Before You

by Amber Hart

  “What about Wink? The others?” I ask.

  I know by the way Diego winces that Wink was never found.

  “I’m okay now,” is all he says.

  Diego is okay.

  I wrap my arms around him. He never takes his eyes off me. I always said I would give anything to look at him again.

  Here’s my chance.

  “Stay with me,” I say.

  “I wish I could,” he replies. “I don’t have much time. The government didn’t want to approve this trip, but I refused to help unless they did.”

  Diego pulls me to a shaded area under an awning of trees. I sit next to him, leaning into his warmth.

  “Here’s the deal,” he says. “For the next three months, the American government wants me to work with them. They want to know everything I know about El Cartel Habana. And they won’t put me on the frontline. I can’t tell you any more than that, I’m sorry. They’ve offered me protection and a free pass out of America. I can go anywhere I want when I’m done.”

  “What’s the catch?” I ask. There’s always a catch.

  He takes a deep breath. “The catch is that I can’t be with you at all during those three months. They’ve approved phone calls from protected lines only.” He pulls out a small cell phone. “Keep this on you at all times. I’ll call you.”

  I take the phone and put it in my back pocket, hating that I have to pull my hands away from Diego for even one second.

  “But I just got you back,” I say. “How can I watch you go again?”

  “It’ll be torture,” he agrees. “But if I do it, I’m free. Afterward I can be with you, no limits. If I don’t cooperate, they can rack up gun possession and drug affiliation charges and send me away, eventually deport me back to Cuba. If I’m deported, the cartel will know in no time.”

  He doesn’t have to say the rest. I understand. The cartel won’t just find him, they’ll kill him.

  “Looks like we have no other choice,” I say.

  “You know what they say about long-distance relationships, right?” Diego says with a grin. “They make for a great first night back.”

  He winks at me and I laugh.

  We stay like that for a while. Laughing. Talking. Wrapped in each other’s arms. Wrapped in the hope of a future together.

  “I have to go,” Diego finally says.

  I am reluctant to let him leave. His lips brush the bridge of my nose. It’s intimate in the sweetest way.

  “If we can make it through death, we can make it through anything,” he says, standing.

  Men in black suits await him. He kisses me lightly, touching my heart once before he goes. When the car door opens, he waves to me. I wave back.

  Diego—the love of my life, the light of my heart—is alive.

  51

  diego

  It has been three months to the day since I saw Faith in Nicaragua.

  I’m dying to get back to her. Every late hour spent awake talking to her on the phone, each agonizing second working for the government, is all worth it. I’m free.

  The driver opens the door to my car. Faith waits for me. She looks tanned from the paradise she now calls home. Her smile shines brighter than a million lights. The sun sets behind her, giving the illusion of a fiery-red halo above her head.

  Mi ángel.

  And then she runs to me.

  I wrap my arms around her and draw in a deep, long breath, inhaling the scent of strawberry hair. I’ve always loved strawberries, but never more than I do right now.

  “It’s good to see you,” she says.

  I don’t have words. I let my lips do the talking. I kiss her softly at first, then harder. I miss her. I love her. I never have to leave her again.

  I am a juxtaposition of emotions, all lining up, then falling together like dominos.

  Faith’s hands slide up my shirt. I play with the hem of hers. I don’t care that we are standing in the yard, that people may be watching. I don’t care about anything but Faith.

  Only Faith.

  “Come inside,” Faith says.

  I follow her. She leads me to a small, round bungalow made of wood the color of sand. Decorations are sparse—a small bookshelf, a two-seater love seat, a tiny kitchen. A curtain of beads separates an area that houses a queen bed and a nightstand. It’s about the size of my old apartment, the one mi padre still lives in.

  No one except mi padre knows I’m alive. I want to tell Javier, but it’s not wise. The less he knows, the better. It kills me to leave him in the dark, especially after he took a bullet for me, but that’s exactly why I don’t inform him. If by some small chance the cartel found out about my involvement with the U.S. government, they would go after anyone close to me. It’s better, safer, for Javier to be uninformed.

