by Amber Hart
His lips crash into mine. He drops kisses down my throat like warm rain.
“Mami,” Javier groans. “I need you bad.”
I’m on the verge of diving into him. Of letting him have every piece of me.
“Don’t t-touch—” I trip over my words. “Don’t touch my s-scars.”
There. It’s out. The ugly truth. I want him to fill every part of me with kisses and caresses and more, more, more. But not the scars.
“I won’t,” he promises.
One, two, three seconds and the rest of my clothes are on the floor.
Six, seven, eight seconds and so are his.
I feel every bit of Javier on me.
He takes my hands and presses kisses to my palms, down my arms. Down my stomach. Stops just in time.
He pauses. Grabs a condom. Drinks in the look of me against him.
“I need you to be mine, chula,” he says.
He’s absolutely drugging me with his stare. He’s kissing me and not stopping. Wanting me and not stopping. I need him, too. His lips and fingers and, and, and . . . his heart.
40
javier
I replay last night in my mind as I get ready to pick up Melissa.
Holding her afterward.
Telling her she’s beautiful, because she is.
Asking her to please do something for me.
“Do what?” she asks.
“Come with me somewhere tomorrow,” I reply.
“Where?”
“My house.”
I have to prepare Melissa for mi mamá. How can I possibly explain that mi mamá will not accept her? That the best chance we have is to stick together and for Melissa to stay strong.
I throw on a shirt, pants, and shoes. Don’t mention to anyone that I’m picking her up.
Melissa is perfect for me. Mi mamá will never see it that way. But mi mamá isn’t one to insult people. Chances are, she’ll simply tell Melissa to leave. She’ll make it clear that gringas aren’t welcome in our home.
I think about our differences, Melissa and me. Her: blond hair, blue eyes, skin tanned by the sun, American. Me: not.
Melissa doesn’t know the ways of Cuban people. She’s technically not one of us. She hasn’t spent hours in the kitchen with a Cuban mamá who can teach her how to cook our food. Though, to be honest, from what I’ve tasted, Melissa cooks just fine.
I want to explain to mi mamá that these things can be learned.
Melissa can’t speak Spanish. Which isn’t really that important, I don’t think, because we all speak English. Even though some of us speak it with a broken tongue, it’s still a way to talk to each other.
I want to tell mi mamá that other languages matter, too.
It’s the fact that Melissa will never, no matter how much I tell her, understand what it’s truly like to grow up in Cuba. Starving and fighting and struggling to survive.
But maybe that’s a good thing.
No one wants to live that way.
Mi mamá isn’t easy to talk to. She doesn’t see things outside of herself. I’m not sure that I can change her mind. In fact, I’m almost certain I can’t.
But I have to try.
I picture Melissa’s face. I remember what it felt like to kiss every bit of her.
Soft skin and scars that I promised not to touch.
Breaths and whimpers and so much more.
Melissa is mine again. I don’t think we were ever really apart. But I’m glad she’s not mad anymore.
I hop in my truck and maneuver around the cars crowding my driveway. The party is nearly full. So many people. Melissa will meet them all. I trust her to stay by my side, strong. I trust her to not mention anything about the gang.
I think of MS-13. I need to find Wink soon. Then I’ll leave the gang. I’ll never return to their streets. They don’t know the real me—not my name, address, anything. I’m hoping that I can disappear from their radar. After all, where would they even look for me? Or maybe I’ll move, see what other states have to offer. Haven’t decided yet.
What I do know is that Melissa deserves better than a novio who belongs to a gang. I want to be someone that she’s proud of. She shouldn’t worry about me. And I don’t want MS-13 to find out about her.
If everything goes well, they won’t.
“Do you get what I’m sayin’?” I ask.
Melissa is riding in the passenger seat of my truck. Looking at the dash like it can give her confidence.
“You’ve got to be strong. Don’t worry about what mi mamá says. She’ll get mad either way.”
