The Story of You and Me

by DuMond, Pamela

  Javier pulled a card from his pocket and handed it to me. It read, “DRIVER,” and had Nick’s name and contact info.

  “You’re the best! I’ve got to run. If you see Alejandro or if he calls, would you tell him I was here? That I really need to talk with him?”

  “You got it.”

  * * *

  The cabbie drove me to Alejandro’s house on Copa del Oro. The fare kept ticking skyward. When we arrived I paid him. Even if Alejandro wasn’t here, it would only take me a half hour or so to walk back to Cole’s place. Also, it wouldn’t hurt to have a little money left over for things like food. He peeled off as I hit the call button next to the closed gates and waited.

  A few windows were open in the front of the house and I heard the gate’s buzzer ring lowly from inside. But no one answered. I fidgeted and then pushed the call button again. Waited another couple of minutes. Contemplated climbing the fence, then thought what a great impression that would make on Alejandro’s folks when I was arrested for breaking and entering. So I pushed the button again. Okay, truth be told, I banged on that damn buzzer five times in a row. I had to find Alejandro.

  Thirty seconds later a short man marched from the side of the house toward the front gates and me.

  “Oh yay!” I said. “You’re the same gentleman who wore the sombrero at the Levine’s picnic. I’m looking for Alejandro? Is he here?”

  “No, miss.” He shrugged and eyed me through the slats.

  “Do you expect him back today? Soon?”

  “I do not know, miss.”

  “Oh,” I said. “His parents? Are they here? Could I talk to them?”

  “I’m sorry, miss, no. They are out of town.”

  “Oh,” my heart sunk. “Can I leave you my contact info? My phone number, email? You could give it to his parents when they come back or if they call.”

  “Yes, miss,” he said.” I scribbled my info onto a piece of scratch paper I dug out of my purse and handed it to him. I watched as he walked away. “Thank you, sir,” I hollered. “Thank you very much.”

  I sighed and slumped back against their gate but an alarm went off and I jumped. Dang! I walked down Copa de Oro, past the mansions attended by the gardeners and maids and pool service trucks. I plucked the Driver’s card and my phone from my purse. I punched in a number and waited while it rang. He picked up. “Nick, it’s Sophie. You’ve got to help me.”

  * * *

  I sat in the passenger seat of Nick’s immaculate truck and watched the heat simmer in waves off the pavement lining the entrance to Union Station. Folks of all races, ages, walks of life entered and exited the doorways to this gorgeous Spanish styled train station. Two security guards kept an eye on them.

  “Alejandro said he needed to get away. Go some place where he could just be himself, chill out and find shelter. He was torn up, Sophie. I haven’t seen him like that in years,” Nick said.

  I was a terrible person. I had done a horrible thing to someone I loved.

  “Shit,” I said. “Has he called? Is he all right?”

  Nick shrugged. “Haven’t heard from him. Hey, I wish I could drive you farther, but things are tight around here with the new semester, the frat parties and the newly liberated, heads-up-their-collective-asses freshmen. We’re training a few new Drivers, but as you know, we’re missing one of our best.”

  “I miss him too,” I said.

  Nick slammed the steering wheel with his fist.

  I jumped. “You okay?” I asked.

  “Yeah. For someone who just gave away his best buddy’s secret to the girl who broke his heart? I’m great.”

  “I love him, Nick.”

  He looked out his driver’s window. “I know, Sophie. Just don’t mess him up more than you already have.”

  I placed my hand on top of his fist and squeezed it for a second. “Thank you.”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  I took the train to San Diego and then caught a tour bus to Rosarito. Strangely enough it dropped me off at La Mar Hotel, where I grabbed a taxi. I tried to explain to the cabbie what Alejandro’s parents house looked like: gorgeous beachfront hacienda. Located in a gated community with security guards. But, unfortunately, there were over a hundred houses that matched that description.

  He drove me to community after community, guardhouse after guardhouse. He’d pull up, say hello to the guards and inquire using Alejandro’s last name. “La casa de Levine?” The guards just shook their heads. I was frustrated, but it wasn’t really their fault. They were paid to protect—not offer up private information.

