by Mia Garcia
It had nothing to do with Adam’s size, but the shape of his shoulders and how if you looked at him from just the right angle you would see the curve of the celestial sphere as it lay across his back.
“Okay,” I said.
Even though it felt wrong, felt like I had failed at something, I shut my eyes. I shut my eyes to Adam and closed the door.
“I’m sorry,” he said again as I left him.
I stood by that bloody door for what felt like forever, not understanding, waiting to wake up, sure that this was all a nightmare; just a horrible dream caused by eating way too much ice cream before going to sleep.
My parents’ door was still shut, and I wondered how they hadn’t heard anything. When I got closer I could hear the mechanical sounds of a rainforest pouring from their bedroom door, blocking us out. It was all I could take—I shut myself in my room as the tears bubbled up and out; I pressed my face up against my pillows, drowning out the sound for Adam, so he wouldn’t know. This was important for some reason, that Adam not hear me cry.
Exhausted, I let sleep take me over.
In the morning I stared at myself in the mirror, searching for any marks or bruises. They were faint, but my skin felt tender at the touch. I wrapped a scarf around my neck, feeling safer with it on.
At the table neither Adam nor I tried to make any eye contact. And when my father asked us how we slept, I answered, “Not bad, you?” before Adam could.
Come and Get Your Love
I CAN FEEL THE BUILDUP IN THE NIGHT. I’M NOT SURE HOW FAR the storm is now, but it can’t be long—maybe an hour or two?—before we will need to end the night. I remember Abuela Julia said she could always tell a hurricane was close by how painful the wind and rain hit against your skin.
“Where are we?” The building in front of us is a lovely shade of blue that is the exact color of the sky in the daytime; it is adorned with intricate latticework all along the facade. There is a tiny little plaque by the entrance declaring the building a “boutique hotel.”
“Is this place also haunted?”
“Not that I know of.”
“Then why are we here?”
“Cooling off.”
“A decision you probably made before the temperature dropped, I’m assuming?”
“Pretty much. But I think you’ll still like it.” He leads me around the building, through the back to a gate.
“Are we?”
“We are NOT breaking and entering.” On the side wall there is a panel. Miles punches in a code and the panel pops open, revealing a set of keys. Taking one out, he closes the panel back up and opens the gate door. “See?”
“How did you? Is this your—”
“My house? No—like it says on the front, it’s a hotel. I work here sometimes. The pay is next to nothing, but they give you perks.”
“Like all the chocolate mints you can eat?”
“Like this.” Miles flicks a switch somewhere and reveals a pool nestled in a bed of foliage, its size a perfect companion to the tiny hotel. “Nice, right?”
Very. Despite the temperature drop I’m still sticky and sweaty from the day and the thought of dipping into the bright-blue water is very enticing. I look up at the windows—all dark—and back to Miles. “Are there any people here?”
I don’t feel like giving anyone a show even if we are allowed to be in the backyard. Miles follows my gaze. “It’s closed for some renovations. They’ll be open later in the year—Taj and I come around to clean the pool for extra cash, take dips in return. It’s totally legit, I promise—I wouldn’t ruin this night by getting you in trouble. Scout’s honor.”
“You were a Scout?”
“Yep, Danny and I—only for a couple of years, though. Still counts.”
I’ve always loved the way a pool glows in the night as if every drop of water were starlight. When I was little I would hold the water in my hand, trying to catch the light with it. It didn’t happen, obviously, but then Abuela Julia told me of water that does glow in beaches all over the world.
“Bioluminescent bays.”
“Hmm? What did you say?”
I’d spoken out loud without realizing it. “It reminds me of these bodies of water my abuela told me about. Bioluminescent bays, caused by tiny ocean plankton, little creatures that turn water into light . . . well, the glow is theirs, of course, but I like the thought of both the plankton and the water working together, illuminating the dark. There is one in Puerto Rico even. She’d never been, but she’d always speak about it with great pride. I told her I would take her back one day and we would dip our hands in and hold the light together.”
“Did you? Take her back.”
“No. Didn’t get a chance.”
She’d passed away before I was able to. Miles seems to catch this from my voice; his reply is a soft, “Sorry.”
I drop my wings on a lounge chair, inch toward the pool, and squat down to test the water: it’s warm. I look up to Miles. “Heated?”
He nods.
Thank the gods. When I pull my hand back out and the water drips down, I close my eyes and imagine the bays as black as night until each creature lights up like a star or will-o’-the-wisp, luring you away to an adventure. There must have been water around the edge because as I come back up, my sneakers slip and I fall toward the pool. Miles grabs my hand, and we are suspended in the moment. I know even if I let go, he will still hold, still keep me from falling.
I pull myself toward Miles, regaining my balance, my hand still in his. “Shall we?” he says, motioning to the pool.
The realization that Miles would have to see my underwear in order for me to get in the pool hits me again. “I don’t—” I say, motioning to my clothing. I could dive in with my clothes on; they were still moist from the rain. . . .