I don’t want to lie to Melissa. Not anymore.
“Can you do it?” I want Melissa to say yes. I think she will.
She offers a small nod.
“Good,” I say.
We stop at a light. I check out her sexy dress.
“I’m not gonna be able to keep my hands off of you in this,” I tease. Run a finger up her thigh.
She laughs. Playfully smacks my fingers away.
“What if she really wants us to leave, Javier?”
Well, she really will. No doubt.
“We’ll stay anyway,” I say.
“But what if she yells?”
Already anticipating that.
Shrug. “Then she yells.”
Melissa is brave to deal with it. I couldn’t ask for a better girl. I wish I didn’t have to ask her to do this at all. I wish it were easy.
But life isn’t.
“And if the rest of the family doesn’t want me there either?”
“Not all of them are like mi mamá,” I say. “Actually, most aren’t.”
“Will she ever like me?” Melissa asks in a shaky voice. Moment of truth.
“Will you leave me if she doesn’t?”
She meets my eyes. “No.”
I grin. Relieved. “Then it doesn’t really matter, does it?”
Because that’s the way some people are. Stubborn. So stubborn that they refuse to see the world beyond their fingertips. Mi mamá is one of those people. I’ve never stood up to mi mamá. Haven’t had a reason to.
But now?
I will.
41
melissa
I think about the wonderful night I spent with Javier as we pull up to his house. I imagine the way his hands touched me, how I let go for once. I finally trusted someone after my surgery. Makes me wonder if I can trust him with even more. Like the truth about me. What I’ve been through recently.
“Let’s do this,” Javier says.
I have to pick my courage up off the floor. I have to gather enough strength to put one foot in front of the other and march up his driveway. Up his front porch. Stop by the door that leads to it all.
I hear voices inside. Music, too. Spanish words that have meaning. But not to me, because I don’t understand them. Maybe one day, I will.
He’s staring at me. Javier lets me soak in this environment. He’s giving me time to adjust to the fact that it’s been exactly one day since he suggested that I come to his house, to the fiesta his familia is having. Something about how they do this once a month. Something else about how I need to prepare myself.
For reality. His mom doesn’t know that I’m coming.
None of his family has any idea that I’ll be walking through this door.
Javier has planned it so that I haven’t had enough time to back out, to let nerves destroy my bravery. He’s made sure that I’ve said yes to coming. He’s kissed me and assured me that this will be difficult, but that he needs them to know that we’re together. And it’s important that his family accepts me, he says.
Which might be pretty hard for them to do since our relationship will be forced down their throats tonight.
“You good?” Javier asks, one finger against my cheek.
“This is not subtle,” I comment.
Nothing about the situation is.
“The Reyes family doesn’t do subtle.” He grins. “There’s no talking them into th
ings. You just got to make them see it quick and real.”
I like the way Javier’s grin fits his face lopsidedly.
“So none of them know about me?” I double-check.
“Diego’s dad knows.” Javier surprises me. “Tío Adolfo is chill. He’s good with it.”
Speaking of.
“Why do you and Diego have different last names?” I ask. “His wasn’t Reyes.”
“Our mothers were sisters,” Javier explains. “So I got the last name of mi papá. And Diego got the last name of his.”
Javier takes my hand. Studies my eyes. His palms are rough and right. His touch calms me.
“Vamonos, mami. We got to do this now. Walk in and let them see what we have.”
Javier grabs the doorknob. I take a shaky breath.
“Mírame,” Javier says. I look at him. “I won’t let them hurt you.”
I trust him.
Javier pushes the door open. I expect fifty eyes to be glued to us, but surprisingly nothing happens at first. His family is everywhere. Some in the kitchen. Some in the living room. A lot outside in the small backyard.
