by Amber Hart
My hair is soaked with sweat. I’m glad that I opted against makeup today because it would have only smeared in this heat. Even Javier is tired. His shirt is nothing but wet, sweaty cotton.
We’ve stopped at a garden. Taken a seat on a wooden swing. I kick my legs to make it go higher. We’re working on our second snow cones. Mine is mint mango.
“Do you care about our cultural differences?” Javier asks, taking me by surprise.
His voice is normal. Indifferent. I think this is what he was hinting at earlier, when he mentioned the other couple. I think this is the question it all boiled down to.
“No,” I answer honestly. “Do you?”
The swing makes my stomach flop. I reach for Javier’s eyes with my own. Find truth in his stare. His face is so many things. Gorgeous. Nerve wrecking. Perfect. Terrifying. Because I could lose myself in his eyes, find myself in his mouth.
“No,” he replies.
He makes my stomach flip worse than the swing.
“Good,” I say. Because cultural differences don’t matter to me. I don’t see a separation between us. He’s just Javier and I’m just Melissa and that’s perfect enough for me.
“Maybe I used to care,” he says. “But things changed with you. You charged in the ocean and intimidated that girl into leavin’ so that you could take her place. Recuerdas?”
Yes, I remember. Vividly.
“You wrapped your arms around me at la playa,” he continues.
Javier leans into me. I’ve suddenly lost my breath and I can’t even find the energy to care because it’s such a small price to pay for his nearness. The urgency to touch him is overwhelming. My hand closes over his bicep. His eyes drink me in.
“You whispered something to me,” he says, voice lowered.
I remember the words I spoke right before I kissed him months back. I repeat them back to him.
“It’s about damn time,” I murmur.
“Sí, hermosa.” His voice is want. “It’s ’bout damn time again, isn’t it?”
And then,
and then,
and then he kisses me.
It’s like I am made of every ember on earth, this moment. It’s like I’m burning hotter than the sun, this moment. It’s everything I’ve ever known thrown down ten flights of stairs, this moment, because no one has ever kissed me like this.
His lips, so full, so perfect, press into mine. I’m sitting on what I imagine to be the top of the world because nothing is better than this. I am a threadbare girl coming completely apart under his touch. Falling to pieces in his mouth. Dear God. This kiss.
I press harder. I’m clutching fistfuls of his shirt while his fingers close around my hips. Something wet seeps into my flip-flop and I think it must be the snow cone that I dropped when his lips crashed into mine.
Javier is beautiful. Hot breaths and warm hands and heart pounding against mine. His tongue searches mine, deliciously sweet. I taste nothing but lime and Javier and I want to
never
ever
stop.
18
javier
I’ve never loved someone and despised them so much at the same time. But that’s exactly how I feel about mi mamá right now. She isn’t going to make this easy on me. Not by a long shot.
I try not to stare at Melissa. Serving drinks. Hoping that she doesn’t notice me, mi mamá, and my two youngest brothers building a sand castle down the beach. It’s our last day of vacation, so mi mamá insisted on coming out.
“¿Quién es ella?” she asks me.
“What girl?” I ask. Play dumb.
Mi mamá’s eyes narrow. “You know what girl. The same girl from the other day.”
“No clue.”
“Lies.” Her eyes are hard. Angry. “Don’t tell me you like her. Don’t even tell me that.”
No problem. I don’t plan on telling her anything.
My brothers watch our interaction with interest. Antonio and Jair are five. Twins. My younger brothers mostly speak English since that’s what’s taught in American schools, and since that’s what their friends speak. That’s what’s on television when they watch their favorite cartoons, too.
“Javi, you like a girl?” Antonio asks. He and Jair have been calling me Javi ever since they first learned to speak, when they couldn’t pronounce my whole name.
Antonio looks disgusted.
I laugh. His expression cracks the tension.
“You’ll probably like girls one day,” I say, purposely not answering him.
“Will not!” he says.
