Before You

by Amber Hart

  Her voice is too loud.

  “Shh,” I try to tell her but my throat is sandpaper that’s been left in the sun for days. I’m not sure that I actually make a sound.

  “I only went to grab a muffin. I didn’t think you’d wake up. The nurses said it could be hours,” Melissa says. “How are you feeling?”

  I can’t talk. I try to lift my arm again, and realize why it’s so difficult. A bracelet of IV tubing is wrapped around me. I untangle myself—careful not to move my hand too much—and reach my fingers to my throat.

  Melissa understands. “Here,” she says, putting a cup to my lips. I lift my head and swallow. The effort is painful. Like a fork grating the inside of my throat.

  “What happened?” I ask. My voice is hoarse.

  Melissa winces. “You fell, sweetie. At the competition. You landed wrong and, well . . . Faith, you really messed up your foot. Then you passed out. Probably better that way.”

  Memories attack me.

  “How serious?” I whisper. It’s easier to whisper.

  Melissa takes my hand. “I’m not a doctor, but from what I understand, it’s not that great.”

  I put my right hand, the one with the IV, to my head and rub circles on my temple. My brain hurts. My left hand is sore, too. A cast molds around my pinky and ring finger.

  “When you fell, you gave yourself a concussion. The doctors had to stabilize you before they could take you into surgery,” Melissa says.

  “Surgery?” I ask.

  Melissa points to my leg. “You broke a bone in your foot and ruptured your Achilles tendon. They had to surgically repair it.” She points to my hand next. “And you broke your fingers when you landed. One of the fractured bones popped through the skin. They repaired that surgically, as well.”

  My God. “I don’t remember anything after the fall,” I say.

  “I wouldn’t, either, if I had the amount of medicine you have pumping through you.”

  Well, that explains it.

  I look around my hospital room. Everything is focused now. The walls are off-white with pictures of palm trees and oceans. One window. Blinds closed. A television hangs from the ceiling. Flowers decorate the nightstand and windowsill. Balloons float around the room like multicolored bubbles. I spot a card with Jason’s name on it.

  I wonder if any of them are from Diego.

  “Then you decided you wanted to be combative,” Melissa continues. “They had to give you a medicine that knocked you out for a few days so you wouldn’t injure yourself further. You are the most stubborn person I—”

  I interrupt. “A few days?”

  “Yes,” Melissa says. “It’s Monday. Four o’clock in the afternoon. I came straight from school. You were supposed to be taken off of sedatives today. I wanted to be by your side when you woke up. Susan is working on some big case that she can’t get out of and your dad is home with Grace. They didn’t want to expose her to all the germs here, so I came instead. I promised your dad I’d call as soon as you woke up.”

  A nurse walks in and takes my vitals. She asks me no fewer than a million questions. Then explains the reason my throat hurts. Breathing tube during surgery. She tells me it will take eight weeks for my hand to heal, and six months of physical therapy for my foot, though I’ll be able to walk on it much sooner than that. I should be able to dance again, too, as long as therapy goes well.

  It will be too late.

  Dance season will be over by then, which means Tracy Ram will be captain once again.

  My days on the squad are over.

  40

  diego

  “A re you going to call her back, or what?”

  Javier holds my phone out to me. Faith’s ring tone plays for the second time today, like an eerie echo of what once was.

  “She keeps callin’ you, man. You gonna stay mad forever?” Javier asks.

  That’s the plan, but with each day, my strength fades.

  “It’s been what, a week since her surgery?” my cousin asks, situating himself on the couch next to me.

  “Nine days,” I say. Nine agonizing days.

  “And you still haven’t talked to her?”

  “Nope.”

  My eyes make me remember. Everywhere I look is somewhere she’s been. The couch. My room. Even the carpet. I want to ball my fists and squeeze my eyes shut and forget, forget, forget.

  “You gonna let her think you don’t care?” he asks.

  “Yep.”

  Javier shakes his head. Pity emanating. “You need to call her. I’m sick of seeing you mope around. You’re playin’ the game with the wrong girl. Because whether you admit it or not, you have it bad.”

