He suddenly got up, and Caía hoped he was leaving, but instead he walked over to the small built-in fridge beneath the tiled counter, across the patio, and opened it, taking out another Cruzcampo. He set the old bottle on the counter and turned to ask, “Want one?”
Fabulous. Wonderful. Go on, Caía, pour fuel on the fire, she mocked herself, but said, “Why not.” Weak, she berated herself as he picked up another beer and he opened both bottles against the edge of the counter. Then he came over and handed one to Caía before sitting again, facing her as he sipped thoughtfully at his beer.
Caía caught a whiff of alcohol-laced sweat, and wondered how long he’d been drinking today. She didn’t remember any abundance of bottles in the trash, or evidence of alcohol in his room. And yet, that scent he had, while not offensive, meant he had been drinking long enough for it to work its way to his pores. Caía raised her beer. “How many have you had?”
His eyes glinted in the moonlight. “A few.”
A few, as in “just a few”? Or a few, as in “more than a few”? Caía considered this as she took a slow, thoughtful sip of her own beer. The sound of cicadas grew in frequency, and she braced herself as some sixth sense warned her to go inside.
Go to bed. Tomorrow’s another day.
Nick was silent a long, long while, and Caía got the impression he was trying to find the nerve, or perhaps the words to say something out loud. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said finally. “Marta told me . . . everything.”
Caía’s gaze snapped to his face. She blinked. “Everything?”
“About your son.”
“Oh.” Frowning, Caía wrapped her hands about her bottle’s neck, concentrating on the cold bottle sweat. Her shivers intensified, completely out of proportion with the night’s temperature. And now there was an elusive scent in the air, one that tasted a lot like fear.
“You don’t need to talk about it if you don’t want to,” he said, pulling down another long sip and sinking further into his wicker chair. “We all have demons,” he said, out of context.
And you are mine.
But maybe he wasn’t talking out of context. Maybe he thought Caía was somehow responsible for Jack’s death. “I have nothing to feel guilty about,” she said defensively.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply.” His lips turned a bit derisively. “I guess I was referring more to myself.”
Caía stiffened. The universe seemed to be handing her the perfect opportunity to come clean—right here and now—to look Nick Kelly in the eyes and ask him about her son.
I know what you did, she said silently. But her lips wouldn’t part to speak.
For the longest interval, he sat nursing his beer, and Caía hoped that this was where he would leave it. If they didn’t clear the air tonight, she would make her plans to leave. If she couldn’t take this optimal moment, and ask him what she needed to ask him, then it was surely time to go.
But what was funny, she realized, was that it wasn’t Nick she was afraid of. It was herself. The image of her own bloodied face in the bathroom mirror flashed through her mind, and she sat quietly, shivering on the sofa.
She hadn’t really thought about what might happen in that moment. She had merely reacted in fury and in pain. And when she thought about it now, really thought about it, she must have hurled herself over that sink, because normally a person couldn’t easily smack their head on a bathroom mirror. But Caía didn’t remember much about it. Later, at the hospital, the doctors had plucked glass shards out of her hairline, as though she’d rammed into that mirror like an angry bull. It was crazy any way you looked at it. As was this . . .
After another moment, Nick shook his beer, and finding it empty, he got up to procure another. Without a word, he plucked a bottle from the fridge, popped the top on the counter, this time without asking Caía if she wanted another, and he came back to sit down.
Caía pulled her blanket around herself, building a cocoon, sipping at her beer. The tension in the air was palpable. The house itself remained quiet, and Caía imagined both Marta and her daughter had already gone to bed. Inside, the streaming of the fountain was a constant white noise. And then suddenly, like a volcano that had remained dormant far too long, Nick’s confession oozed out. “I killed a boy,” he said, almost too softly to be heard.
But Caía heard and froze. Her throat narrowed, preventing words from escaping. He tapped his Cruzcampo on the arm of his chair, and said, “I didn’t mean to.”
Caía sought his eyes in the darkness and found them glistening.
“He was just a kid,” he said, staring at his lap. “He had his whole life ahead of him.”
It was too much to bear. Caía was both terrified to hear any more and terrified he might stop. She swallowed hard, and dared to ask, “H-how?”
“Car accident.” He shook his head, as though he wished to deny the existence of his own memories. “I was on the way home from work . . . he was . . .” He twisted his neck, as though the tension there was painful. “. . . on a skateboard . . . my phone rang.”
Beneath the blanket, Caía joined her hands prayerfully, trying to stop the tremors. She balled her hands into fists, resisting the urge to fly at him, as she’d always imagined she would do. Scratch out his eyes, rail at him, why, why, why?
“I didn’t answer it. I wouldn’t have. But I did turn away . . . just for a second.” He sat up, leaning forward, moonlight illuminating his entire face now. Cradling his beer between his legs, he sat staring at the patio tiles, avoiding Caía’s gaze. “I swear to God,” he said. “It was just a split second.”
Hot tears filled Caía’s eyes. “What then?” she heard herself ask, and her voice was raw and scratchy with emotion.