“She’s pretty,” Jair says. He looks at nuestra mamá nervously, like maybe he said the wrong thing.
Antonio throws a clump of sand at Jair. “You traitor! You said girls were yucky. Remember how gross they are?”
My brothers were born in the States. It’s weird to think of them as American. They have problems like whether or not they think girls are gross. Not things like whether or not they’ll eat today. Not real problems like I grew up with. Not things like wondering if they’ll live or die that day. I’m not sure they’ve ever even heard the sound of a bullet ripping through the barrel of a gun.
I hope they never do.
“But she is pretty!” Jair fires back. “Right, Javi?”
Of course, she is. But saying that in front of mi mamá isn’t smart.
“You gonna answer him?” mi mamá asks.
“Nope,” I say, cause I’m not walking into that trap.
“Mi hijo, you’re smarter than that. No gringas.”
Mi mamá is convinced that anyone who is not Latina won’t understand our heritage. But I don’t understand her logic because here we are, Latinos, living in another country, learning the language and ways of a different heritage. We certainly aren’t accustomed to beach adventures, full stomachs, English, good schools. But we’re learning, aren’t we?
If we can learn their ways, why can’t someone else learn ours?
“If there’s something going on, end it now,” mi mamá demands.
I can’t end things with Melissa. They’ve only just started.
I watch the way mi mamá’s eyes burn with anger. I’m disgracing her at this moment. I can hear her unspoken words. That this isn’t what she’s raised her sons to be, people who stray from tradition. Everything she’s ever done to try and give us a good life. And all she asks is that we date within our own nationality. Even though I haven’t admitted to liking Melissa, it hurts that mi mamá would be disappointed in me. But also, I’m pissed.
I’m angry because why does it matter so much who I date? Why should that be a reason to be disappointed in me? I’ve never criticized her choices. I’ve tried my best to accept our American life. I’ve struggled through the shock of adaptation. And I haven’t complained about it. It is what it is.
Mi mamá doesn’t let up. “¿Me escuchas?”
“Sí, I hear you,” I reply, annoyed. “There’s nothing goin’ on. I already told you.”
I hate this moment, lying to her, the fact that I have to lie.
I stand up. Walk away from mi mamá. I stop at the water’s edge, bucket in hand. It takes a few seconds for the bucket to fill with salt water for our sandcastle moat.
“Javi!” Antonio calls. “Shells!”
“And seaweed!” Jair adds.
We’re building the world’s best castle towers, according to them, which look more like a pile of sloppy sand. Good thing their imaginations see our creation as something else.
“I won’t forget,” I tell them. They need me to get shells and seaweed to decorate our castle. “But what do you say?”
“Please!” they yell.
“En español,” I clarify.
“¡Por favor!”
Since my brothers prefer English, I sometimes make them answer me en español just to make sure they haven’t forgotten how to speak it.
I take an extra minute to return. Give mi mamá a chance to forget about Melissa.
I try not to
look at Melissa. Even though all I can think about is the way her lips were like fire on mine yesterday.
“Here,” I say, placing the bucket next to Jair and Antonio. I lay a few shells and a clump of slimy seaweed on the sand.
They smile like I’ve given them a million bucks. And I wonder.
Was I ever this happy?
Probably not. I don’t think Cuba allowed people to know happiness. Not the part I came from, at least.
“Crab!” Antonio yells.
I look down. There’s a tiny crab in the seaweed. It’s no big deal. I pick it out and toss it away from the kids. Doesn’t matter, though. They’re already worked up.
“Crab, crab, crab!” Antonio yells.
“Okay, okay,” I say. “It’s gone.”
They don’t like crabs. Antonio won’t even go in the ocean because he doesn’t like the creatures that live there.
His small voice carries far. Far enough to catch Melissa’s attention. Now she’s staring at me. Mouth twisting into the biggest grin.
My heart explodes. Dios mío, she’s gorgeous.