  I cannot think about any of that. I have been gone from Faith far too long to give an ounce of energy to anyone else.

  She is mi vida.

  “Like you always wanted,” I say, commenting on her bungalow. Less is more for her.

  She grins and takes my hand. “Glad you like it. It’s your home now, too,” she says.

  My eyes slide to the queen bed. I want nothing more than to lay her down on that bed and show her exactly how much I’ve missed her, but first there’s something I have to do.

  “Show me the school,” I say.

  Faith watches me.

  Did she see my eyes on the bed?

  Does she want me like I want her?

  “I want to see what my princesa built with her own hands,” I insist.

  “Okay,” she replies.

  We walk out of the bungalow and down a narrow path that winds like a twist tie. Our way is paved by uneven bricks that lead to a small gray structure made of concrete blocks. The inside has one long table with foldout chairs. There are no decorations. Just a simple desk that I imagine the teacher sits behind.

  “Isn’t it perfect?” Faith says.

  It really is.

  “Yes,” I answer, truth lacing my tone. “You did this?” I motion to our surroundings, trying to imagine Faith up to her elbows in dirt and cement and dust, working her hands till they are calloused and bruised. She did this.

  “Yes.” She smiles proudly.

  I want to feel proud like that, too. I want to be strong like my girl, not getting paid a penny but still rich in other ways that matter more than money ever could.

  “I can’t wait to do this with you,” I say.

  “Soon,” Faith replies. “We’ll be building another one, a few miles east, next month.”

  I take her hand. She leads me out of the school toward her favorite spot; a canopy of leaves sways above us. I make sure to keep Faith in front of me so she can’t see the nervousness in my face. Under the trees, flowers and vines wrap around each other in a natural embrace.

  “This is where I come to think of you,” Faith says.

  The temperature is slightly cooler here, in the shaded garden, moonlight taking over.

  “I mean, I think of you all the time, but this is the spot where I can lose myself in our memories,” she says. “This is the spot that got me through the last three months, through missing you.”

  I see it, how time could rewind here, how thoughts could be lost in the beauty surrounding us.

  I reach into my pocket and pull out a small box, taking Faith by surprise.

  She looks as though she wants to say something. Her mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again. She reminds me of a cute little fish.

  “Faith, I love you,” I say. “I hate any pain I caused you. And I know I don’t deserve you, but I can’t imagine living this life without you.”

  I open the box. A silver ring glints inside. She smiles a huge, earth-splitting smile.

  The ring doesn’t have a big diamond. As a matter of fact, there is no diamond at all. But it does have two small, defined wings engraved on it.

  “Te amo con todo mi corazón. I want you to be mine forever,” I say.

  She touches the ring. Ti
me stills. We lock eyes.

  “Will you marry me, muñeca?”

  She tries to speak, but her voice is caught by emotion. She clears her throat and tries again.

  “Yes,” she whispers. “Forever yes.”

  EPILOGUE

  diego

  I am the eye of a hurricane. So much destruction all around me, and nothing but calm within. Silence. Floating. Mercy. Awe.

  Faith said yes.

  I pull the ring out of the box and place it on her finger. She twirls the silver band. It catches a flicker of moonlight and shimmers more beautifully than any jewel ever could.

  “It’s gorgeous, Diego,” she whispers.

  Her lips touch mine. We are passion and love and hope, hope, hope.

  I carry Faith in my arms back to the bungalow. She laughs all the while. I only stop once we reach the curtain of beads. The careless moon spills itself into the bedroom, covering Faith in its silver hue like wet paint. I kiss her lips. Soft. Sweet. Mine.

  Mine.

  Gently I lay her on the bed. She kisses me tenderly, like we have all the time in the world. And we do. I ease her shirt over her head, tracing the outline of her bra before removing that, too. I kiss down her shoulders, up her stomach. She is beautiful. In every way.

