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Buck
“I’m getting older,” I finally say, rolling the sleeves of my button-down up to my forearms. I cross one leg over the other and lean back on the curved white sofa. It’s not exactly comfortable, but maybe it’s designed that way — something like ‘Relax, but not too much.’
I glance at the clock on the office wall. Thirteen minutes left in the session.
“I ran into Tommy again last month. I already told you that, didn’t I?”
Of course I did. Every part of my life has been dissected in this room at some point. Ever since Bobby died, I’ve accepted that I’ll probably be in therapy for the rest of my life.
“He’s not the right person for me, I know that. But I remember how important he used to be — and now he’s so irrelevant. I waved from a distance. I was with Eddie. Eddie ignored him too. It’s funny because Tommy was his friend first. Not that I’m complaining about Eddie’s loyalty, but maybe that’s what helped Tommy form his stupid opinion about me and Eddie.”
I exhale, waiting for Makayla to say something. She doesn’t. Just raises an eyebrow.
“Eddie’s my best friend. He’s my person. I don’t mean that romantically, but he is — and I’d never do anything to put that friendship at risk.”
Dr. Makayla Green, my therapist. Early forties. Curly hair, thick-rimmed glasses, hoop earrings that brush her shoulders, a striped dress. Every time I leave that little room — with its cream walls, sisal rug, and floor-to-ceiling window — I think the same thing: she sees right through me.
“I went out with someone twice,” I say, laughing under my breath, a short, bitter sound. “Totally casual, something Buck 1.0 would’ve done. She’s smart, funny, kind... but I can already tell that at some point she’ll say the same thing everyone else has: ‘Buck, your life’s already too full.’”
Makayla’s expression softens. She wants me to go on, to talk about what’s taking up so much space in my life that there’s no room left for anyone else. I hate lying to her — especially because she always knows when I do.
Fuck. As if I had a choice. Bringing it up means acknowledging it. And acknowledging it means dealing with it.
“And it’s not going to work because I’m using her to get over the fact that my father figure died.”
I have so many people who matter to me — Maddie, Chris, Eddie, Jee-Yun, baby Bobby, Athena, Chimney, Hen, Ravi, Kaven, May, Harry — all my friends, my family. I know I’m loved. But Bobby... he was everything.
Not because I saw him as perfect. But because he was Bobby. He filled every space — with that deep laugh echoing through the walls, those kind eyes. I watched him all the time, every gesture, every word. He was my favorite person in the world.
We argued, sure. But he was my anchor — the fragment of normalcy I held onto when everything else fell apart.
Sometimes I think about calling him. But I know he won’t pick up.
It hurts to think about him. Because he’ll never hug me again. Never pat me on the back and mutter that everything’s going to be okay — when it’s not. Nothing’s okay. I spent so many years mourning how my parents didn’t love me, how unfair life was, all the wrong people I got tangled up with.
None of that matters anymore. Not really.
I should’ve told him I loved him. I should’ve thanked him for taking up such an important place in my life.
I try to pack that pain away, shove it into the back of my mind. But I can’t. Because Bobby left a legacy. Everyone’s grieving, and I can’t act like my pain is greater than anyone else’s — it’s not. They just seem to handle it better.
When he died, everything collapsed. I never even had space to cry at his grave.
I lost my father.
How the hell am I supposed to recover from that?
I pause — but not long enough for Dr. Green to interrupt.
“I love what I do. I’m good at it. Really good. It’s the only thing I’m good at. I don’t have hobbies, I don’t have talents, and honestly, it’s way past time I find some. But even if I did, I wouldn’t have time. I save people.”
And then what? Nothing. Everything slips through my fingers like sand. When I started, I thought if I became good enough, I’d feel something. But it’s never pride. Only relief.
I lift my eyes to hers. Makayla watches me closely, but she’s not surprised.
“It’s not the same,” I continue. “I walked in today thinking, ‘I’m not going to talk about Bobby.’ But I don’t know what else to talk about if not him. And that’s fine, right?”
I wait for some kind of reaction.
“How many times have you ended with that—‘And that’s fine, right?’”
Maybe seven times in the mirror last night.
“This time is yours, Buck,” she says gently. “Yours to do whatever you need. But you don’t have to convince me you’re okay.”
“I’m not trying to convince you.”