  So here I was again, thousands of miles away from home. Feeling those glass shards from the broken beer bottle digging back into my face, migrating down through my chest and piercing my heart.

  The sun was making its way toward the Pacific Ocean and I still hadn’t found Alejandro. I felt exhausted, weak and my hand started trembling. What was I thinking? At least I could have tried to track him down a little while longer before I ventured to a foreign country on my own. Why had I journeyed so far away, all by myself? And it hit me.

  I raced down paths most people wouldn’t tiptoe onto because it was out of their comfort zone, perhaps even dangerous. I traveled thousands of miles, crossed mountains, deserts and fires because I had hope. And if you had hope, maybe you could conquer a disease. Perhaps you could save a life.

  So I journeyed for love: the first time for my Nana. The second time for Alejandro. No matter how we ended up—together or apart—I knew that I’d always love him. He’d always hold an exceptional piece of my soul, my heart, my mind. He was my first love. He sheltered me.

  And it dawned on me…I asked the cab driver if he knew where Padre Morales’s orphanage was. His eyes widened in the rearview mirror’s reflection. He nodded and turned onto a road that led back into town. Fifteen minutes later we were in the midst of Rosarito’s non-touristy, gritty neighborhoods, with the hole-in-the-wall apartments and mom and pop stores.

  The cabbie slowed to a stop next to the plain concrete block building surrounded by barbwire fence. “Padre Morales.”

  “Yes.” I opened the passenger door, stepped out and glanced at the blood red door. The cabbie popped open the trunk, hauled out my suitcase and plopped it in front on the pavement. I knocked on the door, really hoped someone was home, dug through my purse for twenties and paid the cabbie. He pocketed the cash, eyed me and said, “Buena suerte, señorita.”

  “Gracias.” I would take all the luck offered to me.

  He drove off as I knocked on the door. But there was no answer. I dragged my bag around to the fence. There were no kids playing in the playground. That’s when I heard a song coming from the inside of the orphanage. It was John Lennon’s voice singing “Imagine.” I couldn’t help but smile. When the red door flew open and the Padre stuck his head out and stared at me.

  “Dios mío!” He said. “I was wondering when you were going to arrive. Come inside. Pronto!

  * * *

  The Padre made me a sandwich and insisted I drink two glasses of juice. I changed into my swimsuit and my beach cover up back at the orphanage. Now I stood on a calm patch of a local Rosarito beach and watched Alejandro in the ocean waves. The sun was a few feet above the horizon, but he was still helping a half dozen kids learn to surf.

  Alex was half naked, wearing board shorts, bronzed and laughing. His black hair was wet and even longer than last time I saw him. He looked carefree. He looked happy. Did I even dare interrupt him?

  Padre Morales poked my arm and I flinched. “Do you love him?”

  “I do.”

  “Then for him, and I plead with you—for all of us? Talk with him.” He turned and walked away.

  My first love, Alejandro Maxwell Levine dove under the ocean waters, resurfaced and pretended to be a shark attacking a twelve-year-old boy’s surfboard. The boy screamed with delight, stood up on the board and rode it to shore.

  Alejandro stuck both his arms up in the air and yelled, “Raphae
l! You did it!”

  Raphael dragged his board out of the water and collapsed onto the wet sand next to me, his wet, bare, skinny chest heaving.

  “Alejandro,” I said. But his attention was already focused on his next student.

  Raphael squinted at me. “You’re the pretty lady in the picture,” he said and pushed himself up on one elbow.

  I shook my head. “What?”

  “You’re the pretty lady in the picture on Alejandro’s phone. I think he likes you. Alejandro! Alejandro! Alejandro!” Raphael hollered.

  “Shhh! Be quiet, kiddo. Just be a nice, silent young man. Okay?” I dug in my purse. “I’ll give you a quarter.”

  “Alejandro! I have a new friend. You must meet her.”