He kicks off his shoes, then his socks. “Neither do I.” He settles the banjo up against the wall and pulls off his shirt and jeans before I have a moment to think; he cannonballs into the pool, splashing water on me and everything in the vicinity. I tuck away the memory of Miles half naked for the future, when he pops back out of the water, shaking the excess off his hair until it looks like someone placed little diamonds all around his head. I concentrate on anything besides the droplets running down his chest, which is just toned enough to make me blush . . . guess that banjo is heavier than I thought. “You can come in fully clothed if you want.”
“Uh . . .” My brain does not compute.
All I can think is water, Miles, muscles, water, eyes with the looking, why always with the looking?
“Those shrubs can’t be as interesting as you’re making them out to be, Lila.”
My eyes snap up, and Miles is grinning. Right. I’m sure he knows the effect he has on—well, anyone, so none of this should come as a surprise. I should be annoyed, and the fact that he knows I like him and is using it against me should bother me, but this is what I want. I want to be Lila. Julie would demur and keep her clothes on, cuffing her jeans and dipping her feet in at the edge of the pool, hoping the cute boy will swim over. Lila . . . Lila tosses her bag and wings by the banjo, pulls off her shoes, socks; she looks up at the boy who waits for her in the pool, and locks eyes as she pulls off her shirt and jeans, then jumps.
The water is delicious, warm and enveloping. I open my eyes when I hit the bottom, looking up at the world painted above me, then back to the figure of Miles waiting for me to surface. I stay down below for as long as I can, suspended in time—pushing the limits of my lungs until they burn. I close my eyes and float up to the present, the water carrying me back into to the world, unable to hide me forever. I break the surface, the chill of the night meeting me again and Miles swims toward me.
“Okay?”
I grin and splash in response. Soon we’re engaging in an all-out water war, with Miles diving under the water to tug my legs—when he comes up he is inches from my face. His gaze travels down, reminding me I’m wearing nothing but my underwear, as is he. He’s so clo
se I could kiss him by accident, just by letting the water carry me forward. A droplet hangs from his bottom lip before he licks it off.
“So,” I start. “You have a lot of talents.”
He lifts his eyebrow, and the corners of his mouth lift too. Well phrased, Jules.
“I mean.” Backtrack, Julie, you know the way now.
“You mean.”
I extricate the foot from my mouth and continue. “You play the banjo, you give guitar lessons, you’re a tour guide . . .”
“Yeah, a little bit of a Jack-of-all-trades, I guess.”
“That’s a lot, though. I feel lazy in comparison.”
He shrugs, turning away from me to float on his own. I realize I’ve broken our no-baggage rule; I must have, to merit this distance, particularly since—so far—Miles hasn’t felt like the distance type. I’m gutted, the separation feels wrong, but I drop back, letting my legs float up, the water coming around me till I hear the echo of my heart.
“My parents are divorced.”
I bring my head back up, wonder if I should say “I’m sorry” or not.
As if he hears my thought, he says, “It happened when I was six, so I’ve had a lot of time to deal with it.”
“How did you—”
“People always say they’re sorry, like they broke up the marriage or something. There really should be another way to respond, not sure what. But thank you anyway.” His hand latches onto mine. We float away from each other, small waves pushing us as we hold strong. “My dad and my mom just weren’t in love with each other after a while. They’d seen too many people hang on when they should’ve let go, so they decided not to be that way. They divorced, and my dad moved to Chicago, met someone else, and married. I have a half sister who is already on her way to becoming the world’s youngest doctor.”
There’s a flat affect to his voice that I’m not expecting, like too many people have asked this question too many times and he’s rehearsed his answer to give them the response they want. I don’t want to be one of those people. I want the deep dark secrets. I pause and realize, I want the baggage.
“Your mom?”
“My mom stayed here. She grew up in New Orleans—everything about this city is etched into her DNA—there was no way she was gonna leave. She took her love for New Orleans into her job working for the tourism board.”
“No wonder you know so much.”
He nods. Then his tone changes, returning to the old Miles. When he speaks it reminds me of how my dad used to talk about Adam—with pride. “She liked rehearsing with me and the boys. We would pretend to take ghost tours and tours of the cemeteries and fancy plantations, always trying to stump her with our questions, but we never could. Things were going great for us for a while, then hurricanes hit, one after the other, closed things down for a bit. And we—she—had to carve into her savings to pay the mortgage and fix the damage to the house.”
I hear his head lift out of the water as he kicks away from the edge. We collide a bit before settling back into the calm. “Not that I knew what a mortgage was at the time. My dad helped where he could, but he has a new family to take care of as well, so I started getting odd jobs when I was old enough—anything and everything they’d let a kid pretending to be older than he was do. That’s the short version, I guess.”
There are so many questions running through my mind, but I force myself to go back to the beginning.
“Were you angry at your parents?”
“For divorcing?”
“Yeah, and—” I test out the words in my mind before saying them out loud, hoping they come out right. “Seems like you helped a lot—and are still helping out a lot—when you should’ve just been a kid.”
“I was a kid.” His hand slips away, I press mine against my side. Crap, I screwed this up. His voice is not so certain as he continues. “At least I think I was.” He dips under the water and comes back up again. “I don’t know, I don’t look back a lot. When I do things are all jumbled, like it all just happened.”
