I’m on my bed, hugging my knees to my chest. My eyes are swollen, like that time I drank a whole cup of soy sauce at Empire on Jo-jo’s dare. Only this time, I haven’t been to no Chinese restaurant. I haven’t eaten anything since yesterday. I don’t want to leave my room. I don’t want to see anybody.

There’s thumping and smashing above me. Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez are going at it again. Distraction’s good. I had Gato in here with me before. Was hugging him instead of my knees. But he couldn’t tolerate me for more than a few minutes. He only wants affection on his terms. He’s like Abuela that way.

There’s a knock on my door. It’s probably Toto coming to tempt me with a peanut butter sandwich again. I never seen him in the kitchen, so I didn’t know he could put food together. Peanut butter’s not something Abuela would make. And I don’t smell bacon or eggs. I bet she won’t feed me or talk to me ’til I agree to what she wants. That Toto would ignore that and go through the trouble of finding bread, reaching the plastic container of peanut butter down from the high shelf, spreading it with a knife, cutting the sandwich diagonally—the way I like it—and offering it to me says something. I always thought he was afraid of her. She pays the rent. But maybe she’s not here? Abuela was supposed to have the day off. We was going to go to El Mundo to shop for clothes for me. But that was before the hospital. Abuela probably called in to work. She’s always preferred overtime to spending time with me.

My stomach churns. I have to eat something. I try to say, “Come in.” All that comes out is a croak.

The door squeaks. Gato, the cat, yowls as he’s smushed through the narrow opening. He glares at whoever’s pushed him in, narrows his eyes at me, and slinks under the bed.

The door widens. Bertie steps in. He’s holding the plate with the peanut butter sandwich out in front of him. There’s a low murmur of a man’s voice. Bertie turns and takes a tall glass of milk in his other hand. He holds that in front of him, too. The door shuts.

I cross my arms over my chest. I stare at my bedcover. It used to be Star Wars. Luke, Princess Leia, Chewbacca. Han Solo was my favorite, and I was pissed he wasn’t featured. But at the store, it was either that or My Little Pony. After I told Abuela I was pregnant, she took me for a new one. Said I deserved something more grown-up. It’s a tropical beach scene. There’s even a palm tree with three coconuts in it. It was so I could sleep and dream under white sand and turquoise waters until after Angelo was born and Abuela took us to meet her family. I follow the curve of one of the palm fronds with my hand. Guess this is all of the DR I’m going to see for a while.

Bertie’s been staring at me. When I look up, he quick-stares at the glass in his hand. There are tiny milk bubbles along the top of it. My stomach announces itself. I drop my arms, try to cover it.

Bertie licks his lips. “Por favor,” he says. “Tómatelo. Please. You have to eat. It’s not good for you not to eat.”

I reach for the glass. He gives it to me. I drink it down, not stopping. When I finish, I let out an enormous burp. Bertie winces. I hold out my hand for the sandwich. He gives me that, too.

“You didn’t say anything about the baby.”

He tilts his head at me. I’m talking with my mouth half-stuck with peanut butter, so maybe he didn’t hear right. I shove the rest of the sandwich triangle in my mouth. The empty glass of milk is teasing me. Making me regret drinking it all so quick.

“You didn’t say it’s not good for the baby. Not eating.” I wipe the crumbs off my face with my sleeve. I push back in the bed, lean on the headboard. I leave the other half of the sandwich on the plate. It looks lonely.

Bertie winces again. He steps forward. He puts his hands on the sand of my coverlet. His fingers trace the edge of the ocean. I’m sitting at the other end of it.

“Mari,” he says, looking only at the water. “We need to talk.”

My eyes are so swollen, I didn’t think anything else would fit in them. They’re so dry, I didn’t think any more tears would come out.

I grab up that lonely piece of sandwich. I hold it with both hands against my chest. I press it to my mouth, but I don’t eat it. I use it to keep my lips still.

I hate being wrong.

I hear Bertie swallow. It’s so quiet I’m not sure I’m breathing. Mr. and Mrs. Rodriguez must have made up. Or maybe they fell asleep. Old people do that sometimes.

“I . . .” He swallows again. “I don’t want you to suffer. You suffer so much already. You don’t deserve this.”

The tears coming out of me dry up. A hot burning wave rises inside. I drop the sandwich onto the plate. I miss. It falls to the floor. Black-and-white paws shoot out from under the bed as Gato attacks it.

“What about you?” My voice is a solid metal bar, a railing leading down to the subway that you grab when you slip. I show him nothing.

Bertie nods. “We don’t deserve this,” he says. He looks for my hand, like he’s going to take it. I push them both behind me. He reaches across the ocean and puts his hand on my socked foot instead. His palm covers the bumpy, pilled fabric. “We can try again.” He whispers this. He’s not sure how I’ll feel about it. At least he knows that much.

He tugs at my ankle. Slowly, he pulls my leg across the sea that separates us. He starts to massage my foot. I don’t know if I should let him. I don’t want to be alone. But I feel so far away from him. Maybe this baby is God talking to me. Telling me I’m meant to be alone. I’m not meant to belong to a family.

The waves of anger inside me smooth and flatten. I feel empty.

And then I remember what he looked like. Little Angelo. Kicking away Doc’s wand.

I scratch at my lip. “You didn’t say anything about the baby,” I repeat.

Bertie’s rubbing my foot. His fingers take hold of my toes. He gives each one a little squeeze. His eyes are shut. When did he close them? “The baby’s not here,” he says. “You are. You are here.”

“And you, too,” I say.

He nods. He reaches for my other foot. I shift it away. I pull the one he massaged up against me, put a pillow on top of it.

Bertie lets out a sigh. “The doctor, she said this was the best way. She said this was the right thing to do.”

I don’t remember Pudgy Purple saying that. Maybe she did and I wasn’t paying attention. My Doc never would have said that. He said there was no right decision. There was only the decision that was right for me. He said whatever I decided, he would be there to support me.

Bertie looks like he’s going to say something else. If he says anything about us being too young, I’m gonna have to hit him. Because we talked about that. We talked about how three years is too young to lose your papi. Eight years is too young to be abandoned by your mama. Fifteen years is too young to get arrested for dealing. But it’s not too young to become a father. Or a mother. It’s not too young to make something that’s gonna love you forever.

Bertie makes a sound. I think maybe he’s trying to clear his throat. He’s leaning with one arm against my bed, staring at the ocean between us. As if he doesn’t know what he’s looking at. As if he used to, but doesn’t remember the words anymore. He looks so lost. So sad. I wish I hadn’t drank all the milk. If I hadn’t, I would give him some.

What Doc said wasn’t right. It’s not my decision. Not mine alone. Not really.

“Okay.”

I’m not sure if I’ve said it or if I only thought it in my head. But then Bertie says my name. And he’s crying.

I grab my other pillow, curl around it.

He holds his arm against his face. When he drops it, his skin is so pale it’s almost white. I almost say it’s too bad Abuela’s not here to see him like this. She might like him better this way. I start to cry instead.

Bertie moves to my side of the bed. I’m terrified he’s going to hug me. I push him away. I manage to utter the word, “Go.” He stands there for a few minutes. He makes me say it again. And again.

When Bertie opens the door, Gato tears out from under the bed. Bertie yelps as Gato makes a break for it over his foot. It’s nice to think that someone—even if it’s just a cat—gets what he wants. It’s nice to think someone is free.