  Faith takes off my shirt. Her gaze travels to the scar; it spans the distance from my chest to my stomach like railroad tracks. Then she does the best thing. She kisses me. My scar, I mean. She kisses all the way down my wound. My eyes almost water. The emotion I feel when she kisses my weakness is intense.

  “I love you,” she says.

  I cover her lips with mine. I kiss her with all that I have, every emotion. I wonder if she can feel my heart beating. She gasps when I hold her close. Gooseflesh covers both of us. When she touches me, I lose it.

  “I want you, mi amor,” I say in a raspy voice.

  “I am yours,” she whispers.

  And I am hers, too. She is the key that unlocked my darkness. She poured in millions and millions of kilowatts of sunshine. I’ve never really thought about it before, but it’s amazing how dark I once was. I see it now that I have such brightness in my life.

  I randomly remember a saying about two people becoming one. Now I get it. I feel it, as though mi alma is literally merging with hers.

  And I will never be the same.

  Bliss. Making love to my girl was pure bliss. Afterward, she curls into and around me. I hold her close, breathing in the smell of strawberries. They will always remind me of Faith. She smiles.

  “Te amo, preciosa,” I say.

  “I love you, too,” she replies.

  That is all I need in this life.

  Faith.

  Hope.

  A future.

  Thanks to another chance at life, I can give her everything I have, every ounce of love and passion flowing through my Cuban blood. And then some.

  I briefly remember the pain, the struggle, the losses.

  But.

  “No matter how tough life gets,” I say as I lean in to kiss Faith’s lips, “I’m glad to be livin’ it.”

  In that moment, one thing is blatantly clear to me: some stuff lasts forever. Like love. Even when the world says no, even when no one else believes but you, some things linger. They ebb and flow like an echo off the walls of infinity. Over and over again. Because not even death can kill them.

  And the forever moment is a lot like flying freely on broken wings made new.

  Read on for a sneak peek at After Us,

  the sequel to Before You,

  available next January.

  1

  melissa

  The beach is a moving canvas of people.

  Cabanas and waves and bathing suits and sand castles all blend together to create a serene picture of life on the coast. The sky is on fire with blues and yellows and oranges. Tiny puffs of clouds like wisps of cream. Sunscreen lotion saturates the air, smelling like SPF and sweat. I squint through the blaring sun and walk toward a crowd of girls lying on their bellies with the strings to their tops undone. Bare backs naked of tan lines.

  “Frozen margarita, extra salt,” I say, giving the drink to a girl with blond hair a shade darker than mine.

  I balance the tray on one palm. Hand off drinks with another. Like a machine dispensing snacks.

  “Piña colada.” Next girl. “Sex on the beach.” Next. “Vodka and tonic.” Last. “Rum and Coke.”

  I smile. Compliment one of the girls on her leg tattoo. Girls love compliments. Eat them up like sugar.

  I don’t know these girls. I don’t know most of the people splayed out on the beach like a deck of cards. Ordering alcohol like water, trying any reprieve to cool themselves down from rays that bake them to burnt crisps.

  It’s too hot to be alive today. It’s burning. The air is breathing fire all over me. The sun is pressing so hard into my skin that it’s turning red. If I close my eyes, I can imagine my skin melting off like wax. I’m dripping sweat. Body glistening as though I’ve jumped in the water. I haven’t.

  “Thanks,” the girl with the leg tattoo says.

  One of the girls ties her top and flips over, insistent on showing me her low hip tats. Two pink bows wrapping up the package of a perfect body.

  I remember what it was like to have a perfect body.

  “Love it,” I say. And I do.

  I can never get a tattoo there.

