that would erupt within the halls of the academy. Although I grew up without the conditions he had, I understood that it was much more than his reputation that would suffer. It would be his family, his privacy, along with the questioning of his sanity.

People would ask all the wrong questions instead of trying to understand him. People on the outside didn’t comprehend his father was the monster that tortured him. Flashes of my own father figure forced themselves into my mind. I beamed brightly, in hopes of pushing away the feeling of dread that was creeping up on me.

“Are you going busy later today?” I questioned.

He sided eyed me before smiling like the Sun that stood high above the Heavens. “What are you planning, Guerrera?”

I enjoyed the way his British accent had a sharp cadence when speaking my last name. It was perfect. Once I realized how I’d been dreaming of his voice, I kicked myself mentally. I couldn’t think like that about a friend.

“I wanted to try a Mexican restaurant nearby. I’ve been a little homesick, which is weird since I hated my home,” I pondered.

He chuckled as we stood by the threshold of my Calculus lecture hall. Other plaid-wearing scholars pushed between us and walked into the classroom. “What time were you planning on going?” he asked.

“How does 6 p.m. sound to you?”

“Perfect. Where would you like to meet?”

“Foyer would be good.”

“I’ll see you there,” he chirped. “I have to get going. I’ll see you later, Guerrera.”

I sent him a quiet nod. I remained by the class doorway, watching as his silhouette drifted among the students. The edge of his glasses moved in my direction before he stepped into another hallway. I smiled. Anxiety gurgled in my stomach, yet it was not the same dreadful, pained feeling I had in my usual anxiety attacks. It was a pleasing one, one that I wanted to succumb to.

We sat in the noiseless diner. There was a couple at the other end of the restaurant, sitting across from each other. Their glasses clinked every so often. Mexican flags were hung in different shapes and sizes throughout the small restaurant. Music composed by guitarróns, vihuelas, trumpets, and violins flowed between us.

Ezra was beside me, indulging in some chilaquiles with a side of beans and fresh avocado as I stared at my bowl of mole and red rice. Before I could savor my meal, I realized that Ezra was missing a crucial ingredient on his plate.

“You need to try that with queso fresco.” I pointed my fork at his plate. He looked at me with a questioning look. “It’s fresh cheese. It’s crumbly, and it adds a totally different flavor to the chilaquiles.”

Ezra’s blue eyes examined me. I noticed the way his mind worked as his gaze was set firmly on my person. I felt uncovered, causing me to cross my arms over my chest with insecurity.

What if he saw me for who I was, and I was no longer good for him?

“You know, I’m just realizing that you are great at speaking Spanish,” he said.

Heat rushed to my cheeks.

“Are you fluent?” Ezra asked before picking up more of the sauced tortilla.

I nodded. “I am. It’s my first language.”

He beamed, and it felt like I was staring straight at the Sun. “That’s wonderful. Have you ever traveled to Mexico?”

“What’s with all the questions?”

He glared at me while he was chewing. His plate was almost empty. I guessed he fancied the meal. “What is the problem with me wanting to learn more about my friend?” he uttered between bites.

There was something about the word friend that I despised. Of course, friendship was always a privilege that I searched for, but I hated hearing it come from his lips. Which puzzled me.

“I’m kidding,” I began. “I’ve never gone deep into Mexico, only to the few cities crossing the border. Back home, most of the population was Hispanic, which meant that Spanish was the dominant language. It’s been a bit difficult for me here. I was used to speaking Spanish every day, and now I hardly need to.”

His expression fell as he set his fork back on his plate. Ezra’s frames shone under the copper light of the diner.