We walk into a party already in bloom. But not a party that I would expect. This is more of a family thing. Some beers, some music. A lot of food. I notice people our age. I notice older adults, too. I watch little kids run around in the yard. A group of them kick a soccer ball. One kid has on gloves, acting as the goalkeeper. The goal is marked off by two small orange cones. There’s no net. But they don’t care. They play anyway.
Javier’s house is simple. A Cuban flag hangs from a shelf along the living room wall. Soccer balls sit on the shelves next to the flag post. Pictures in frames clutter every surface. The kitchen is decorated with one island. Every speck of the counter is covered with platters of food that smell like heaven. Coolers lounge on the ground here and there, full of drinks.
“Hey,” Javier says into my ear.
I realize that I’m frozen with nerves. I cannot move an inch.
No one has noticed us. No one has looked our way at all. This seems too easy. I thought people would stare. People would get angry and I would have to sew on ten thousand pounds of thick skin. Act like it doesn’t bother me. Because Javier wants me here. That’s enough to make me stay.
“Relax, preciosa.” Javier’s voice pours into my ear, salt on my frozen nerves, melting them away.
“You got this,” he says, a last-second encouragement.
We walk into the room.
Time hiccups.
Heads swivel toward us.
I look down at my soft gray dress. Deeply interested in the way it fits me just right. In the way the spaghetti straps leave my shoulders almost bare. In the way it stops a few inches above my knees. My heels pop out. Cardinal red. They match my purse. There’s no way for me to go unnoticed.
“Javier!” someone yells in friendly greeting.
I dare to look up.
Meet the eyes of his shocked family. I recognize Pedro. Smile. A friendly face. Pedro smiles, too. Gets up from the couch and wraps me in a hug.
“I don’t know what you’ve done to mi hermano,” he says. “But whatever it is, don’t stop.”
I’m not sure if Pedro meant to say anything else, but there’s no way to know because I’m being yanked away from him by Javier. And just then, I fit perfectly against Javier. My back to his chest. He places a kiss on the top of my head. His arms wind around my waist protectively.
“Why are you touchin’ my girl?” Javier asks.
He called me his girl. I chew back a smile.
Pedro laughs. “I’m just sayin’ congrats.” His eyes are on me. “Good to see that you’re not correctin’ him this time.”
I am Javier’s girl this time around.
“Hi!” a little kid yells over the music.
I look down to find a boy grabbing the hem of my dress with dirty hands. He leaves a stain once his fingers are gone.
“You’re Javi’s girlfriend, right?”
The little boy speaks good English.
“Jair, didn’t anyone ever tell you to wash your hands before you touch girls?” Javier says teasingly.
Jair looks embarrassed. “No.”
“You left a stain,” Javier says, throwing me an apologetic look.
“I didn’t know!” Jair says. “I’ve never had a girlfriend.”
I laugh and bend down to Jair’s level.
“I don’t mind the stain,” I say, staring into his big brown eyes. “I’m Melissa.”
“I’m Jair,” he says. “Javi’s brother.”
Just then another boy runs up.
“You touched a girl!” the boy yells. “That’s sooo gross!”
“Antonio,” Javier says, laughing. “Did you just call my girl gross?”
“Yes,” Antonio says, crossing his arms over his chest. Which looks ridiculous and cute because he can’t be more than five years old. “Girls are gross and they smell funny.”
“Like what?” I ask, amused.
“Like ice cream and sprinkles,” Antonio says, looking at me.
Everyone watches. I don’t care right now because Javier’s brothers are adorable.
“You don’t like ice cream?” I ask.
“I like ice cream,” Jair says. “And I love sprinkles, too.”
“You shouldn’t touch her! You’ll smell like a girl,” Antonio warns.
“Guess what, Antonio,” Javier says. “Melissa knows how to play soccer. She even beat me and I tried really hard.”
Antonio’s eyes go big. “You play soccer?”
“ ’Course,” I reply. “Bet I could beat you.”
Antonio is already like Javier, not wanting to back down from a challenge.
“I’ve been practicing,” he brags. “I’m really good now.”