  Javier puts the phone in my hand. Faith’s call goes to voice mail.

  “Call her,” he says again, and gives me a serious look.

  Javier leaves the couch. Grabs a drink from the fridge. The phone is still in my hand when he returns. I’m staring at a blank screen.

  “Give me the phone. I’ll call her.”

  “No,” I reply, and shove my cell in my pocket. It chimes. One new voice mail.

  “You gonna listen to it?” he asks.

  “Nope.”

  “Have you listened to the others?”

  “Nope,” I say.

  Faith has left several messages. I listened to the first one. It’ll be the last. Her voice is too much.

  I can’t let her treat me like that. Sneaking around is one thing. Treating me like garbage in an auditorium full of people is another.

  “Does she know you sent flowers?” Javier asks.

  “No. I didn’t leave a name,” I answer.

  “And the visits to the hospital?”

  I rub my tired eyes. “She was unconscious. I doubt she remembers.”

  “You still angry about the way her dad looked at you?”

  “No,” I say. “I expected it. But as far as her dad knew, I was there as Melissa’s friend, not Faith’s.”

  I remember the hospital. Walking in with Melissa. Faith’s father bent over in a chair, his head in his hands. He doesn’t hear us at first. I can’t take my eyes off her: her leg in a sling, a million wires, her face like she’s taking a nap, eyes closed, lost in a coma. I want to run to Faith. I want to rip out the wires and carry her home. I dare anyone to stop me. My fingers form fists.

  Mr. Watters looks up, spots me. His eyes linger.

  Melissa introduces me as her friend. I shake his hand, but I can’t stop looking at Faith.

  I blink. Back to the present.

  I hated the way Faith looked, hooked up to machines. So many snaking tubes biting at her skin.

  I want to take her pain away.

  “She’s miserable at school,” Javier says.

  “So am I. Am I supposed to feel bad for her?”

  Even though I say the words, and even though I don’t want to care, I do feel bad. Faith is no longer actively on the dance squad, though she still holds her position from the sidelines, but Melissa is. So Faith’s been alone a lot.

  “She has a broken foot and hand. Probably a broken heart, too,” Javier says. “She calls you every day. She can’t catch up to you on her crutches at school. She even stopped me in the hall the other day to tell me she’s sorry for what she did.”

  I close my eyes. Memories haunt me. Jason’s lips on her. Her hands on him. Faith is supposed to be mine. I don’t share.

  “She chose this,” I say. My tone is sharp. Pain’s fingers wrap around my neck. Choke me. Deepen my voice.

  Javier leans into the cushions and takes a sip of soda. “You should at least hear her side of the story before you call it quits. I’ve seen you with other chicas. You’re different with her. You love her.”

  He shouldn’t have gone there. I get in his face. “Cállate. You know nothing.”

  Javier shoves me away. “I’m not the enemy, Diego. You’re falling apart. You won’t talk about tu madre. You’re having run-ins with MS-13s. You’re pushing Faith away now, too. You need to g
et it together. That girl is good for you. I’m not sayin’ what she did was right, but come on. She made a mistake. You act like you never have.”

  I try to control myself by walking away, even though it’s my apartment. Javier follows and backs me up to a wall.

  “What do you care?” I yell. “Who cares if I fall apart?”

  “I do!” he yells back. “I care! Somos una familia. I won’t let you do this to yourself. Not a second time. And you’re not going to kill off another person you love.”

  That’s it.

  Too far.

  I punch him in the face. “I did not kill mi madre!” I yell.

  He punches me back. The force of it slams my shoulder against the wall.

  “No, but your actions did!” he shouts.

  Mi padre races into the room. Rips the two of us apart. He yells in Spanish. It takes a minute, but I finally cool off. Javier wipes blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. Blood trickles down my face, as well. The skin at the corner of my eye is cut.

  “If you’re not careful,” Javier says in a low tone, “your actions will kill off Faith, as well.”

