This, I can relate to.
“I’m the baby of the family, so I get it,” I tell her. “My family is great but…sometimes overbearing.”
Mila flips open a spiral notebook, then slowly runs her fingers over her laptop’s trackpad. I watch her fingers move, delicate and quick.
“Hm. How many brothers and sisters do you have?” she asks, taking a sip of her Diet Dr. Pepper.
“Five,” I reply.
She coughs and has to cover her mouth to swallow her sip of soda. “Did you say there are five of you?”
“Six. I’m the youngest of six.”
“Holy shit. Your poor mother.”
I chuckle. “No, she wanted a big family. Both of my parents did. They wanted a house full of kids, so that’s what they made.”
Mila sets down her soda and stares at me. “Imagine that.”
I can imagine it because that’s everyday life for me.
“Imagine what? People having six kids? I mean, it’s a lot, but it’s not that unusual.”
She gives me a small smile. “No,” she says. Her hand goes to the side of her neck as she rests one elbow on the table, then bites her lip. “Imagine being wanted.”
That seems like a loaded statement, and I’m unsure how to proceed without prying. “What…what does that mean, Mila?”
Mila cocks her head, closes her sage green eyes, and says, “Never mind. New subject, please.”
She has no idea what that does to me to see her close her eyes. Mila has the prettiest lashes I’ve ever seen. They complement her plump cheeks and even fuller lips.
But more importantly, finding out I’m from a family of six planned kids has given her pause. It’s brought up something that hurts her or someone who hurt her. And the idea of her being rejected by her parents fills my stomach with a knot of anger and the urge to have a chat with whoever they are. Just a friendly chat. Accompanied by a cattle prod.
“New subject. Okay,” I say. “I never caught your major.”
She seems to let out a breath, and her shoulders fall. “General studies.”
This, of course, adds to the mystery.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but can you earn a degree in general studies?”
Mila shrugs. “Sure, why not?”
She has a particular way of looking at me, her beautiful eyes piercing me like she dares me to push back against this half-baked idea of a major. The coppery flecks in the sage of her irises seem somehow more prominent. Those eyes make me question everything I know. Who am I to say? General Studies could be a legit degree.
“Okay. Well, what are your interests?”
Mila taps one finger to her chin and studies the ceiling. She replies, “I don’t honestly know. That’s why I picked the major I did.”
I am fascinated and astounded. She, or someone, paid a lot of money for her to be here, and she isn’t even sure what she’s interested in?
I press further. “I’m sorry, but why are you here?”
I say this all wrong. I didn’t mean to say that critically, but that’s how she takes it. I shouldn’t have said that at all.
Mila’s eyes bore into me, her nostrils flare, and she takes one, two, three breaths before putting me in my place. “I am here,” she says, way more softly than how she spoke to me in the library the other day, “because someone mistakenly believed in me.”
A few seconds pass while I unpack that statement.