okay

“It’s not Monday.”

Tomás rolls his eyes, shakes his head. “I know, Dad.”

“Or Thursday.”

“Can’t I call you on a Saturday night?”

“You never do,” his dad says. “Mondays at six and Thursdays at eight. After class. That’s when you call me. And on my birthday.”

“Fine,” Tomás says. “I’ll hang up.”

“Don’t even,” his dad says. “You just surprised me, that’s all.”

“Did you have plans or something?”

“Mijo, I haven’t had plans on a Saturday night for years.”

They go quiet. Tomás glances across the kitchen to the picture frame. She smiles at him. Beside her, La Virgen gazes peacefully back, her paint a little more cracked than it used to be, a fresh rose at her touch-worn feet.

“I miss her,” he says.

“So do I,” his dad says.

Tomás knows he’s looking at the same picture. It’s hanging across from his dad’s armchair in the old house, beside a shelf where the dust gathers around an empty spot.

(“You need her more than I do,” his dad says.

“Since when do I need a statue of Mary?” Tomás says, all bitter aftertaste. “It’s not like the Church wants me.”

“Because she’s a mother,” his dad says calmly. “Because she loves deeper than we can ever understand. And because she was your mamá’s favorite.”

Tomás bites his lip. He remembers the way his mother touched the statue’s feet when she passed by, more habit than conscious spirituality. He remembers Hail Marys and rosary beads. He remembers following her through the garden, holding the flowers to set out as they bloomed through the summer.

“Careful,” his mamá would say as she gave him a rose, “this one doesn’t want to be held.”

But he would take it, silent even as the thorns dug into his fingertips, and once they’d gathered enough, he would watch her place them around Mary’s feet.

“You should keep her,” he says now. “She belongs in the house.”

“No,” his dad says. “You need a mother. No one better than La Virgen María, right?”

So he takes the statue and places it beside his mother’s picture in his empty apartment three time zones away.)

“How’s school?” his dad asks.

“Fine,” Tomás says, looking at the papers spread across his too-small kitchen table. “I’ve got papers to grade this weekend.”

“Anything interesting?”

“Not yet, but I’m hopeful.”

He scrubs at the pan, picking at the dried sauce on the bottom.

“What’d you make this week?” his dad asks.

“Lasagna,” he says. “Pasta was on sale.”

“Sounds like you’re getting better at this whole feeding yourself thing.”

“Didn’t really have a choice,” Tomás says. “I won’t get a raise anytime soon, and the insurance decided therapy wasn’t included in my policy. So I either give up takeout or Ephraim. Figure my mental health is more important than getting General Tso’s chicken delivered at 2am.”

His dad mutters some choice words about insurance companies as Tomás rinses. “I’m proud of you,” his dad says as he sets the pan on the counter to dry. “Do you need help?”

He shakes his head even though his dad can’t see him. “I’ve got it. You might get a handmade present for your birthday, though.”

“I just want you healthy,” his dad says. “That’s gift enough.”

Tomás takes a breath, hands trembling in the soapy water. He turns off the faucet.

“Dad?”

He hates how his voice is shaking.

“Tomás?”

He can see his dad now, sitting up straighter in his armchair, staring hard at the spot on the wall just below the picture.

“What’s wrong, mijo?”

“Nothing,” he says, except it isn’t nothing. “I’m…”

Okay, he wants to say.

Except he’s not.

“I got in an accident today.”

The words tumble out. He wraps his arms around his middle until he finds the bruises, tender to the aching bone, and winces.

“Are you okay? Are you hurt? Do I need to…”

“I’m fine,” Tomás interrupts. “I’m… I’m at the apartment. It’s not much. Some bruises and cuts, achey wrist, a broken rib…”

“You broke a rib?”

“Just one,” he says hurriedly. “I’m sore, mostly. And my nose is a little, well…”

“What happened?”

Tomás sighs, winces again as his ribs go sharp and stiff. “I was on my bike,” he explains, “and a guy ran the red. I went over the hood, my backpack flipped open, papers went everywhere… Looked like a movie. Except it hurt.”