  41

  faith

  Two weeks since I’ve spoken to Diego. The distance creates a canopy of cobwebs in my mind. Blocking colors, blocking light, blocking the promise of anything hopeful. I can’t handle the separation any longer. If Diego won’t speak to me, I’ll go to his place. He may not have good news for me, but I need to hear him say it. I need the finality, if that’s what this is. My injury, being away from him, has brought everything into perspective.

  My right foot is uninjured, so I’m able to drive. Still, it’s difficult to get in and out of the car. Getting up Diego’s steps on crutches is so much effort that I have to take a minute to sit on the concrete halfway up. The pain is intense, but worth it if I can finally talk to him.

  I make it up the rest of the steps and take a deep breath before knocking. The pit of my stomach coils like a spring. I remind myself to stay calm.

  When I knock, no one comes. I worry that he’s not here. I knock harder. Wait. Knock again. Finally the door swings open. Diego says something in Spanish, annoyed with the intrusion.

  Air whooshes out of me at once, like I’ve taken a kick to the gut. It’s hard to breathe. Diego’s hair is dripping wet. Beads of water fall down his shoulders and bare chest, only to be absorbed by the waistband of his jeans, the elastic of his boxers.

  His face falls slack. He lets go of the door. His arms drop to his sides, deadened. His expression softens, a mixture of pleasure and pain.

  “Diego,” I say.

  The door is wide open. I want to walk in, but don’t know if I should. He looks tired.

  “Am I interrupting something?” I ask.

  “Just my shower,” he answers. “What are you doing here, mujer?”

  My stare lingers on his tattooed chest. I want to touch him.

  “I needed to see you,” I reply.

  Hope holds me with a tight grip, refusing to let go.

  “For what?” he asks, not gently.

  “Don’t do this.”

  “I didn’t do anything. You did.” I flinch at the sharpness in his tone.

  “Melissa told me,” I blurt. I wasn’t supposed to say that last part but it slipped out. “I know about the flowers, and your visits.”

  He shakes his head slightly. “So what?”

  “So I know you care, that’s what.”

  I take a step toward him and almost fall, wobbly on my broken foot. He reaches out, automatically steadying me.

  His touch is everything, everything to me.

  “I miss you,” I say. I should give him space but I need to feel him against me.

  Diego winces.

  “I miss us,” I say, reaching for his face.

  “Don’t.”

  My fingers stop midair. My hand drops.

  “¿Estas bien?”

  “No. I feel like my heart is breaking, if that’s possible.”

  “Your foot, I mean,” he amends.

  My emotions are a scale ready to tip either way. Unsure of where I’ll end up. Happy, maybe. Or perhaps more devastated.

  “My foot’s not really better,” I answer. “Not yet. It hurts. I don’t take the pain pills because they make my mind fuzzy. I’m unsteady, as you can tell, but I manage.”

  He lets go of me then.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” he says, businesslike, looking at the wall as he speaks.

  “But what about us?” I ask.

  “What about us?”

  I wish he would look at me.

  “You won’t return my phone calls.”

  “And you show up anyway.”

  I swallow the lump of rot in my throat. “You don’t have to be rude, Diego.”

  He’s pushing me away. I can’t say I don’t deserve it.

  Diego looks at me then. “And you didn’t have to treat me like garbage in front of the entire school.”

  “So this is how it’s going to be?” I ask, voice rising. “You don’t care anymore? What we had means nothing?”

  “No sé. You tell me,” he snaps back. “You let Jason kiss your lips. Lips that are supposed to be mine.”

  My face burns with shame. “I didn’t let him. He pushed himself on me.”

  “I heard you ask him if you could be friends, Faith,” Diego says. “Why would you want to be his friend?”

  I uncurl my fists and blink back tears.

  “I don’t. I was just trying to be nice,” I say. “Look. You’re mad. You have every right to be.” I pause, trying to decide if I should go on. Then, with a deep breath, I let everything out. “I know I don’t deserve you. You’ve been good to me, helping me talk through all that stuff with my mom, even. And I hid you like a secret, yet you still stuck by me. I never should have done that to you. I’m sorry. I want to make things right.”

