question. what is your zodiac sign??
genuinely curious bc i get certain auras from different people but. i'm a ✨ pisces ✨
oh and side note: i am really peeved >:(( bc every time i edit *one* image, all the inline comments from that chapter are wiped out </3
***
"So, what? You're, like, boyfriends?"
Angie asks the question, eyebrows raised, all of us seated around the center table in the kitchen, Angie leaning back against her seat, Lucas still flushed and me right next to him, trying to prevent myself from releasing an audible cackle.
"We're, uh," I glance over at Lucas, who glances over at me. The word boyfriend is a lot. I genuinely can't remember the last time I've used it in a serious scenario. And somehow, it carries so much weight, so much of a different meaning.
The past few weeks have been a blur, emotions all over the place, turbulent. And somehow I'm in this weird period of euphoria with Lucas Garcia, and I'm not entirely sure how to put it to words.
When my eyes find Lucas, he tilts his head to the side. "We're two guys," he starts, eyes still on me, "that kind of like each other, I guess."
It makes it seem so simple. Yet at the same time, so complicated. "Yeah," I say, nodding as Lucas supplies me one of those lopsided grins. "Yeah," I repeat as Lucas sends Angie a semi-sheepish grin and rises to his feet.
"I'm going to check the arroz con pollo, alright?" He pushes the chair into the table like the do-gooder he is. I have to shake my head, a gentle smile teasing at my lips as he heads back into the kitchen.
"I have some finishing touches to do," He calls over his shoulder, then he disappears.
Angie's eyes follow him all the way out until he's gone. Then she lowers her voice, her eyes darting to me. "Is this another fuckbuddy situation?" She asks. And there's no malice to her tone, just concern. However, said concern still doesn't stop me from throwing my defenses up.
"No, no Lucas is..." A pause in which I run my hands through my hair, "different."
Angie's eyes stay on me for longer than I would've liked before she whispers, "you said the same thing about Will."
The words cause my chest to curl in on itself, clenching so tightly I can't even breathe.
"What makes Lucas different?" The words are simple, carefully articulated. It's an easy question, but yet so fucking complex. What makes Lucas different? He smiles like the morning. For starters, he's not in love with his best friend, given that he's gay as hell, and Ellie's practically Lucas' sister, anyway. That's one plus.
But what makes him so intrinsically different? The question feels like more of an attack than an inquisition, and I don't like it.
"Why does it matter to you?" I snap a little, I'll admit. While I've been doing it a lot less lately, things just slip out, words come out in a scathing bite. After all, I've been doing it for seventeen and a half years, and well, old habits die hard. If ever.
Angie sighs, head tilting to the side. "For starters, I think Lucas is a really good guy." A tease slips into her voice. "And I don't want you to screw this one up."
"Wow," I say, raising a hand to my chest. "Have you no faith in me?"
Ice and thick air seems to clear for a few moments. And I can finally breathe, if only for a few more minutes.
"Nope," Angie chirps.
Before anything else can be said, Lucas appears in the doorway, walking into the space. He brushes his hands off his apron, runs some hands through his curls, breathes for a few moments.
I rise to my feet as he approaches, eyes finding mine. "Everything should be ready now," he says, and the scent of the arroz con pollo is nearly driving me insane. However, not as much as the boy standing in front of me is.
"Thank you," I breathe. Because despite the fact that I'm useless, Lucas Garcia's just saved the night, and he really had no obligation to. My eyes find his.
His lips quirk up a little bit, his eyes holding my gaze. "Of course."
We're still close, eyes on each other for a few moments. Somehow I have everything to say, but my mouth's gone rogue and refuses to cooperate with my mind. So I answer in silence, just eyes, almost as though I'm trying to convey everything to him via my dark irises.
Until Angie clears her throat, at least.
"Yeah," she drawls, "I can't deal with the eye-sex anymore, so I'm just going to set the table for the witch and her latest victim."
