Lied to them.
All of a sudden, my lips were magically sewn together. I waited for my mother to conveniently change the topic in that chaotic and speedy way she always did while my mind went on a panicky frenzy.
What am I supposed to say anyway? No, Mamá. He can’t have a tie because he doesn’t even exist. I made him up, you see. All in an attempt to look a little less pathetic and lonely.
Perhaps I could hang up. Or pretend to be busy and terminate the call. But that would fill me with remorse, and frankly, I didn’t think I was able to take on any more of that. Also, my mother wasn’t stupid.
She’d know something was up.
This was the woman whose womb I had come out of.
More seconds ticked away as nothing came out of my mouth, and I couldn’t believe that for the first time in probably ever, the Martín matriarch was waiting for my answer in silence.
Shit.
A few more seconds ticked away.
Shit, shit, shit.
Confess, a little voice in my head said. But I shook my head, focusing on one of the little droplets of sweat trailing down my clammy back.
“Lina?” she finally said, her voice unsure. Worried. “Did something happen?”
I was a horrible, lying human being who had unquestionably put that concern I could hear in her voice.
“No …” Clearing my throat, I ignored the heaviness that felt a lot like shame settle in my stomach. “I’m okay.”
I heard her sigh. It was one of those sighs that smacked into you. Making me feel bad about myself. As if I could see her looking at me with eyes filled with defeat and a little sorrow, shaking her head. I hated it.
“Lina, you know you can talk to me if something happened.”
My guilt deepened, souring my stomach. I felt awful. Stupid too. But what could I even do besides keep lying or coming clean?
“Did you guys break up? You know, it would make sense because you have never talked about him before. Not until the other day at least.” There was a pause, in which I could hear my heart drumming in my ears. “Your cousin Charo said something yesterday, you know.”
Of course Charo knew. Anything Mamá knew, the rest of the family knew.
“So, she said that,” she continued when I didn’t say anything, “you don’t have any photos of him on Facebook.”
I closed my eyes.
“Nobody posts anything on Facebook anymore, Mamá,” I told her in a weak voice while I kept battling with myself.
“And Prinstanam? Whatever it is that you young people use now. No photos there either.”
I could picture Charo scouting all my social profiles, searching for this imaginary man and rubbing her hands when she hadn’t found any.
“Charo said that if it’s not Prinstanam official, then it’s not serious.”
My heartbeat hammered louder in my chest. “It’s called Instagram.”
“Fine.” She sighed again. “But if you broke up with him or if he ended things—I don’t care who did what—you can talk to us about it. To Papá and to me. I know how much you have struggled with this dating thing ever since … you know, since Daniel.”
That last comment was a knife to the chest. It turned that heavy sensation into something ugly and painful. Something that made me think of the reason why I’d lied, why I struggled—as my mother had put it—and why I was in this predicament in the first place.
“You have never brought anybody home in all these years you’ve been away. Never talked about a man you were seeing. And never talked about this one before you told us you were dating him and that you’d bring him to the wedding. So, if you are alone again …”
A very familiar and very sharp pang pierced my chest at her words.