I check to see if mi mamá caught me staring. Yep.
Here we go.
Melissa walks toward us. Face full of smiles. An empty drink tray in her hand. Her swimsuit looks ridiculously good. A tiny brown one-piece with strings lacing it up the sides. I want to untie her.
The brightness of the sun glistens off of the sweat that covers her skin. Sand sticks to her feet and calves.
“Here comes Javi’s girlfriend,” Antonio whispers, snickering.
Mi mamá’s eyes cut into mine.
I’m hoping for a chance to fix this situation, to somehow avoid the collision that’s about to happen.
But it’s too late.
Everything is ready to combust and there’s nothing I can do about it except hope that I still have a place to live and a girl to see. And hope that I can somehow keep them separate. Because I wouldn’t put it past mi mamá to get angry enough to ask me to leave our home. Liking a non-Latina is the highest form of treachery. To mi mamá, it’s like I’m spitting on our family, where we’ve come from and what we’ve been through, everything.
Melissa is close enough to catch mi mamá’s words.
“You again,” she says, staring at Melissa. “How do you know my son?”
Melissa’s head tilts. Her eyes squint, looking at me strangely. I silently beg her to keep serving drinks. No luck.
“We’re—” Melissa pauses like she’s not sure what to call us. Then she sees me, the caution on my face.
Don’t, I mouth, hoping she’ll understand.
Her eyes widen. She’s quiet. A couple seconds too long.
“I don’t really,” Melissa finally says. “I’ve seen him at school. I was just coming over to see if you need any drinks.”
That’s not why Melissa came over, but she seems to understand enough to not let on how well she knows me.
“Maybe fruit punch for the kids?” Melissa suggests. Fake smile. “Or snow cones. Too bad we don’t have any of those here. Snow cones would be perfect, don’t you think?” This time she directs the question right at me.
Snow cones. Our conversation about how some people don’t like Latinos and Caucasians together. We had that conversation while eating snow cones.
Is she asking me what I think she is? If so, she’s more observant than I thought.
“You’re exactly right,” I say, confirming. “Snow cones would be perfect.”
Melissa’s face falls.
“We don’t need any snow cones or fruit punch,” mi mamá says.
I try to catch Melissa’s eye, but she won’t look at me. Unlike mi mamá.
“Okay. Have a good day then,” Melissa replies.
And leaves.
I want to go after her, but I know better. One of these days, I’ve got to change mi mamá’s mind about her only-date-Latinas rule.
Or deal with the consequences of breaking it.
19
melissa
I watch the way Javier moves, kicking up sand beneath his feet like tiny dust storms. The sun glares down on the ocean, shimmering. The beach is hot as ever. One hundred degrees, according to the drink station thermostat. I wipe my forehead with the back of my arm. Keep serving alcohol as though I don’t see him.
“Fuzzy navel,” I say, handing the drink to an older woman with skin etched in wrinkles, looking like cracked desert land.
She hands me money. No change. Nice tip. Easy. On to the next customer. Maybe if I focus on drinks, I’ll quit thinking of Javier.
He stops. Flags down Brock. I watch out of the corner of my eye as they exchange words. Javier smiles. Heads straight to a cabana in my section.
He shouldn’t be here. His vacation is over, as of yesterday.
And apparently, so are we.
I march up to Brock. “What did he say?”
I don’t want to be someone that Javier hides.
Brock finishes pouring a drink for another customer. “He asked where your section is.”
I set my tray down. Fill it with the next order. Blue drinks with miniature yellow umbrellas, an orange wedge garnish. I stare at the drinks, at a loss for words. Javier asked for my section. Which probably means that he wants to talk about what happened with his mom. How could he make it seem like I mean nothing? Like I’m not even worth mentioning?
Or maybe he wants to ignore the situation altogether. Just keep touching me and kissing me and pretending it’s okay that he won’t admit he likes me. No big deal, right?
Wrong.