  I don’t know what to expect when I look back up at him.

  He steps toward me. Waits. Battles himself. I reach for him, grasping air, hoping he will accept me, forgive me. Another step. I hold my breath.

  “You sure?” he asks.

  “Absolutely,” I say, nervous.

  There’s a difference between want and need. I need him. Diego knows it.

  “I don’t want to be played. ¿Me oyes?” he says. “’Cause what you did at school was wrong. I need to know that you’re mine, mujer. Only mine. The guys will keep coming as long as they think you’re free.”

  “You want me to announce that we’re together?” I ask. At this point, I’ll do it. I love Dad, but I need to know happiness. The accident showed me that. I have to try. This thing between us feels more real than anything in my life.

  “Sí,” Diego says.

  “Okay,” I reply.

  His eyebrows arch. “For real?”

  “For real.”

  I hobble closer. He lets me this time.

  “And I want one more thing if this is going to work between us,” he says.

  I am skeptical of the sly flash in his eyes. His stare traces my body: pink halter top, jean shorts, vulnerability on display.

  “Let’s hear it,” I say.

  Diego trails a finger down my bare shoulder. I shiver. Chills erupt, though his touch is searing. “Prométeme you’ll dress like this every day.”

  I laugh as he scoops me into his arms and kicks the front door shut. He locks the dead bolt and carries me to his room, laying me on the bed.

  “Done,” I agree, smiling. “Can I have a little time to think about how to break it to everyone? I promise I’ll do it; I just have to figure out a plan.”

  “Deal,” he says.

  Diego climbs next to me and pulls a pillow under his head. “Te extraño,” he whispers.

  Heat pulses off his bare skin. I place my palms on his chest. “I miss you, too,” I reply, my eyes on his lips. “So much. Too much.”

  “You want to kiss me?” he asks, smiling.

  “Bad,” I a
dmit.

  “How bad?” he whispers. Quick as a wink, he brushes his lips against mine. It’s not a kiss, more of an enticement. He laughs, but it’s gravelly.

  “Kiss me, Diego,” I order. I need to know that I still have an effect on him.

  His breathing slows. He licks his mouth. His thumb grazes my bottom lip.

  “Diego,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

  That’s all it takes. He kisses me with pent-up passion. His lips work out his emotions.

  Hard at first, angry.

  Then fierce, missing me.

  Then finally softer, happy. One hand cups the back of my neck. The other plays with my shirt.

  It’s dark in Diego’s room. He must think the same thing because he reaches for matches on his nightstand to light a candle. Diego in the candlelight is breathtaking. My hands slide over muscles in his lower back. His fingers sweep over my breasts. My body reacts to his touch. His hands slide up my legs to my inner thighs.

  I’m losing control again. And this time I don’t want to stop.

  42

  diego

  Faith’s legs are soft under my fingertips. One of her knees is bent, propping her good leg up while the other foot rests comfortably on my sheets, swathed in a cast that looks more like a pink boot.

  “Eres tan bella. Preciosa. Perfecta,” I say.

  She kisses me again.

  “Diego,” she says.

  “Yeah,” I say between kisses.

  “I need to tell you something.”

  I pull back an inch. I’m spinning in a vortex of happiness. Faith is everywhere. On my lips. In my mind. Building a shelter within my heart.

  “I’m not a virgin,” she says.

  I’m not expecting that.

  “¿Qué?” I ask.

  “I’m not a virgin,” she repeats.

  This shouldn’t matter. I’m not, either.

  “But I thought—” I break off because I realize she never actually told me she was a virgin. I heard rumors that she hadn’t been with Jason. I assumed she hadn’t been with anyone.

  “I cheated on Jason,” she explains.

  I sit back on the bed. Thrown for a loop.

  “When you first met me, you insinuated that maybe . . . I was. I felt like you deserved the truth,” Faith says. “I couldn’t think of a good time to bring it up. I don’t know that there is one. But it needed to be said.”