“Why didn’t you call me sooner?”

“I only got back an hour ago,” he says. “And it’s not like you can just drive over here and pick me up from the hospital. I didn’t want you to worry.”

“I worry about you all the time,” his dad says, “because I’m always imagining things like this.”

Tomás does, too. He worries about his dad going to the office, the movies, the store, because he sees that intersection, two cars tangled and smoking. Because he lives that film every night in his head — his dad yelling for him to stay back as he ran forward, fingernails digging into his palm as he holds the leash tight, arms around knees as he cries on the sidewalk with the dog’s head tucked under his arm.

It’s been sixteen years, and he can still smell the neighbor’s jasmine and gasoline.

“But I’m fine,” Tomás repeats. “I’m hurt, but I’m okay.”

His dad takes a shaky breath. “I’m glad you’re okay, mijo. I just hate that I’m so far away. I can’t help you.”

“I’m okay,” Tomás says, and wonders how many times he has to say it before he believes it. “I just… wanted to let you know.”

“Do you need to be observed for a concussion?” his dad asks. “Are you going to call someone?”

“They weren’t too worried,” he says. “But I called a friend. He’s coming over soon.”

A pause.

“A friend?” his dad says. “Or a friend?”

Tomás squeezes his eyes shut, drops his head back against the cabinets. “Dad…”

“Forgive me for being curious. You just never talk about your friends. Or friends.”

“Because I don’t have many. Or any. Respectively.”

“You have Gabriela. And Chase.”

“That’s two, and they’re a million miles away. Chase and his wife are in Montana, and Gabriela’s chasing some endangered fish off the coast of western Australia.”

“So who’s the friend you invited over?”

“His name is Wilder,” he says. “And don’t get too excited. I’m pretty sure he’s got a girlfriend.”

He can practically hear his dad shrug. “Your mom was engaged when we met.”

“Don’t think that’s quite the same thing.”

“How’d you two meet?”

“He lives in my building,” Tomás explains, picking up the phone from the counter and carrying it twenty-three steps over to the daybed. “His mailbox is next to mine. That’s how we met – he got some of my mail and came by to drop it off. Then we started talking.”

“What does he do?”

“He’s an assistant at a publishing house. Reads a lot, which is… nice. He has a dog named Cherry. I go on walks with them every Saturday and Sunday. Two laps around Central Park. He cooks, too. Gave me the lasagna recipe.”

His dad lets out a soft, approving huh. “I like the sound of this one.”

“Nothing’s going to happen, Dad,” Tomás says, firm and smiling. “He’s coming over here to make sure I don’t die in my sleep. He’s a friend. That’s all.”

“Sure,” his dad says. “I’m just saying, he sounds like a nice guy.”

Tomás looks over at the picture again, wonders what his mom would think. “I think you’d like him.”

“Maybe you can have him over for dinner on Monday, introduce us.”

“Dad…”

“Just a thought.”

Tomás picks at the quilt beneath him. “Do you… do you think Mom…?”

“Your mamá,” his dad says gently, “only wanted you to be happy. If you find someone who does that, I promise you, she would approve.”

Even in this oppressively small apartment, he feels lighter.

“Call me tomorrow,” his dad says. “Let me know how you’re feeling.”

“Three days in a row, huh? Or am I taking Monday off my calendar?”

“Monday stays. That’s when I get to meet Wilder.”

He’s about to argue when there’s a quiet knock on his door. He can’t imagine it’s audible down the line, but his dad senses it anyway.

“Go on,” his dad says. “Tell me how it goes.”

 “Okay,” Tomás says. “Te quiero.”

“I love you, too,” his dad says, and ends the call.

Tomás takes a deep breath, runs his hand through his hair, skips over the bumps and bruises, and stands up. As he passes the statue, he pauses, touches her feet, says a prayer.

When he opens the door, Wilder and Cherry are standing there. He’s carrying a plate of cookies, she’s carrying her favorite chew toy.

“Hey,” Wilder says. “How are you feeling?”

Tomás smiles. “You know,” he says, “I think I’m going to be okay.”