“Do you want me to run your drinks?” Brock asks.
Condensation forms on the glass, sliding down in a lazy crawl.
“I’ve got it.”
I drop off the frilly drinks. Accept cash. Javier is in my line of sight. There are so many things I want to say to him.
Why do I matter only when your mom doesn’t know about me?
Your lips, your lips, your lips, they kill me.
Why are you showing up here like everything is fine?
You look beautiful today.
Go away!
Stay.
Javier catches my eye. Studies me with intensity. I lose my train of thought. Find anger in its place. I march over to him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask. Not nicely. “You should have told me at the zoo. Your mom doesn’t like us together. This is your mom, Javier. That’s kind of a big deal, don’t you think?”
I can’t see Javier’s eyes through his sunglasses. I can’t see anything but the sight of his naked stomach. Blue board shorts reach to his knees. Bare feet, sandals wedged in sand.
He dusts off the cabana seat. “Would you have understood?”
“I don’t know, Javier,” I say, a bite to my tone. “Would you have given me a chance to understand? I mean, how can I possibly understand if you don’t even tell me in the first place?”
Javier reaches toward the sand. Picks up a peach shell with white lines running through it like dividers for each bumpy ridge on its back.
“How did you figure it out?” he asks.
Wasn’t that hard. “Seemed obvious.”
He nods. “Are you mad?”
Hell, yes. “Pretty much.”
He considers that. Looks out at the ocean like maybe his answers can be found there.
“I’m sorry.”
He says it quietly, eyes cast away. I wonder if he says sorry often. I think not, by the way he delivers it. Not touching me. Not looking my way. Not trying to make his apology seem real. Though, maybe it is. I wouldn’t know.
“For when? The first or second time that you blew me off in front of your mom?”
He flinches. “Both.”
I’m staring at his profile. I’m wondering what’s going through his mind.
“I don’t think this is going to work,” I say.
I want it to work.
I’ve caught him by surprise. His face slackens. He turns to me.
&n
bsp; “Because I wouldn’t tell mi mamá about you?”
Because I only have this one life. Because it’s already being threatened by a beast called cancer. I don’t want to lose time that I may or may not have on heartbreak, on someone who hides his feelings for me. I want to be someone that you’re proud of. I want you to feel the way I do about you.
“Yes,” I confirm.
Javier stands.
I don’t budge.
Sunglasses move to the top of his head. I’m momentarily stunned by the passion in his eyes.
“You don’t think we can work?” he asks, voice low.
I can’t make myself look away.
He takes one, two, four steps toward me. Almost touching.
“Answer me,” he says.
His eyes never abandon me.
I open my mouth to speak. Lose my nerve. I can’t concentrate when he looks at me like this.
Javier reaches a hand to the back of my neck.
I try to fight it. I try to tell my voice to ask him to stop, but the truth is that I don’t want him to stop. I’m angry with Javier for not telling his mom about us. I’m angry with him for not telling me about his mom. Even so, I don’t want him to stop touching me.
“Mami, I think we work just fine. I think I fucked up and should have told you. I’m sorry about that. But that doesn’t mean this won’t work.” He pulls me closer.
“You should have told me,” I say. Quietly. Timidly.
Javier’s body presses against mine. “Not denying that.”
“I’m still not sure if—”
His lips find mine. So tenderly, so softly. His mouth is warm and wet and so inviting. He nips at me, gently, playfully. I nip him back. I feel a small smile form on his lips. And then he kisses me harder.
The tray falls from my hands like a cymbal, clattering against the side of the cabana. I don’t care.
I press back. Run my tongue along the soft inside of his lips. He caresses the fleshy outside of mine. I’ve forgotten about my job. About the people around us.
My eyes squeezed shut, I relish the taste of Javier. Hot and breathy and please give me more. I run fingers up his stomach, around his back. He grunts in approval.
His lips leave mine. But only for a second. He kisses my temple, my cheek, back down to my lips.
