Rebels Like Us. Liz Reinhardt

to my recent calls and press my thumb over his name, half hoping he doesn’t pick up. Before I have time to prepare, his voice vibrates through me like thunder before a storm.

      “Nes? Nes, baby, is that you?” His voice slurs. Probably pain meds.

      “Lincoln.”

      The second his name slips out of my mouth, he gives a relieved sob. “Holy fucking shit... It’s you. Baby, I thought I lost you for good. I miss you so damn much. I deserve everything, I know, believe me, I really do. But you gotta hear me out. I’ve been so screwed up without you. I need you, I need to feel—”

      “Lincoln.” I freeze the emotions that warm and swirl up from deep in my heart when I hear his voice, the voice I used to fall asleep to on the phone every night. “What happened? Are you okay?”

      “Me? I’m fine, babe.” He laughs like it’s old times, like nothing has changed. “Sprained wrist, concussion. I’ll be out by tomorrow. It just sounds dramatic, you know? Falling off a fire escape and all that. Forget me. How are you? When are you coming home?”

      Home.

      Mom in our cramped galley kitchen with take-out menus spread across every inch of countertop. Ollie’s bassoon’s mournful wails punctuated with colorful swear chains whenever she flubs a note. The smell of concrete and exhaust fumes, the screams of kids swinging high in their caged-in parks during recess as we munch on some chocolate-covered frozen key-lime pie to follow up heavenly grilled Mexican corn slathered in cotija cheese and lime.

      Home.

      Lincoln sitting with his back to my locker and a new mix to share, one earbud for each of us, hands locked, heads bent together.

      Home.

      Where my heart was broken. Twice. Where my life fell apart. The one big, crazy, beautiful city people flock to for their second chance at life is the one place where I couldn’t have mine.

      Home is where the heart is. I guess I’ll figure it out once mine starts beating again.

      “You know I’m here for the rest of my senior year.” I sound like a robot about to short-circuit.

      “C’mon, there’s no reason for that. You can stay at your abuela’s. I know she’d love it if you came back.”

      It’s been less than two minutes, and he’s already bossing me around the way he had been doing more and more toward the end of our relationship.

      “Mom is here. I just started school and—”

      “People transfer in and out all the time, baby. If you don’t want to stay with your abuela, my parents said you can move in with us. To tell you the truth, I’d love that.”

      The only sound is our breathing, off rhythm and quick. I close my eyes and picture his spacious room, the king-size bed, the midnight blue walls, modern and understated. I was always uncomfortable in it, even wrapped in Lincoln’s arms. Maybe my gut knew what my brain was too chicken to face.

      “I’m not moving back to New York now.” The words are calm and sure.

      The silence is finally interrupted by Lincoln’s temper. “What the fuck, Nes? What did my mother say? I asked her to keep her mouth shut. This is the truth. I swear to God, I swear on my grandmother’s grave, Nes. Hear me out, okay? I was just hanging out with her, okay? I barely knew her, and I definitely wasn’t screwing her. I left by the fire escape so I wouldn’t wake her parents, and I lost my footing. That’s all—”

      “What?” Hot sunbursts of rage flare up and keep my brain from putting the pieces together. “You got hurt leaving some girl’s place?”

      He swears under his breath. “Look, just tell me what my mother said exactly?”

      He’s scrambling to get his story straight.