“You are. You come in here every week trying to justify yourself — as if you owe someone an explanation for every mistake, every failed relationship, every loss that broke you. But I’m not the jury. I’m not here to condemn or absolve you. You tell me what you think I want to hear.”
I cross my arms, sinking deeper into the sofa.
This is the part where she’s supposed to ask, ‘Buck, what are you feeling?’ And I’d answer, ‘Dr. Green, I’m tired. Tired as hell. And I’m too young to be this tired.’
But of course, she doesn’t.
“Why don’t you ever tell the rest of the story?” she asks instead.
I blink. “What story?”
“The one about grief. I know it’s ugly, but you always stop before you reach the part where it gets truly uncomfortable. You think if you can stay logical enough, you’ll avoid feeling anything at all.”
My stomach twists, bile rising in my throat.
“Because day after day, people are born, die, marry, divorce.” I rub my hands over my face. “And I’m still stuck in the same place. That’s the uncomfortable part. Sure, there are things I wish were different. But I did everything right. I tried my best. It’s just... none of it feels like mine. My life, my career, my achievements — they all feel scripted. Like I’m stuck playing a role someone else wrote for me. The tragic one. And I hate talking about it because it sounds like I’m complaining.”
And in a way, I am. Which makes me feel guilty. Guilty for complaining—even here, to my therapist. It feels wrong, like I’m wasting time. And maybe that makes sense. If I can’t complain to anyone, maybe I shouldn’t complain at all.
“Okay,” she says, waving a hand. “Let me ask you something simple: what do you think would happen if you threw away that script?”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. It’s not that I don’t know how to answer. I do. I always have.
“I don’t want to.”
“Recognizing that is a start,” she says, her voice gentle in that infuriating way that makes me want to laugh or scream. “Let’s leave it there for today. Think about it.”
I wrinkle my nose and glance at the clock again.
“Fine. I’ll think about it,” I mutter, standing. “See you next week.”
“And next session,” she adds, “tell me more about that girl you mentioned.”
And I think about it.
During the eight-block walk home, weaving around tourists frozen in the middle of the sidewalk.
In the empty elevator.
While I toss my clothes into the washer.
Under the hot water of the shower, running down my face, my shoulders.
And for several minutes, stretched out in my caramel leather Womb chair.
I don’t like my new apartment — not enough to call it home. I miss Eddie’s house, but I don’t want him to feel guilty about it. So I spend as much time there as I can. I know it’s probably inconvenient, but neither he nor Chris has ever complained.
I don’t want to think anymore. By the time I realize it, I’m already pressing Eddie’s name at the top of my favorites list. The call barely rings before he answers, voice rushed.
“Yes, Buck, before you even ask, I’m running late,” he starts, sighing. “Not proud of it, but yeah, I forgot to get groceries. Saw the list still hanging on the fridge when I got home. So, here we are. What do you need for dinner?”
“What do you want for dinner?” I counter, catching my reflection in the hallway mirror.
“Chris would say mac and cheese, but he needs greens. Stir-fried chicken?”
“Okay. Chicken, ginger, cashews, garlic, honey, sesame oil.”
“Check, check, check… and check! All in the cart.”
“Bell pepper, carrot, onion, broccoli, and—”
“And mushrooms,” he adds. “Chris, grab the shimeji, please.”
“Do we really need mushrooms?” Chris’s voice is sharp, dripping with exaggerated disgust. The best part about teenagers is their brutal honesty. I suppress a laugh.
“Unfortunately, yes. Just separate them on your plate like Buck does,” Eddie tells him. “Unbelievable. You two are the same person.”
“Smart, charming—”
“Dramatic, difficult, and mushroom-hating,” he cuts in.
“I’ll take that. But in my defense, the texture is terrible.”
“Anything else?”
“I’m assuming you already got ice cream.”
“Of course. Vanilla for me. Berry cheesecake for Chris. Chocolate for you.”
“Always the best. A timeless classic.”
“Bye, Buck.”
He hangs up without another word. I stare at the screen for a moment before slipping the phone into my pocket along with my wallet. Then I bend down to tie my sneakers.
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Eddie
Although it’s still the second-to-last week of spring, the night is unbearably hot and thick with humidity. Streetlights spill through the half-open curtains, mixing with the bluish glow of the TV screen and casting pale, fractured light across the furniture.