“Maybe you can play later,” Javier says. “Right now I need to introduce Melissa to people, okay?”
Antonio nods. “Will you play too, Javi?”
“Sure,” he says, pulling me back up to his side.
The tension in the room is a tightrope, and I’m walking the center. Javier’s mom approaches me.
“Go play outside,” she tells Antonio and Jair.
Javier’s arms stay around me, protective. His mom turns to us.
“¿De verdad la trajiste a mi casa?” She says something in Spanish that I don’t understand.
“Yes, I’m bringing Melissa into our house,” Javier says, letting me know what she’s saying.
“Me mentiste.” She says something else I don’t understand, eyes hard.
I stare at her blue apron. I like the small yellow birds on it. I would tell her, but I don’t think she’ll appreciate the fact that I like her apron, or that I think her house is beautiful, or that I’m in love with her son.
“I lied to you because you won’t accept anyone who isn’t Latina into our family.” Javier continues to answer his mom in English. For my sake.
“I knew it,” his mom says. “Why, mi hijo?”
“Because we’re good together and I want her to meet the family.”
I’m scared to death that his mom will tell me to leave. That all of this will be for nothing. That I’ll never fit into his world.
“¿La amas?” his mom asks, a bite to her voice.
“I’m not answering that here,” Javier says, tightening his grip on me.
“You need to leave,” his mom says in English, this time talking to me.
She carves me up with her stare while she tells me to leave her house, and how can I say no to that? So I turn to go.
Javier stops me.
“No,” he says, firm. “She is not leaving. We are not leaving.”
His face is resolved, like he knew this would happen.
“Melissa is my girl. That’s not gonna change anytime soon,” he says. “I love you, mamá, but you can’t make me choose between you.”
She stares into his eyes. Hands on her hips. She’s not any taller than me.
“I’m
not gonna be like Pedro,” he says. “You’re not gonna run her out like you did his girl. If you make me choose, I’m gonna pick what I think is right and I’m tellin’ you now that I think you’re wrong.”
Javier swallows three times. The room is silent except for the music. People watch their interaction with interest.
“Javier, take her home,” his mom says.
“I care about her, mamá. And if you care about me, you’ll try to understand that. You’ll let me like who I want.”
“She’s leaving,” Javier’s mom says. “Now.”
“No, she’s not,” comes a voice, but it’s not Javier’s.
A man steps next to Javier’s mom, towering over her. I don’t know who he is, but Javier does and he’s smiling.
“You can stay,” the man says to me. “You are welcome whenever you’d like.”
“She is not welco—” Javier’s mom begins, but her words are cut off by the man’s stern voice.
“Our son likes this girl and you are causin’ a scene. She’s done nothin’ wrong.” He turns to Javier. “Maybe you can go outside for a bit. I’ll handle this.”
Javier nods and leads me outside, a grin on his face.
“So that’s your dad?” I ask.
“Yep,” Javier says. “And he doesn’t stand up to mi mamá often, so when he does, and he’s serious, it sticks.”
My belly is suddenly filled with a million lightning bugs. Fluttering around. Giving me hope.
“Your mom still doesn’t like me,” I point out.
“She’ll come around,” Javier says.
People pile outside. Taking seats around us.
“Good job,” a man says.
“Thanks.” Javier greets him with a handshake.
He introduces us.
“Tío Adolfo, this is Melissa. Melissa, Tío Adolfo, Diego’s dad.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say. Shake his hand. See the similarities between him and Diego.
I watch the way people talk to Javier. Happy that he stood up to his mom. Like his words have shifted the world they live in. Like what he’s done here—by bringing me and having me stay—has somehow disrupted the way they know things. In the best way.
“I should have done the same thing,” Pedro says, next to me. “I brought a gringa home one day and mi mamá told her to leave. I argued some, but not enough. I didn’t stand up strong like Javier did. I let mi mamá win.”
