“Is it possible to love someone who doesn’t understand your words?” She said it aloud, to nobody. But suddenly he shifted and answered with his lips. Under his mouth, she heard the colors of the aurora and felt the music on the tip of his tongue and tasted the starlight that wrapped them in its arms.
For the first time in all their make-out sessions, his hands ventured lower than her hair. Down the sides of her face. Over her shoulders, across her collar bone, down her sides. His fingertips hovered just beneath the hem of her shirt as he pulled away from her mouth. Distant galaxies twinkled in his eyes as he asked an unspoken question.
He was the kind of boy who would never touch her without asking, who would never assume he had a right to her body unless she expressly gave it to him. And it was that very thing that made her want to give it to him even more.
Evie tugged her shirt up and over her head and dropped it beside them on the floor. He closed his eyes then, and put an ear to her chest. With his index finger, he tapped a rhythm on her arm. Thump-thump, thump-thump, thump-thump. Listening to her heart.
When he rose up and reached behind her to unhook her bra, she let him—not thinking, just living in the moment. Translation was unnecessary when meaning was written in everything else.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FOUR
Oskar’s Journal
There’s a time of night
when the globe’s position
reaches a height
of burning disposition.
It pauses and gazes
between observer and sun.
Lights the sky with green blazes
until it is done.
Clarity puts on a show
of unfathomable light.
Here in this moment
with her,
I finally feel
the magnetic midnight.
Hands and lips
and hips and fingers,
buttons, clasps
and hooks don’t linger.
Sweaters, denim, lace and cotton
On the floor, happily forgotten.
On top of the world
And away from the din
Voltage swirls beneath bare skin.
Orion watches with Taurus the Bull.
The earth shifts on its axis,
breathless.
Jealous
of our
gravitational
pull.
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Evie
Morning sunlight trickled in through the panoramic windows, and Evie thought the sun must be exhausted from all that shining with barely any break.
Oskar’s chest rose and fell under her left cheek. A smile took over her face and she buried it in his neck to hide. If hell was the punishment she faced for last night, it had been worth it.
She nestled there, under their cocoon of blankets, listening to his soft snoring. She felt different. Loretta tried to tell her months ago that she wouldn’t feel different when it finally happened, that it was no big deal. But just like everything else Loretta said, she got to label it with a big fat bullshit in all caps. BULLSHIT.
Loretta had wasted her v-card on the wrong person—maybe that’s why she didn’t feel different. Suddenly an overwhelming gratitude filled her, and she thanked the God who’d surely disown her that she at least hadn’t wasted it on Ben.
It had been special. With a boy she was falling in love with—she was sure of it—as impossible as that sounded. She’d only met him a little more than a month ago.
And then reality hit her between the eyes—she only had a week left with him if Magnet Arts didn’t accept her late portfolio.
How many more nights like last night could she cram into a week? And then what? It’s not like they could talk on the phone. Or write letters. No, no, no, no. She tried to wrestle the sadness into submission, refused to let it in.
But it wouldn’t leave her alone. Neither would her bladder. Reluctantly, she sat up and searched the floor for her sweater. She leaned over and grabbed it from the floor and tugged it over her head, stretched out as it was, and tiptoed to the bathroom.
After clicking the switch several times, she remembered there was no power, and shut herself in the dark. She winced at the soreness and the fear that he might hear her peeing. Which was stupid, after what they’d done. She felt around in the dark for toilet paper, and then the flush handle, which thankfully worked just fine.
Cracking the door open to let some light in, she turned on the faucet and let the cold water drizzle over her hands. She splashed some on her face, even though it smelled more strongly of sulfur than the running water at the guesthouse. She smoothed her wild hair down with a little water and twisted it around her left shoulder, hoping she didn’t look too hideous. People didn’t just wake up looking like rock stars in real life. She tiptoed back to the mattress.
Correction: Oskar looked like a rock star, even while he slept.
She kneeled down next to him and studied the planes of his face, the color of his complexion under the sunlight, trying to decide which combinations of pigment she would use to create that perfect shade. He opened his eyes and caught her staring. Which wasn’t creepy at all. Mother Mary.
Before she could say anything to defend herself, he smiled and scooted backwards, holding the covers up and making room for her. One glance under the blanket lit her face on fire.
She scooted in next to him, back to his chest, glad she had her sweater on. Things felt too exposed in daylight. He curled his arm around her waist and fit himself to her back. A smile warmed her from head to toe as she concentrated on the way every part of him touched her, the way his legs tangled with hers. Soon, his breathing turned heavy against the back of her head. He was asleep again.
A gentle gold lit the face of the sea and highlighted the clouds on the horizon. She’d be content to sit in this lighthouse and paint everything in and around it until she ran out of supplies. Or breaths. There was something so romantic about the place, books and instruments strewn about. The old vinyl collection he kept. Oskar was a deep soul, and here in his world, she understood him. They understood each other.