I nod, knowing what he means. We were happy a moment ago, my family and I. How hard is it to go back to that moment, that second, when it feels so close?
He continues, “I close my eyes, and I can see the first job that I took and my second.” He shakes his head, little drops scattering into the pool causing the slightest ripples. I’m crouching as I watch him, hiding my body in the water.
“I don’t want to be an asshole,” he says. “I feel like one every time I—”
“Every time you think about yourself before your family.”
I smile when he looks over, relief in his eyes.
“Every time you want to complain and put yourself first.” I focus on the waves, the gentle lapping of the water caused by the breeze. “The guilt is a bitch.”
“Remember when Taj said I had everything figured out? I don’t.” He quiets. “I think I do, but I don’t. Sure, I’m working toward graduating early so I can help my mom. Got a job lined up and everything. I’m thinking, it’s only going to be a few years, just a few years and that’s it. Then we’ll be fine.”
I inch closer.
“But it hasn’t been fine. And I keep putting my music away for another year because I’ll be an asshole if I don’t. And in the end, what’s another year if you really love something, because it will always be there waiting for when some time magically pops up.” He cups my cheek and leans his forehead against mine. “Never does, though.”
We both float again, the chill battling with the warmth of the water beneath us, watching the clouds cover the sky, like they were tucking it in to sleep. Miles doesn’t ask when I felt like an asshole. I’m grateful to hold those memories off for a little while longer. I’m not ready to admit that I hadn’t stopped feeling like one until tonight.
We drift like this, occasionally breaking apart, coming back together by a tug; planets in each other’s orbit, periods of silence broken up by words. “Do you see your dad often?”
“We talk a lot. He plays as well, so we share lyrics and talk sets; we try and see each other once a year if we can. Doesn’t always go as planned.”
Miles is so free with his words, his past, even the parts that might hurt are offered up to the night, to me. Meanwhile my past catches at the back of my throat, unsure if it will emerge as a jumble or a cry, or whether it will surface at all.
“Do you get along with your half sister?”
“I’m the quintessential big brother who lives miles away. We mostly text and on occasion write outdated letters to each other.”
The wind picks up, jostling the water, reminding me our time will soon be over. I ignore it.
“Like paper letters?”
“That’s the one. It’s really my father’s fault. ‘Letter writing is a motherfucking art, Miles,’ he likes to say, followed by, ‘Don’t tell your mother that last part.’ Of course he’s my father, so I believed him and it turned out to be true, letter writing is an art. So sometimes I’ll get an odd letter from Astrid, that’s her name. I’ll get this letter about the randomest crap like she had a fight with her friend and saw a movie yesterday. Letter will be dated four weeks before it’s actually postdated, so by the time I get it it’s old news, but I still like getting them.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” I reach my hand out, a strange automatic gesture for such a short period of knowing someone, but it feels natural.
I hook his pinkie to mine as we float. Miles is humming a tune I don’t recognize, and I wonder if he just came up with it. “What is that?”
“What’s what?”
“What are you humming?”
“A tune,” Miles says, and I can tell that he’s smiling from the tone of his voice; I even know it’s a stupid smile too, the kind you make when you’re being a smartass.
I forge on. “That’s useful. I mean, what song is it?”
“Not sure, started as one thing and turned into another. And now it’s a new thing—not sure what it is yet.”
>
“Hum it again.”
He starts and stops until the song is floating above us and deep down below us in the water. I join in but very softly, only for a moment, long enough to feel part of it as well. “I like it. Are there lyrics?”
“Maybe.”
He offers nothing more, and it irritates the crap out of me. He can’t just stop sharing everything about his life after being so forthcoming. I refuse.
“I call Questions.”
“It’s called Questions, Questions. If you are going to invoke it, please do so correctly.”
I splash water in his face, then place my hands on my hips. “Fine, I invoke Questions, Questions.”
He floats away from me, a smile across his lips. “I don’t think you’re ready.”
I dive toward him, intending to pull him under with me, but he’s too fast. He jumps up and away from me, teasing. “I am too ready.”
“Give it your best shot.”
“All right, song writing. How do you do it? How does it happen?”
“Lots of different ways.”
“Name one.”
He’s thinking about it.
“Once,” Miles breaks the silence, “I wrote a song by pulling bits and pieces from different archives I found online.”
“Like library archives?”
“Mm-hmm. Mom taught a boy how to research—proper research—not Google and shit. It’s amazing what you can find when not every other word tagged is ‘penis.’”
I laugh—and it is this odd hollow thing because my ears are under the water—I wonder what he hears. I then manage to smoothly swallow a liter of pool water, coughing much of it up.
“You okay?”
I try to play it cool; I cough and fail. “Peachy. How does it work? The archives into songs.”
“I would pull letters and scan journal pages and just take a sentence here and there, forming a song or a pile of crap, either/or. They don’t all turn out golden; most of the time it feels like I’m trying to fit together different pieces of a puzzle that just don’t work and I end up throwing away the whole thing, but once in a while . . . once in a while you get the right series of letters and it starts coming together.”