He shrugged, meeting Caía’s gaze, and Caía was stunned to find his eyes filled with tears. The sight of them left her confused. He seemed in that instant to be nearly as tormented by Jack’s death as she was. “The road was clear . . . and next thing I knew . . .” He closed his eyes and a long, awkward silence followed.
Oh, God. What if, in fact, it was an accident? Unavoidable by its definition. What if he had been driving to the best of his ability? What if there was a good reason the police never charged him? What if her son was at fault?
No. It was the world’s duty to safeguard the young. Caía couldn’t fathom any God—if there was a God—who could forsake the innocent.
She didn’t know what to say, or how to say it. She couldn’t bring herself to comfort Nick—only how did you loathe a man who sat there crying over your son? Real tears.
Gregg must have cried as well, though Caía never witnessed it.
At first, maybe because he had been trying to be strong for her, and then later, he just never did. Only now, after everything was said and done, Caía couldn’t say for sure whether Gregg was as torn apart by Jack’s death as she was. As Nick Kelly appeared to be. Some part of Caía wanted to beg him to go on . . . to tell her what he saw that day—right down to the smallest detail—but she didn’t have the strength of heart to hear more words coming out of his mouth.
Did he realize who she was?
Their gazes held, and Caía didn’t think so. There was nothing staged about his confession. He genuinely seemed to need to unburden himself, and the simple fact that Caía was the last person on Earth he should be doing this with, was lost to him.
And then something unexpected happened.
Caía searched her heart. She couldn’t find the loathing she’d expected to feel over Nick’s confession—loathing she had nursed. In fact, she’d tended her anger like a rare and precious flower. Inexplicably, it was tired and wilted. And in its place grew a heavy, heavy sorrow.
Still, some part of her refused to part with her anger . . .
Because anger wasn’t as debilitating as grief. She struggled for something to say. “There have been times when I’ve lef
t my house and arrived at my destination without ever remembering the journey in between. Maybe you were distracted?”
His brows collided. “No,” he said, crossly. And it was then Caía realized how leading her question must have sounded. “It was only a split second,” he said defensively, his gaze piercing her through the shadows. “That was all it took.” He shook his head, and chugged another sip of his beer. “Hey, look, I’m sorry, Caía. I don’t know why I felt compelled to tell you any of this.” He swept a thumb beneath each of his eyes. “I’m sorry.”
“No . . . don’t apologize,” Caía said.
Unexpectedly, his anger turned inward. “I keep thinking any day now they’re going to come lock me up, and it’s probably exactly what I deserve.”
“They didn’t charge you.”
It wasn’t a question, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“No.”
Tears formed in Caía’s eyes. “Some prisons you carry with you,” she said quietly.
“I suppose,” he said. And then, “I know it’s not fair, but I feel like I lost that kid myself. I can’t explain it, Caía. Before that accident, I didn’t know anything about him . . . where he was going . . . all I knew was in those last seconds, that kid looked at me as though he wanted me to tell him everything was going to be all right. Less than one second later—just one tiny second—I saw the light leave his eyes, and I realized . . . nothing was ever going to be all right.”
A dam burst in Caía’s soul.
Nothing about this meeting had gone as she had anticipated. Tears flowed down her cheeks, unchecked. Sobs burst from her lips. She lifted her hands to her face and wept openly in front of the man who’d killed her son. She could hear him weeping as well, and they wept together.
They were alone on the patio. Nick reached out and touched Caía’s cheek with the back of his knuckles, wetting them with her tears. Instinctively, Caía leaned into the caress, and suddenly he took Caía by the hand, pulling her into his arms.
Caía went without a word, clinging to the one person in the world she felt connected to right now. Connected by Jack, by his death. Before this instant, there had been no physical attraction between them—none that she could have put into words. But death had a power beyond imagining, and Caía had a hole in her heart.
She wrapped her arms around Nick’s waist, and did something she never imagined she might do. She pressed her lips against Nick Kelly’s mouth, weeping softly, and tearing a guttural moan from his lips. She tasted the salt of his tears, he lapped up hers . . . until it was impossible to distinguish whose grief she was tasting.
Like her son’s accident, this too happened fast. One minute, they were grieving together, and the next they were groping one another out in the shadows of the patio. Warm hands on cold skin, touching her where no one had touched Caía in years. Tongues mingling. She tasted alcohol . . . and tears. Their kissing grew fevered. Nick’s hand reached down, cupping her crotch with an open palm, giving her every chance to say no.
But she didn’t say no. Instead, Caía reached down, pressing his fingers tighter against her, letting her body come to life. She pressed her nipples against his warm chest, her lips against his throat, biting him punitively, and then curatively. And then, the next minute, he lifted Caía up and carried her into the house, making a sharp left toward Caía’s room, never breaking the kiss.
Sex was life-affirming. Death was final. Pleasure was a beacon in the darkness.
Twelve
All that we love deeply
becomes a part of us.
– Helen Keller
“Coffee?”
Nick’s voice stopped Caía as she reached for her purse. She turned to face him, shocked to find that “no” was not the first answer that popped into her head. “I thought you were already gone,” she said.