The edge of a red leather bound notebook stuck out from under a corner of the blanket. It was the same one she’d seen sitting next to him that night on the rock by the fire. Lines and bars were doodled in ink on the front—musical measures scribbled with haste. Curiosity lit a dangerous fuse in her fingertips. Did Oskar have his own book of spells?
She flipped it open and read the first few lines on a random page.
I can’t think when she looks at me like this.
It’s like she can pick apart my life
with her inquisitive smile.
Like the universe may tell her
whatever she wants to know
because it’s just as brainwashed
by the way stolen cherries stain her mouth
as I am.
Evie just stared at the perfect all-caps handwriting, noting the date at the top—three weeks ago. Musical notes were scribbled in the margins, with doodles and drawings of cherry duos. She read the lines again, heart seized in her chest. Could he have written this? In English? It had to be someone else’s, right? She flipped pages forward, towards the back, looking for the last entry, stopping on today’s date.
There’s a time of night when the globe’s position…
Something moved into her periphery so fast it blurred. Oskar’s hand yanked the book from under her fingers and sat up, pulling the covers off her legs. The chill in the air waged war on her skin as she turned to him, heart banging clues into her brain.
He clutched the book to his chest, staring down at the blanket pooled in his lap.
“Is that… Did you write that?” Her voice came out like a harsh whisper.
He wouldn’t meet her eyes.
“Oskar.” She tried again, leveling her tone with a gulp of cold air. There had to be an explanation for this. “Look at me.”
He peeked up through th
e messy blond bed hair falling in his face. For the first time, something registered she hadn’t seen before. Recognition. She told him to look at her, and he did. He understood.
“Those are English words.” And all signs suggested he had written them. What had he written in it last night? After…
Some irrational impulse made her want to rip the journal out of his hands and run away with it. Like a third grader. He must have sensed this, because he clutched it so tightly that his knuckles paled.
There was no sound between them but some obnoxious clock, pounding the seconds away in a tempo too quickly to be accurate. Evie had some vague sense of awareness that it was coming from her chest.
Then, something louder shook the floor beneath them—a booming echo from below. The sound of a latch, then a heavy door swinging open on newly replaced hinges, followed by thudding footsteps.
“Oskar!” Agnes’s voice. Then another.
“Evie!” Papá was with her.
The circumference of Oskar’s eyes grew three sizes as they shared a knowing look. Shoving the lie between them to the side for the sake of survival, they darted to their feet and began throwing clothes and shoes at each other.
Evie shoved her legs in the crispy cold denim legs of her jeans. She snagged the hem of her sweater trying to zip them. Footsteps got louder as they climbed. She yanked the blanket up, searching wildly for her underwear. Cotton panties peeked from under a pillow. She grabbed them and shoved them in her back pocket, then upturned everything in a two-foot radius looking for her bra.
She noticed the ash tray with the cached joint and spent condom in the middle, and she threw a pillow over it. The voices were so close now that she knew any minute, she’d have to face her father—braless and barefoot—in her den of shame. This was a Defcon 1 on the OMGWTF-o-meter.
Oskar dove onto the mattress, fully clothed now, and closed his eyes.
What in the actual hell was he doing?
Glancing back and forth between him and the hole in the floor that would yield two angry heads at any moment, she realized his plan. One she wondered if he could’ve communicated to her just as clearly as he’d been writing in that journal. She took the hint and dove down beside him, leaving a foot of space between them. She closed her eyes and tried to slow her breathing.
This was as good a plan as any. If they thought the two of them had just fallen asleep, it wouldn’t be a big deal. Clothes were on. Only their feet were showing. She could tell her papá that they’d passed out listening to music.
“Here they are,” Agnes said, and Evie fought every impulse to open her eyes. “They’re asleep.” Evie could hear the sense of relief in Agnes’s voice, as if she expected to walk in on another scene entirely. The scene from two minutes ago.
“Evelyn Isolina Perez! ¿Qué demonio estás haciendo aquí con este muchacho?”
This was bad. He’d gone 100% Spanish on her. And calling her by her middle name—Abuela’s name—was enough to remind her of all the stupid things she’d done in a very short period of time. Her eyes snapped open.
Papá stood over her, lines etched into his hard face, mouth fixed in such a severe frown that it sent a wave of nausea through her. He breathed like a taunted bull, ready to charge. Evie sat up and looked around, as if realizing for the first time where she was. She’d have to be an excellent actress. Her life depended on it.
“Papá?” She infused as much sleepy rasp into her voice as possible.
He reached down and grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet in one swift move. It was not at all gentle. He’d never laid a hand on her before. She glanced back at Oskar, hoping for… what? Him to come to her defense?
