“Thank you,” Holden said.
“You go give those fucking skinnies hell, yeah?”
Over Cesar’s left shoulder, Naomi went stiff. Her smile, which had been soft and warm and amused, became polite. Holden felt it like a punch in the gut. But Cesar didn’t even seem to know that he’d said something rude. Holden was trapped between asking his father to apologize and preserving this last moment. Naomi, talking to Mother Tamara, plucked at her hair. Pulled it over her eyes.
Shit.
“You know,” Holden said. “That’s—”
“That’s what he’ll do,” Naomi said. “You can count on Jim.”
Her eyes were on his, and they were hard and dark. Don’t make this more awkward than it already is glowed in them as clearly as if she’d written it. Holden grinned, hugged Father Cesar one last time, and started the retreat to the door, the cart, the Rocinante. All eight of his parents crowded outside the door to watch him go. He felt them there even when the cart turned the corner and started up the ramp toward the docks. Naomi sat silently. Holden sighed.
“Okay,” he said. “I see now why you didn’t want to do that. I’m really sorry that—”
“Don’t,” Naomi said. “Let’s don’t.”
“I think I owe you an apology.”
She shifted to look straight at him. “Your father owes me an apology. One of your fathers. But I’m going to let him off the hook.”
“All right,” Holden said. The cart lurched to the right. A man with a thick beard trotted out of their way. “I was going to defend you.”
“I know you were.”
“Just … I would have.”
“I know. And then I would have been the reason that everything had gotten weird, and everyone would have gone out of their way to tell me how they respect Belters and how he didn’t mean me. And you’re their son, and they love you. And they love each other. So no matter what anyone said, it would all have been my fault.”
“Yeah,” Holden said. “But then I wouldn’t feel as bad about it. And I feel kind of bad about it.”
“Cross you’ll have to bear, sweetie,” Naomi said. She sounded tired.
At the dock, Fred Johnson’s crew was loading the last of the supplies into the cargo airlock. The new lace hull panels stood out on the Roci’s side like scars. The cart, having dropped them off, rumbled and chimed itself away. Holden paused for a moment, looking up at the ship. His heart was complicated.
“Yeah?” Naomi said.
“Nothing,” Holden said. And then, a moment later, “There was a time I thought things were simple. Or that at least some things were.”
“He didn’t mean me. No, really. He didn’t. Because I’m a person to him, and skinnies and Belters … they aren’t people. I had friends on the Pella. Real friends. People I grew up with. People I cared about. People I loved. They aren’t any different. They didn’t kill people, they killed Earthers. Martians. Dusters. Squats.”
“Squats?”
“Yup.”
“Hadn’t heard that one.”
She put her hand in his, shifted her body against his, reached up to rest her chin on the top of his head. “It’s considered rude.”
Holden leaned against her as much as the weak gravity would allow. He felt the warmth of her body against his. Felt the rise and fall of her breath.
“We’re not people,” he said. “We’re the stories that people tell each other about us. Belters are crazy terrorists. Earthers are lazy gluttons. Martians are cogs in a great big machine.”
“Men are fighters,” Naomi said, and then, her voice growing bleak. “Women are nurturing and sweet and they stay home with the kids. It’s always been like that. We always react to the stories about people, not who they really are.”
“And look where it got us,” Holden said.
Chapter Thirteen: Prax