It can’t be past midnight when the sharp trill of Buck’s phone slices through the quiet, jolting me awake. I blink slowly — once — and he doesn’t notice. So I keep my eyes closed.
Buck slides a hand into his pocket, careful not to move too much, and answers.
“No, I’m not home yet,” he whispers, voice hoarse, heavy with sleep. “Maybe an hour. Okay, whatever. Wednesday, then. No, I won’t forget.”
I stay still, hoping his phone volume is high enough for me to catch the other voice on the line. He listens for a moment longer, then exhales — impatient, weary.
“I’ll call you later.”
Call ended.
I could ask, but that would mean admitting I heard at least part of the conversation. Buck would probably tell me anyway — he never lies to me. He might deflect, but he wouldn’t hide it. We’re not like those middle-school girls who share every microscopic detail of their lives, but there are no secrets between us — not about the things that matter.
Buck’s my best friend.
Whoever it was, Buck’s the kind of guy who tells me every detail of his life — even the ones I don’t want to hear. I didn’t like listening to him mourn Abby. Didn’t want to hear about Ali, Taylor, Lucy, Taylor again, and Natalia. And most of all, I hated hearing him talk about Tommy.
Right now, he’s single — because he’s barely pretending to cope with Bobby’s death. I know Buck, and I know Athena. They’re both surviving through grief. How can you take a lung from someone and expect them to breathe the same?
I don’t remember when I fell asleep, still in yesterday’s clothes — gray sweatpants and an old LAFD T-shirt. Napping on the couch wasn’t part of the plan, but somehow, it happens. Everything’s quiet except for the muffled hum of the TV. Warm. Comfortable.
He’d said he’d leave before ten, but after his second beer, Buck switched channels and picked a Jordan Peele movie on Netflix. I pretended that had been the plan all along, and he pretended not to notice the time. So he ended up watching mostly alone. Movies are Buck’s thing. I watch them with him, and most of the time, for him.
Everything’s fine.
Then my phone rings.
I want to ignore it and just focus on that ridiculously pretentious cologne of his. I’m content. Christopher and I have been good lately. I had a decent shift — no fatalities, no serious injuries, only four calls. At the end of the day, I picked Chris up from school, we went grocery shopping, and cooked dinner with Buck — he cooked, I peeled the vegetables, Chris set the table. Afterward, we did the dishes, and Chris gave up pretending to care about us and went upstairs to talk to his friends on the phone.
Eventually, it’ll stop ringing, I think.
Buck shifts beside me.
“Eddie,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles lightly against my arm. “Your phone’s ringing. It’s your mom.”
I blink slowly, pretending I’ve just woken up. He gestures toward the phone.
Her name flashes on the screen, and the hazy comfort of sleep evaporates instantly. Buck watches for a moment, then lowers the TV volume.
“You gonna answer?” he asks, brow furrowing.
I don’t reply. Just stare at the screen.
“Buenas noches, mom,” I answer finally.
And I already don’t want to know what comes next.
“Finally, Edmundo.” Her voice is firm, sharp, stripped of warmth or preamble. “Where are you?”
I glance around the living room, as if to confirm it. My couch. The crumpled throw blanket tangled around my legs. Buck sitting next to me.
“At home,” I say, voice even.
“Christopher’s asleep?”
“Of course.” I’m not actually sure — he’s been sneaking past bedtime lately — but I’ll never give her that kind of ammunition. “What do you want?”
Buck exhales softly. Over the years, he’s learned to accept my parents as a sort of inevitability. They’ve always been hard to stomach, but in a different way from his. Mine crave control; his don’t care at all. Ever since I came back from El Paso, Buck’s dislike for my parents has outgrown even the resentment he once had for his own.
“Don’t start, Eddie.” My mother’s tone sharpens. “I wanted to know if you’ve thought about what we discussed last time.”
Thought about it? I thought about it, re-thought it, buried the thought, and danced on its grave.
“I’m not in the headspace for that right now.”
“You never are,” she snaps. “But this isn’t going away just because you refuse to face it.”
My jaw tightens. She wants Christopher to spend the summer with them again — to take him on some cruise. Last summer, I nearly lost him to them. I doubt he even wants to go; he already has plans. Still, I’ll have to ask and pray he says no.
I can feel Buck’s eyes on me — steady, patient. He knows when to speak and when to stay quiet.
Mothers and Sons. The sad little ballad of our lives.
“Mom,” I say carefully. “Can we talk about this another time?”