Instead, he lay motionless on his stomach, eyes still closed. If she didn’t know the truth, she’d think he was asleep, too.
“Dah, the lad’s a heavy sleeper,” Agnes said, giving the side of the mattress a swift kick. “Oskar!”
Evie avoided Agnes’s gaze like the plague. Something in her voice, the way she yelled at Oskar, made Evie think she knew the truth already. “I’m… I’m sorry, Papá. We were just listening to music and we fell asleep.” Evie rubbed the imaginary sleep from her eyes so she wouldn’t have to make any uncomfortable eye contact. “We watched the Northern Lights last night—they were beautiful.”
If she just acted normal, carried on routine conversation, he wouldn’t suspect a thing. She grabbed her flip-flops from the floor and sat down to pull them on. His silence—his lack of yelling, specifically—set her nerves on edge. Quiet Papá was much scarier than Yelling Papá. She risked a peek at him.
Something glassy shimmered in his dark eyes. Puffiness surrounded them. She’d never seen him cry, but Evie wondered if this is how it would look before he did. Or after he already had. His jaw tensed as stared daggers right at her. She focused intently on his feet as she stood up again.
He knew. That had to be it. And she’d disappointed him so much he was going to cry.
“I’m sorry,” Evie said again. “I shouldn’t have fallen asleep. Are you… are you okay?” She stole another quick glance through her lashes before returning to her intense study of the scuffs on the toes of his shoes. He sniffed once, loudly, and seemed to compose himself before answering.
“No, I’m not okay. We have to go. Something’s happened with Abuela.”
Terror crawled over the back of her neck. Evie forgot for a moment how much trouble she was in. She needed to gauge the severity of the situation, to see if she needed to be as worried about Abuela as her instincts suggested, so she met his eyes head-on, full eye contact without looking away. Tears brimmed there again. This time, he didn’t try to stop them.
Yes. The answer was yes.
CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
Oskar’s Journal
The Thor eitsu no longer exist.
I’m a coward.
I would’ve faked sleep until they were gone,
but his news shakes me out of my resolve.
There’s been an accident.
The look on her face
when she saw my journal
was nothing
compared to the one
she wears now.
She crosses her arms over her chest.
She isn’t wearing her bra.
Which is also my fault.
Because I shot it across the room last night,
like a slingshot
to make her laugh.
Her laugh
is the most enticing piece of music
I have ever heard.
I am desperate to hear it now.
Instead I hear only pain.
What kind of accident?
I want to rewind time.
Back to last night.
No, before last night.
To all those opportunities I had
to tell her the truth.
Make a different decision.
A better one.
A fire, her father says.
Confusion wages war
on her beautiful face.
A fire?
He nods, working his jaw.
Those pendejos let her have a candle.
She turns to Agnes,
and they share a horrified look.
Some inside joke
that isn’t a joke at all.
It caught a curtain on fire.
Evelyn’s legs shake.
Burned up half the building.
It’s a miracle her neighbor’s oxygen tank didn’t explode
and kill them all.
She glances over at me,
eyes glassy and spilling.
Her lips tremble.
She looks back at her father.
What about Abuela? Is she…?
He clears his throat,
continually shaking off
his own urge to cry.
In the hospital.
I don’t know how bad yet.
Our flight leaves this afternoon.
She slaps a hand over her mout
h,
and for a moment,
I think she might collapse.
Agnes stands frozen,
as paralyzed by the situation as I am.
Her father stares past her.
At something on the floor.
I follow his gaze to a pile of red lace.
All the blood in my body
makes a mass exodus to my feet.
In less than a blink,
I’m against the wall.
His fists clutch handfuls of my shirt.
Some of my skin, too.
His hatred pinches me
in a completely deserving way.
I’m at least a head taller than him,
but I have no doubt
the force of his fury
could break me.
His bitter coffee breath
pins me against the cold stone
and I shiver.
Te mataré.
He spits it through his teeth.
It’s a promise of some kind.
Whatever he said,
I believe him.
Behind him,
she flails her arms and screams at him
in Spanish.
She’s so animated
with anger and fear,
so convicted by whatever she’s saying,
that I wish I understood her words.
I hate being shut out of this conversation.
And then it hits me.
That’s exactly what I’ve done to her.
Everyone STOP. Get out, or I’m calling the Lögreglan!
Under the demand of Agnes’s voice,
he lets me go.
My feet touch the floor again,
and I realize they hadn’t been a moment ago.
Tell your nephew he is lucky he’ll never have the chance to see my daughter again.
He grabs Evie’s arm
so forcefully that she whimpers,
and then shoves her through the exit in the floor.
She gives me one last fleeting glance before descending the ladder.
The Language of Cherries Page 20