  “No,” I hissed. “I need to… I must… I can handle this…”

  Alejandro was waist deep in the surf but swiveled toward Raphael’s voice. And froze when he spotted me. “Bonita. What are you doing here?”

  I gathered my courage, stood up and walked into the water. The waves lapped over my ankles and surf sprayed onto my legs. “I’m here because someone wise once told me, ‘Life is short.’ He said, ‘We are not perfect people. We don’t know how much time we will have together.’”

  “Hmm. That guy sounds like a pompous dick.”

  I looked at the ocean waters that scared the shit out of me. Then gazed at Alejandro. “No, he’s not, actually. He’s perceptive. He’s smart.” I waded into the ocean up to my hips and the waves drenched my cover-up.

  “You’re petrified of water. What are you doing?” He asked.

  “Remember when we first came down here and we were on the phone with my Nana?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Remember when she said ‘Just be kind to each other.’”

  “Yeah?”

  “Those were her last words to me before she died.”

  “Oh, Bonita. Your Nana died?”

  “Yeah. That’s one of the reasons I left you the night of the party.”

  “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know,” he said.

  “I didn’t want you to know. But, I didn’t follow my Nana’s last words. I wasn’t kind to you. And I regret it. I regret every mean thing I said. And I want to take it all back. But I can’t.” I tugged my cover-up over my shoulders and tossed it behind me onto the ocean. I strode toward him clad in that really-revealing bikini the Wheelie Girls truth or dared me to get during our Bathing Suit party.

  I felt exposed. Raw. Vulnerable.

  “I can never take away hurting you or the mean things I said the night of the party. But I promise to try with every inch of my frightened heart to trust you, Alejandro. You’re the first man I’ve ever fallen in love with. You will be the man I’ll never forget. And I don’t care if you belong to the world. I still want you to belong to me.” I waded toward him until the waves crested up to my chest.

  “I’ll always belong to you.”

  “No matter what happens with us, Alejandro? You and I have a hell of a story.”

  He dove into the water and swam toward me.

  I tried not to be scared as the waves splashed against my neck, my face.

  He hit sand, strode toward and reached me. One muscular arm encircled my waist as he pulled me toward him. I wrapped my arms around his neck, my legs around his hips. He kissed me hard and full on my lips. “I love you Sophie Marie Priebe. I’ll always love you.” He walked us into shallower waters, where the waves splashed around our waists.

  “I love you back.”

  And we kissed in the surf; surrounded by giggling children, a priest, surfers, a few tourists and sailboats making their way back to a marina. And it was magical.

  He stopped for a second, pulled his head back and smiled at me. “I think our story deserves a name. What do you think we should call it?”

  “Let’s keep it simple,” I said.

  “I like simple. How about The Story of You and Me?” And he kissed me again.

  The End

  * * *

  Notes from the Author

  Dear Reader:

  Thank you for reading The Story of You and Me. I hope you enjoyed Sophie and Alejandro’s story as much as I enjoyed writing it.

  I’d be so grateful if you would take a moment of your valuable time to write a brief review on the site where you purchased this book, and even Goodreads, if you have the stamina.

  Every single, honest book review helps an author. A lot.

  Thank you again,

  Pamela DuMond

  Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B00F9UOO2Q

  Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/4430293.Pamela_DuMond

  On a Personal Note

  About a year before I started writing The Story of You and Me, a woman reached out to me on Facebook. She asked me a few questions about where I grew up. We determined that her brother, R, was my first love. She was his sister and even though many years had passed, I remembered her fondly. We became FB friends.

  This encounter from my past made my mind spin about first loves.

  First loves are all about magic and romance, hope and tears. Your heart clutches and your skin tingles simply by thinking about this person. You’re grateful and beyond happy that you found this amazing being, whom you believe you can’t live without.

  I reminisced about R.

  We met at the end of my senior year in high school. I was eighteen, cute, an A student and painfully shy. He was seventeen, handsome, squeezed by on his grades, but was in a garage band (which automatically made him cool.) We couldn’t be more different, but we fell crazy in love.