  I don’t wear bikinis anymore. My swimwear is a collection of one-pieces. Covering certain fragments of me that I’m not willing to show. Holding me together. Though admittedly still racy, especially the one I’ve got on today, the suit that hugs me like a glove, fitting my every muscle and curve. It’s white with wavy ruffles like sea foam over the material around my breasts, plumping them up. A simple tie in the back to support the front. A small triangle covering my backside. Nothing but tiny pieces coming together, exposing skin. A runway of fabric lining my stomach and down, down. About four inches wide. Just enough.

  My tray is still stacked full of drinks for another group of people. They look like towers. Like a whole miniature city of skyscrapers and small circular buildings crammed together. Drowning in liquid.

  I wait for cash.

  A quick glance tells me that the five girls have tipped me something close to fifteen bucks. Not bad.

  “Enjoy the heat,” I tell them by way of good-bye.

  On to the next customer.

  All around me, sun tints skin a soft brown, sometimes red. Corners of beach towels flutter in the slight breeze like stingray wings. It hurts to look at the ocean, glittery and reflecting light.

  I’ve already checked IDs for the five guys waiting on drinks. Each tall and muscular, with the sort of deliciously ripped bodies that belong in a place like this. Each ordering Corona bottlenecks. I hand out the beers and accept their cash. Flirt a little. Makes for better tips.

  “What are you guys doing out here today?” I ask. Grin.

  “Nada, mami,” one says in a Latino accent, taking a seat on a lounge chair. The others follow suit. “Just enjoying this weather. Wanna enjoy it with me?”

  He pats his lap. Like I’d actually sit on it.

  “Can’t,” I say. Wink at him. “Have to work.”

  The guy leans forward. Checks me out. I check him out right back. Shaved head, nice lips.

  His friends look, too. Except for one. I can’t see the face of the one looking toward the water with dark sunglasses on.

  “I’ll have one, too,” he says, still not glancing my way.

  What is so interesting that you can’t look a person in the eye?

  I check the water. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  “ID, please,” I say. Nothing personal—can’t serve underage. Even though I’m eighteen and understand. It isn’t worth losing a prime job at the busiest hotel on the beach. A job that pays really well, with customers who tip even better.

  He hands it to me, still not looking up. I glance at it. I don’t need to see his full
face to know that it’s not him. Looks more like the guy sitting next to him than the guy handing it to me.

  “Gonna have to do better than that,” I say.

  I need the money that this job provides. With three sisters away at college and Mom working double nursing shifts to support them, I need whatever I can get. Everything we have is stretched thin. A bubble about to pop.

  His rough sigh says he’s not happy with my response. He turns to me.

  Tick, tick, tock.

  Boom.

  Time breaks into a million shards. Tiny slivers of moments. Trapping me. My breath catches.

  He sees me then. Moves his sunglasses to the top of his head to get a better look. Eyes narrow. Unbelieving.

  I can’t find enough seconds to understand what’s happening here. I heard that he moved away. I’m searching desperately for a breath of fresh air, but I can’t find one.

  Wavy brown hair that’s almost black. Thick lips that I’ve kissed once before.

  I’m staring at tattoos that wrap around his shoulders, hugging him. A hundred different images, all black and white. Photographic. I’m looking at a sun over his left collarbone, the only bit of light shining into the chest piece. Clouds ripple under his neck like waves. His shirt is off and I’m staring too hard, I realize, because his friends start laughing.

  It’s a memorial. The piece is to remember someone he lost.

  “Melissa?”

  There’s a timber in his voice that makes my insides gooey. I’m melting ice cream on this hideously hot day. He says my name like it’s painful for him, looking at me with those incredulous eyes. Willing me to say something, anything, but I can’t. I can’t.

  I run away instead. My feet propel me forward, fast, churning sand beneath my heels. I don’t care when a shell cuts the underside of my foot. Or when tiny grains of sea bottom become a natural Band-Aid.

  I need to breathe.

  I hate that he is here right now.

  I love that I’ve been given another chance to see his face.

  “Wait,” he calls from behind me.

  I won’t stop.

  Fast, fast, faster.

  He won’t stop.