“Marta took Laura to school this morning. Parent-teacher meeting—I think.”
Sex was one thing, but Caía considered an actual conversation over coffee—with Nick. The thought was both terrifying and tempting all at once. This is what she’d come for, after all, except that last night’s . . . whatever you wanted to call it—slip—had put her in a strange place. It couldn’t happen again. It shouldn’t have happened the first time, but it did.
There was no doubt Nick had been deeply affected by her son’s death, and this bonded them in a way Caía might never have foreseen . . . but to sit there, talking to him one on one across a hot, steaming cup of coffee like nothing ever happened seemed ill conceived.
And yet . . . how did you sleep with a man you weren’t willing to share a coffee with? She swung her purse over her shoulder. “Sure . . . sounds great.” But she had a hard time looking him in the face. “Did you have a place in mind?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” They stood for a moment, awkwardly facing one another, and probably in the instant when he might have taken her by the hand—like a normal couple might have done—he inclined his head toward the door and said, “After you.”
Caía bolted for the door, before she could change her mind. Outside, there was a surreal quality to the day. The sky seemed entirely too blue. Birds flitted to and from the balcony to the maple tree’s branches and then back again, chirping merrily. In general, colors appeared brighter. There was a sweet scent in the air, not unlike the scent of oranges, but more like pollen.
“This way,” Nick said, glancing at Caía’s left hand.
Caía shoved both hands into her pockets, following slightly behind.
As it turned out, he didn’t lead her very far, just across the street.
“Inside or out?” he asked.
“Inside,” she said, but mostly because she felt odd about having witnesses to their date—or rather, it was only coffee. It wasn’t a date. Anyone would think it was perfectly normal to see them together at a coffee shop across the street. After all, they lived under the same roof, and . . . last night . . .
Don’t think about that.
Inside, the café was empty. Nick pointed to a two-seater table, leaving Caía to settle in as he moved toward the counter, launching into a conversation with the proprietor, a quiet, balding gentleman who seemed to take his coffee quite seriously, judging by the look on his face as Nick rattled off his order. In fact, they had a lengthy discussion about coffee as Caía eavesdropped—something about showing “the guiri” how to order.
“Here you go; time for a lesson,” Nick said, returning with two small white cups in his hands. He set both cups down on the table, clinking them together, somehow managing not to spill a single drop.
“A lesson?”
He grinned. “About coffee.”
Caía rolled her eyes. “I know coffee.”
Nick shook his head adamantly. “Not judging by the coffee you drink. So here, this is the deal,” he said, sliding into his chair. “You and I”—he pointed to her, and then to himself—“we’re what’s known here as guiris.”
“Guiris?”
“Foreigners.”
“Yeah?”
“Yep. So, if you”—he pointed to Caía—“order a café con leche, they’ll assume you’re a wuss and you’re going to get some weak-ass coffee with these packets of sugar.” He lifted one of the small, elongated red-and-white packets on the saucer and shook it.
Caía had never seen him so animated, except with Laura. “So?”
“So? I ask you: Do you want coffee with your milk? Or do you want milk with your coffee?”
Caía lifted a brow. “What’s the difference?”
“Funny you should ask.” He pushed one cup across the table to her, and Caía accepted it, wrapping her hands around the offering and pulling it close, warming her hands by the heat of it.
The scent was strong, surprising her with the rich aroma, and Caía brought the cup to her lips, surprised again to find the taste was equally pleasan
t.
“That is café cortado,” he explained.
“Café cortado?”
“Coffee cut with a bit of milk.”
“Um, really, what’s the difference?”
“The taste,” he said, with a French flair of his hand.
Caía laughed over the silliness of his gesture. “No, really.”
“Really,” he insisted. “It’s the taste. What you’re drinking is basically a café solo with a dab of milk. What you normally drink, on the other hand, is what’s known by true coffee drinkers as café manchada, which is more like a little coffee with a lot of milk.”
Caía laughed again. “I see.”
“Then, of course, you always have the option of asking for a descafeinado. But beware—ask for descafeinado de maquina, unless you want crappy instant coffee poured into a cup of hot milk.”
“Sounds complicated,” Caía said.
“Life is complicated,” he shot back.
“You’re telling me.”
Nick took a sip from his own coffee and winked at her. “I really needed this after last night.”
“Hungover?”
“A little. And I suppose I should apologize, but I don’t want to.”
He grinned, and so did Caía.
“Then don’t.”
“Okay, I won’t.”
Caía inhaled sharply as he peered at her over the rim of his little white cup.
“In all seriousness, do you . . . have regrets?”
Caía thought about his question for less than a moment, surprised to find she didn’t. Or rather, she did, but not about anything that happened between them last night.
“So, you never explained, ‘why Spain?’”
Caía smiled. “Yes, I did, but maybe you didn’t like my answer? I told you the first day I met you that it seemed as good a place as any to recover from my divorce.”
“The first day?” He seemed to think about it a moment, and nodded. “So, no friends here, right?” He sipped from his cup, once again studying Caía over the rim.
Redemption Song Page 13