With that, Angie brushes off her washed-out overalls, shouldering past us and into the kitchen to gather the utensils.
We watch as she leaves. Lucas nods solemnly. "I like her."
I let out a cackle. "Wait 'till you live with her."
It's half teasing, of course, because I can't picture anyone else that is constantly fighting fiercely for me like Angie is. She's my twin, and fuck am I grateful to have her.
Not like I'm telling Angie that, of course.
She'd never let me hear the end of it.
***
The table is pristine by the time we've finished setting it all up. With our makeshift trio collaboration featuring Angie's aesthetic designing skills and Lucas' insane talent with food, and my being a polite bystander— we've managed to make the dining room look more than presentable.
Everything's set up immaculately, the scent of arroz con pollo is actually mouth-watering, and the perfect lighting only further orchestrates the perfection of the scene.
"We did good," Angie says, hands on hips as she mouths my exact thoughts.
Lucas grins, about to voice his own agreement, I'm sure, when the front door is opened. And standing in the doorway is Ms. Willis, her arm linked with that of her boyfriend's, both making their way into the house, decked out in glossy clothing and polite smiles.
Ms. Willis scouts the scene, taking a seat at the table as she fawns over her date for tonight, who takes a seat right next to her. Her boyfriend's tall, likely a solid 6'2 with a clean grin that goes on for miles. His hair is long, curling at his shoulders, and he doesn't actually seem like a predator, which is a major improvement over Ms. Willis' previous dates.
Awkwardly, Angie, Lucas, and I exchange glances, not sure whether to dismiss ourselves or wait for Willis to do that for us.
She's resting a chin on her hand, lightly inquiring her boyfriend about easy, surface-level topics. Her voice is saccharine. And I have to remind myself that she doesn't treat everyone the same way she treats us.
She finally finds our eyes behind her tall glass martini. "You may leave now, thank you," she says to us, her voice like molasses.
Her boyfriend finds our eyes, glancing between her and us. "I don't think that'll be necessary. You can stay." He meets Ms. Willis' eyes, voice earnest. "I insist, if that's okay with you, Courtney."
The way Ms. Willis pales is comical. Her demeanor shifts in seconds, but even I can here the edge to her voice when she says, "of course, take a seat."
"Good evening," He says with that friendly grin, rising to his feet to shake our hands before sinking back into his seat. "Richard Whitehawk," he nods, bright skin glinting underneath the light.
The rest of us lower down to our seats, Angie sending us raised eyebrows and Lucas smiling politely and painfully as he always does in awkward situations.
"Uh, Courtney mentioned that you made the food?" He smiles a little and we nod in return. "That's amazing," he says. He glances down at his place, "and this is arroz con pollo, right?"
Lucas nods quickly, "yeah, yeah it is."
Ms. Willis laughs, falsely. "What did you just say? What is that?"
Angie snorts. "It's Spanish." She says, sweetly, "rice and chicken, ma'am." I can hear the cynicism dripping from her voice, and it's all I can do to prevent myself from echoing my sister's snort.
Ms. Willis' eyebrows furrow, smile far more strained than it was before. If there's anything Willis hates, it's being embarrassed or looking like an idiot. Especially in front of someone like Mr. Whitehawk here.
Speaking of said man, he's trying to conceal a laugh at Angie's statement, most likely finding Ms. Willis' lack of Spanish knowledge amusing, maybe endearing.
"Don't push me, Angie," Ms. Willis giggles, already able to tell that there's a slight defiance emitting from Angie, one that she's definitely not accustomed to. After all, I'm supposed to the problematic one, the defiant one. "You don't want me to just kick you right back out, do you?"
By the end of her statement, Ms. Willis is the only one giggling. Silence crosses over the table. Richard blinks, frown crawling onto his features, surprise emitting from his form.
Noticing the less-than-positive reaction, Ms. Willis quickly saves face. "I'm kidding," she titters, "no need to be so sensitive." To Richard, she offers a widely plastered-on grin, "we joke around like this all the time."