Silence.
A long one.
“Fine,” she says at last, displeased. “I’ll be in Los Angeles on Monday. My flight lands at two. Since you’re always working and never have time, don’t worry — I’ll take a cab.”
“Is Dad coming?”
“No. He’s camping with some old friends. Good night.”
The call ends.
I stare at the phone screen, as if it’s somehow to blame for her existence — and not the fact that thirty-three years ago, she simply decided to try being a mother.
“Shit. Shit, shit.” I run a hand through my hair. “Helena’s gonna be here Monday.”
I let the phone fall softly onto the couch and close my eyes. The silence stretches between us. The world tilts, spins, then stops so suddenly my stomach turns.
“And your dad?” Buck asks quietly.
I shake my head. He exhales, relieved.
“At least there’s that.”
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Sunday lunch was always the same.
Macaroni boiled until it fell apart, drowned in canned tomatoes. Boneless pork chops, smothered in a sweet-and-sour sauce my mother would start preparing the moment we got back from Sunday school. The smell filled the house, seeping into the curtains, the carpets, my skin.
She’d set the steaming dishes on the table beside a basket of biscuits from the local bakery. We used the special plates — a set of white ceramic with yellow flowers painted by hand. Too delicate for the dishwasher, so after lunch she washed them carefully by hand and tucked them back into the china cabinet.
When my father was home, he’d sit at the head of the table, slowly swirling the ice cubes at the bottom of his glass while sipping his third Jack Daniel’s. My mother preferred white wine. Sophia, Adriana and I drank overly sweet lemonade, so cold it fogged the glasses.
Sometimes, Adriana baked an upside-down pineapple cake. It was my father’s favorite. Somehow, that still mattered to her. Maraschino cherries, canned pineapple, boxed cake mix. Flip, bake, wait.
Every so often, my father decided to grill. Helena would roll her eyes and mutter under her breath. I never understood why until years later, when I found out she spent the entire Saturday marinating the pork chops in spicy seasoning.
He knew. He always knew. And he did it anyway.
I used to hope he’d wake up angry with her on Sunday morning — because that meant no pork chops, and better yet, no church.
The smell made my stomach turn. It was thick, heavy, clinging to my hair, my clothes, the walls of the house.
So many years later — over a decade — it’s not the sound of the TV, or Chris’s hurried footsteps down the hall, or even the scent of patchouli, cedarwood, and Sicilian lemon from the diffuser Maddie gave me for Christmas that greets me when I open the door to my home.
It’s that smell.
Pork, butter, powdered seasoning, orange juice, apple cider vinegar, and tomato.
The metallic taste of bile rises in my throat. I take a deep breath. Inhale, exhale. Once. Twice. Seven times.
When I was a child, our house was hers. Helena went through my things, threw away whatever she didn’t like, because everything there belonged to her. Maybe that’s why I became an adult who cares so little about his own home. I suppose all men are like that — they must not care much about these things. That’s why Shannon chose most of my furniture.
If Helena could hear my thoughts, she’d accuse me of being selfish and controlling, of taking her grandson away from her. But she’s my mother. I learned all of this from her.
And I was a good son.
I was a good son.
I was a good son.
I did everything right — until Shannon. Because Shannon wasn’t the right woman for me. Because Shannon wasn’t a good mother. Because Shannon wasn’t a good Catholic girl. Because Shannon could, at times, be more important — more loved — than she was.
In the end, it wouldn’t have mattered who the woman was; my mother would never have found her good enough for her standards, which meant I would never be good enough either. Shannon was my first mistake. Then came a million others.
And now Shannon’s dead, and I can’t even blame her for the ways our son is broken. That part was all me.
She’s sitting at the dining table, already set.
“You’re late, cariño,” Helena says, eyes fixed on the glass as she pours lemonade, exactly the way she used to on Sundays.
She places the glass on the table without a coaster.
“I know, mami,” I say with an apologetic smile, though I’m not sorry. “Thanks for waiting. We got a call right before the end of shift. You know how it is.”
Helena lifts her head and looks at me. Her brown eyes glint, searching my face. Her expression tells me she doesn’t, in fact, know how it is. She isn’t pathologically addicted to adrenaline, throwing her life on the line every day.
But I wasn’t always like this. I used to be the quiet kid. I used to be normal. Before I enlisted. Before Afghanistan.