  He made me laugh. It was okay to be my slightly dorky self around him. He introduced to me to his loving family. He was the first guy who sent me roses. When I moved away to college, he visited almost every weekend. I stayed away from all the cute frat guys because I was in love with a hometown boy.

  We went to dances and concerts and (first time for me,) made love—usually on my skinny mattress, on a bunk bed in my dorm room. And yeah, we did that a lot.

  We talked marriage. I wanted to wait. He didn’t. He proposed on my 19th birthday. He couldn’t afford a ring, so he handed me a box of Oreos and a little silver cross. He asked me a big question and offered a bigger promise. I said yes, but with the caveat that I needed to wait a few years to get through school.

  We were so young and it’s not a huge surprise that we broke up five months later. But it was brutal. My heart felt like it was being ripped out of my chest. I remember sitting on my family’s kitchen counter sobbing, while my dad paced, trying to explain to me about life and love and that it’s not fair and not right, but that there would be more. There would be more people to love. There would be more stories to share.

  And yet I found myself, years after R and I broke up, poking around on his sister’s FB page looking for a link to him.

  But there was no link.

  That’s when I noticed her son was also named R. And suddenly a piece of my heart knew. His sister confirmed it:

  R had died during a drunk driving accident. He was thirty-seven years old.

  I wept for first loves. I spilled tears for a boy I thought I was all wept out over. I cried for innocence lost as well as the sheer sadness that burrows into your bones when you realize that you’ll never have a chance for re-connection. When you feel the profound sense of loss that someone you love, or loved, is never coming home again.

  Life is precious, but it isn’t always perfect or easy or pretty.

  Follow your dreams.

  Tell the people you hold close to your heart that you love them.

  And live life bravely.

  Thanks for being part of my journey.

  Pamela DuMond

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A huge thanks to my readers who have been loyal as I jump around genres. There are so many types of books I love and so many I want to write.

  I couldn’t have written this novel without the help of Dr. Andrew Goldstein. Thank you, Andrew, for yo
ur amazing on-going help with stem cell research and medical procedures. (All mistakes and liberties taken in this book regarding medical procedures are mine and not his.)

  Thanks Michael James Canales for another incredible book cover. http://www.mjcimageworks.comThanks Ramona DeFelice Long for your insightful content editing. Thanks Chase Heiland for copy-editing. Thanks author Rita Kempley for your notes on my first draft. (Holy cow, you’re brave!) Author Bob Bernstein you are a Prince among men! Thanks for all your help with Scrivenor and Createspace. Thanks Deborah Daly Roelandts for your help with police procedures as well as all things Oconomowoc, Wisconsin related. (All police/legal mistakes are mine and not hers.) Melissa Black Ford – You, señorita, are my secret author weapon. Thanks Naomi Richman (Acupuncturist).

  Thanks to my early readers: Kristin Warren and Shelly Fredman.

  A shout-out to my Entertainment Manager Jeffrey Thal at Ensemble Entertainment: I’m grateful you believe in me as well as my stories. You rock, dude!

  A special thanks to Cheyenne and Monica Mason for all your help inside, as well as outside of the box and for being so incredibly cool.

  Thanks to my writer buds and inspirations: Jamie Dunier, Shelly Fredman, Rita Kempley, Jenny Milchman, Grant Jerkins, Laura Schultz, Ed Schneider, Joe Wilson, Carlette Norwood, JM Kelley, Mike Snyder, Jacqueline Carey, Dave Thome, Doug Solter, Melanie Abed, Allie Sinclair, Julie Weathers, POV, (and apologies to whoever I’m forgetting.)

  Thanks to my amazing friends who are savvy, kind and helped and encouraged me when I couldn’t quite find my way through the story, or at times, life: Joan Brady, Marsha Boyer, Melissa Stead, Kimberly Goddard Kuskin, Sadie Gilliam, Dr. Carrie Hartney, Elise Ford, Lynne Massey, Dorothy Hattan Mcqueen and Samantha Mehra (yogi extraordinaire.) A huge shout out to all my DG North and Wheaton Academy HS buddies.