For once, I'm lucky that Richard isn't an utter asshole. Any of Ms. Willis' previous —boyfriends or dates, or whatever it is she calls them— would've let out a loud laugh, egging Ms. Willis on as she verbally abused us. Because normally, toxic people attract toxic people.
But not always. And tonight is different.
No one seems to buy into Ms. Willis' half-assed excuse, but the dinner continues, the sounds of forks clinking to plates creating a cacophony.
"By the way," Ms. Willis says, remarkably turning to me, most likely trying to grasp at the few shards of respect Richard has left for her, "tell me about your friend here," she lazily gestures towards Lucas. "I haven't seen him around much."
Lucas glances over at me, biting his bottom lip as he waits for me to say something, awkwardly sitting as Ms. Willis refers to him but simultaneously doesn't directly address him.
I blink, let out a breath. "He's just a friend." Bullshit. "We're in an after school activity together."
Ms. Willis squints, "what happened to the other one?"
If Ms. Willis had given a shit about me the way that Nana had, she'd have firstly known the other one's name, and two, known that I had to work through terrible shit after we fell out. Hell, if she was anything like her aunt, she'd have already known that I'm kind of into Lucas Garcia, and the feelings seem returned.
But she's not Nana. She's made that crystal clear.
Instead, I say, calmly, "Will and I don't really talk all that much anymore."
Lucas' eyes find the side of me head. I choose not to look at him. The aura shifts into one of clear discomfort. And I can't tell whether I'm more uncomfortable or if Lucas is.
"Hey, um," Richard cuts in, "I saw a painting hung up at the foyer. It looked Vietnamese, I think, and it was insanely intricate—"
In seconds, he changes the subject. And in that moment, I'm insanely fucking grateful for whoever this Richard guy is.
Like a child, Ms. Willis' attention instantly flickers away from grilling me, to saying, "oh, that old thing. Well, my late aunt was the one that bought it, and if you ask me—"
I send something resembling a grateful smile to Richard. He nods nearly imperceptibly in return.
***
By the time dinner's over, Ms. Willis fawns over Richard for a few more desperate moments before excusing herself to the bathroom, most likely for a few touch-ups. Either that, or a few more martinis given that it's pretty fucking obvious there won't be a next date.
The rest of us choose to walk Richard to the front door, where he slides his jacket onto his shoulders. I'm expecting him to turn around, maybe with an easy goodbye. Instead, he meets our eyes.
"Things don't seem so great in here," he says. No shit. "I'm actually a social worker. If things ever get rough and you ever need a place, I'll see what I can arrange for you guys."
Angie and I exchange looks. It's difficult to comprehend anything Richard is saying.
"Listen, I was in the foster system all my life. "You truly seem like good kids and I'm wishing you the best of luck. So, if you need anything—and I mean anything— here's my number." He hands us a card, a post-it note stuck to the back of it.
Then, with one tip of a non-existent hat, Richard Whitehawk is gone.
And held tightly between my fist—like my life depends on it— is a note and a card that scream of infinite promises.
Angie shakes her head, eyes lost in thought. I run quick hands through my hair before handing the card and note to Lucas, letting out a breath.
My mind can't seem to fully function. So, instead, I rush up the stairs to my room, Lucas trailing after me, and Angie having disappeared into her own space to think alone.
I've spent a good portion of my life with Ms. Willis. The possibility of leaving seems like a far-fetched fantasy. Bullshit. I've grown accustomed to the fact that this is my life, and nothing is fucking changing that.
But all of a sudden, Mr. Whitehawk— Richard— saunters in with a golden ticket and a promise at the tips of his lips, causing my already-fractured world to spin faster.
I fall back onto my bed. Lucas makes his way into my room, shutting the door behind him, Richard's information still held in his hands. He eyes me with those big, concerned eyes, and it takes my all not to break down right here in front of him.