I take off my jacket and sit beside Christopher. He’s distracted, pushing his pasta around the plate, elbows on the table, one hand holding his head. He’s too quiet. Sometimes I can’t tell if it’s adolescence or if he still thinks I’ll screw everything up again.
Things have been better since we moved back to L.A. Christopher loves Los Angeles. He loves his life here. He loves Buck, loves all my friends and his. But it’s not the same. None of us are the same. We all lost Bobby.
Helena sits across from me, sliding a plate in my direction. I’m still staring at the sweating glass on the table, the ring of condensation staining the varnish.
“How was your day”
I give a vague answer, and she nods, satisfied to pretend we’re having a normal conversation. I ask her back, and she starts complaining. About traffic, about noise, about prices.
“I expected a bit of mess, but this…”
“This what, exactly?” I cross my arms.
“This,” she repeats, sweeping the apartment with her critical gaze. “Dirty laundry everywhere, nothing in the fridge… I had to go grocery shopping. How are you two even surviving? Your father still doesn’t cook?”
In under four hours, she’d sent Carla home, gone shopping, cooked dinner, and picked Christopher up from school. When I was a kid, she was never that productive.
“Buck usually makes dinner,” Chris shrugs, bored. “He made stir-fry Saturday and carbonara last night.”
Helena’s face immediately softens, a smile lighting up for her grandson.
“That’s really kind of Buck,” she says, turning to me with a frown. “But I still don’t understand how he fits into this family.”
My jaw drops. I open my mouth, but no words come out. I focus instead on the glass of lemonade. The damp circle spreading across the wood annoys me more than it should.
I give up. Stand. The chair scrapes sharply against the floor. I grab a coaster from the cabinet and wipe the table dry before setting it down.
“Why did you send Carla home?” I ask without looking at her.
Helena watches me, a cruel smile tugging at her lips. I already know what she’s thinking. I’ve heard her voice in my head for years, calling me dramatic. And maybe she’s right. Maybe I am. She knows me. She loves me.
“I don’t see the point in paying for something a grandmother can do for free.”
Christopher shoots me a knowing look. I take a deep breath.
“Mom. Carla’s a good person. She’s part of our routine. I trust her. More importantly, Chris trusts her.”
Helena raises an eyebrow.
“That’s because you never gave us another chance.”
Another chance — right. Her taking care of Chris, dragging him into that hellhole of a house in Texas.
“Mom” I start, but she cuts me off with a wave of her hand.
“Eddie, let’s just eat, okay?” she says abruptly, gesturing to my plate. “You always loved my pork chops. Not as good this time, of course, they didn’t marinate long enough. But I’ll make them again.”
She keeps talking. The accent heavy — like mine used to be. Her hands move when she speaks, just like mine do when I’m distracted.
The smell of meat mingles with her perfume. Dry floral. Familiar. I feel ten years old again, feet swinging above the kitchen floor, trying to ignore the clink of ice in my father’s whiskey glass.
“You always loved my pork chops.”
I never did.
Christopher and Helena talk animatedly. He tells her about school, about sedimentary, metamorphic, and igneous rocks he learned about that morning, about the new video game he started. She listens with delight, her face bright with interest. I hear every word, catch every detail, but nothing makes it to my tongue. Everything I think to say sounds stupid, unnecessary.
“You’re doing a good job,” Helena murmurs. “But you look so tired. You still work too much. You still don’t make enough time to really take care of Christopher.”
A shiver crawls up my spine. After all those months in Texas, after everything I did, it feels like we’re back to square one — she still thinks I don’t love my son enough. Or that I’m not fit to raise him.
“I just want to help,” she insists. “I want to be around. I love him so much. And you love him too. You’re my son. He’s my grandson. I know what’s best for you both.”
I’m trying. God, I’m trying. Every day I ask myself what’s best for Christopher, and I never know the answer. But does she really know?
“You’re too young to carry all this alone,” she says softly. “I’m still here.”
She stands, smoothing her immaculate blouse, and kisses my forehead. Her fingers slide through my hair, and the gesture is so maternal, so gentle, that for a moment I regret every cruel thought I’ve had about her — today, yesterday, Saturday, the past twenty years.
“Buenas coches, cariño.”
And then, she’s gone.
I stay there, frozen. Thinking.
Until I finally rise and wash the stack of dishes she left in the sink.