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I don’t want him to ask me so I
never initiate.
    “Gone.” Four letters. One word. I hope that’s
enough for him. I silently pray that he will stop asking any
questions about my past. Yeah, family is past.
    “Gone like dead?”
    “I’m not really comfortable talking about
them, you know.” I instantly regret what I said when I notice his
furrowed brows. “Look, I don’t mean to keep things from you, but I
am not ready to share that part of my life. Not yet.”
    “I’m sorry. I understand,” he simply says.
You will think that he really understands, but not after you see
the faraway look in his eyes, the stiffness in his posture, and the
words that you know are smothered in his throat.
    “I will share it to you someday, but not now.
Thank you for understanding.”
    He gives me a dismissal nod. “C’mon, let’s
unpack the food you prepared. I’m starving,” he changes the topic
so the mood and my past is set aside—for a while.
    “Hmm . . . these are good. Did you prepare
it?” he asks.
    “Who else would prepare it?”
    “Lola?”
    “Seriously? You can’t trust Lola in the
kitchen, it would be a disaster.” I laugh, reminiscing the one and
only time Lola tried to cook. She was upset and wanted to eat our
favorite comfort food, chocolate chip pancake, but I wasn’t home
yet. She didn’t want to wait for me so she tried making it herself.
The next thing she knew, she almost set our dorm on fire.
    “So, you cook?”
    “Yeah, but nothing fancy. I cook to eat. I am
not big on food presentation.”
    “Like a chef would do in a cooking show.”
    “I know, right? I don’t waste my time doing
those. I would rather waste my time eating my food.”
    He laughs. “I am amazed by your appetite. No
one will have a hint of how big of an eater you are by just looking
at your body. And you’re funny. I like this side of you. I always
thought you’re serious, and that you don’t have a funny bone.”
    “That’s because that is what I want to
portray.”
    “Why?”
    “Because. There’s a reason, but . . .”
    My heart sinks.
    “Rip, are you okay?”
    “Yes . . . no. I am not.”
    “Help me here, I’m baffled. Did I say
something wrong?”
    “Let’s just say that you question things I
don’t want to answer, but I am conflicted because I want to answer
you.”
    “So, will you answer me or not yet?”
    I give him an apologetic look. Can I do this?
Can I be in a relationship without being honest? To think that it
is my first rule: no secrets, all honesty, and open communication.
But he doesn’t need to know my past. Does he? What is happening
with you, Rhythm? Tell him!
    After a lifetime of pause, I tell him,
“Okay.”
    “Okay, what?”
    “Okay, I’ll tell you. Besides, I don’t want
to keep secrets from you. We agreed on being honest, so I’ll do my
part.” I exhale. “Are you ready?”
    “As ready as I can be.” He smiles.
    “I have a hard time allowing people to enter
into my life because I don’t want to be attached with anyone.
People I love always leave me. Always. My father left Mama and me
when I was seven. Apparently, we are his illegitimate family. He
has a wife, three kids, and a home. He has a real family.
Mama had a trouble moving on because of that. She didn’t know Papa
has a family until I was six. Her first decision was to let him go
but decided against it. She continued to be his other woman until
Olivia, Papa’s wife, went to our house. She talked with Mama, cried
to her, and begged her to let Papa go. Olivia said she forgave Mama
already and promised not to charge them anything if Mama would just
let them be a family. Mama didn’t want to, but she saw me listening
to their conversation. She told Olivia her apologies and her
promises, led her out of the house, and called me. She asked what I
have heard, I said, “Everything,” and then she wept for a long time
in front of me. I didn’t know what to do, so I didn’t do anything.
I saw how she broke into