"I can't—I can't picture any of this," I whisper softly, eyes on the ceiling, mind whirring with thoughts. "If things don't work out with this Richard guy, I have nothing to fall back on."
Lucas doesn't say anything, just listens.
"I don't even know what the fuck actually happened to my parents," My voice is breaking. Shit, my voice is breaking. "How am I supposed to leave when I don't have anything to fall back on, don't know where I came from?"
The most that I know is that my dad was a man with Vietnamese and Japanese in his blood, that my mom was an Italian American with too much money and not enough responsibility. And I only know this from what my earlier foster parents had told me. I hold onto it, though. But still, I know nothing about how they were really like, how they spoke, how they looked.
Lucas makes his way over to my bed, laying down next to me. His hands loosely slide into mine, and he glances at me, giving me an encouraging nod to continue.
"Fuck, I'd give anything to know who they were." I thought I had a lead a couple of months ago, but everything fell to a dead end, regardless of Angie and I's extent of research. I'd let it go. After all, disappointment is an old friend of mine.
Lucas' eyes find mine. "Then let's find out who they were."
It seems so simple when he words it like that. Maybe Lucas just doesn't understand the fact that people can disappear, that sometimes you'll never get closure. I don't bother telling him this, though. So, he grabs my laptop, places it on his laps and starts digging.
I stay sprawled onto the bed, watching him type, eyes scanning over the screen, little hums escaping his lips.
"We need more," he says softly.
"And we'll never get it," I reply, "My parents vanished off the face of the earth. Any leads lead to dead ends."
No sooner have the words left my lips do I hear a stumbling downstairs, then a series of raspy swearing. Ms. Willis. I hear the clink of a glass against a counter top, the popping of a wine bottle. As usual, Ms. Willis drinks herself into oblivion whenever a date goes badly.
It's a ritual, really.
Lucas glances over at me, hearing the sounds, lips pursed. "She's not in her room, is she?"
"What're you trying to propose, Lucas?" I ask, eyebrows raised.
"We should just have a look," he rushes through, "just in case."
I blink with melodrama. "Snooping? I cannot believe you would even suggest something so scandalous, Mr. Garcia."
"Please," he says, hand rising to his forehead. "I already feel bad enough as it is. I just, I really think this is important. I have a feeling."
Somehow, that feeling winds us into Ms. Willis' room, rifling through cabinets and drawers.
"See?" I ask, closing an empty cabinet. "Nothing here."
But Lucas doesn't respond, just slips into her walk-in closet, standing on top of a stool, reaching towards the very top.
"You really won't find anything there," I say, "It's where Ms. Willis keeps the shrine filled with pictures of her ex-husbands and weddings." I shudder. "Trust me, those pictures are fucking traumatic. Her irises are red in every single one. Which makes sense, because she's evil and shit, but —"
"—Dios." Lucas mutters, rising to his tippy toes as he finds a red shoebox that I've never laid eyes on before now. It's dated, stickers peeling. On a yellow sticky note is the beautiful cursive that belonged to Lilith Willis. Nana.
My heart catches onto my throat.
I've never seen this before.
Lucas slips off of the plastic stool, opening the shoebox. Lucas' eyes widen as he picks up a sheet of paper. "It's a birth certificate."
I pale.
"What?" I ask, taking the paper from him. It's a simple outline, somewhat intricate. My name is on it. But that's not what catches my eyes. What catches my eyes are two names.
Samuel Nguyen and Anna Bruno-Nguyen.
Lucas fishes deeper into the shoebox, finding a crumpled piece of paper that he stretches out in front of us. I hold the certificate in my hands, my hands still shaking as I look over at the creased sheet.
And on it—in black ink— are two addresses.
Lucas' eyes find mine with something intense and excited, voice breathy as he whispers.
"These might be the places that we're looking for."
***
👁👁 are we *actually* finding out about torpe's parents?? :0