Lasts

by C. L. Matthews

  Now, I’m drinking booze at some weird taco shack, sitting on a pile of palm leaves with a beer in hand.

  Luckily, out here, I can legally drink. Unlike Leia, I turned eighteen four months ago.

  “Otro más, por favor?” I stumble over my chopped-up Spanish, praying I got it right. One more, please?

  Glancing at the taco guy, he folds his arms, giving me an eyebrow. He’s chastising me without saying a goddamn word. Must’ve butchered it then. Letting out an exasperated sigh, I tip my head lower. Can’t even get my Spanish right.

  “I do not think you need more,” he returns, his English super accented but clear.

  So, I was right, and he’s just giving me the stop being a baby look. Rubbing the heel of my palms against my eyes, I feel the unease from leaving Leia behind settle in me.

  “I do. I really fucking do,” I gripe, dragging a palm down my face. It’s getting late. Leia’s probably worrying about me, I need to get back. In attempt to stand, my foot drags, and I stumble. My ass lands right where it previously sat. I’m behaving like a drunkard and can imagine it’s an ugly sight,

  I’m so far gone for Leia, and she’s with him.

  Fuck, she’s with him.

  The realization dawns on me. She’s with the man I’ll never defeat. He’ll always own a huge part of her, this unreachable part that he’s had since that stupid day.

  “Why don’t you go on back to the place you were staying, no? Drinking will not save you from your problems. It will only give you new ones,” the taco guy says, trying to level with me. “¿Escuchaste?” You hear?

  The man comes out from inside his little shack and sits on the palm leaves I’ve called my chair.

  “If you love her, you will fight for her,” he sounds off a few minutes later, hitting some metaphorical nail on the head.

  He’s right.

  “You know, sir. We don’t live in some romantic comedy where the good guy gets the girl, and the bad guy goes to prison,” I mutter poignantly.

  “With that attitude, joven, you will never find out,” he chastises me and takes away my beer. The man stands up, takes my hand, and smacks the back of my head. “Now, get it together and go win your girl.”

  I smile at him stupidly. He’s wise, and he’s right, and I’m stubborn enough to try.

  “Gracias,” I thank him, knowing that much Spanish.

  “De nada,” he returns and shoos me away.

  I spend the next thirty minutes trying to find wherever the hell I stumbled off to. Feeling sober after all the walking and humid-as-hell weather, I finally see the place where the party’s still going on strong and make my way there.

  The music’s super loud. It’s bumping, ricocheting off the barrios, and making the ground shake a little, but I continue forward anyway. The balloons, streamers, and lights are barely in place even after the partying. This surprises me, since everything else seems to be trashed.

  After making it through the back fence, I can’t find Leia or anyone I know, for that matter.

  Before I go search for her inside, I see Xiomara. Finally, someone I recognize. She’s in the middle of the dance floor, her arms wrapped around Danté in a much-too-close-for-exes hold. I’ve never met him before, but from the little pictures and description Leia has given me, I know it’s him. She’s right. He’s big, burly, and mean looking. He almost has a perpetual scowl like he doesn’t smile all that often, a jaw that is strong and angular, and sharp cheekbones too. His muscles seem to have muscles, and if a man could appear as if he’s killed before, Danté is that man. All he needs is a cigar and fedora, and he’d be an attractive mafia boss. Like Idris Elba with more aggression than he had in Pacific Rim.

  As my gaze scans them both, I notice two things. One, they’re close, too close, especially for a married woman and a man who’s not her husband. Two, where the fuck is Silas, and why isn’t Xo with him? Nothing good can come from either of those realizations.

  I stand there, shocked, scrunching my face in confusion. Stopping a few feet away, I contemplate where my place is here.

  Do I stop them? Do I pretend I don’t see a thing? I’m not one to intercede, but Leia would definitely be upset about this, and I’ve heard Xo has no control over her emotions when Danté’s involved.

  What do I do, and is it really my place to intervene?

  Danté starts kissing Xo, their lips feral and animalistic. That’s where I draw the line. I might hate Sy, but it’s not okay for someone to cheat, no matter who the person is married to. Why must I be the grown up around here? Inwardly laughing, I remember Leia saying the same thing. Her mom is never one for maturity. Us practically carting her boozed self on several occasions is proof, but we don’t talk about those days.

  Instead of searching for Leia like I want to, I stomp over to Xo. She’d be mad if I didn’t. The irony in that isn’t lost on me.

  Xo sees me before he does. Pulling away, she gives me a don’t you dare expression. Whether it’s don’t you dare say a word or don’t you dare start a fight is unclear.

  I chuckle. Gripping my sides, I bend at my hips, laughing at the predicament I find myself in.

  I’m losing it. I must be. Usually, I keep my mouth shut, but I can’t stop myself, and now, Danté stares at me with the most perturbed expression. His face is scrunched, and if the man ever smiles, I couldn’t imagine it. He has a deep-rooted frown, and worry lines etched into his forehead.

  “What are you doing?” I ask Xo.

  I want to say much worse, but I’ve heard stories about Danté. I’m not willing to die to prevent someone from making a mistake, especially for someone like Silas. He’s inconsequential at this point.

  Unless that person is Leia, I’m not getting involved. She’s an exception to all rules.

  “Brax,” she starts, her voice hesitant. Dropping her arms from Danté’s shoulders, she straightens her posture and mocks a smidgen of authority. “It’s not what it looks like.”

  Ha! If I had a dollar for every time that line was used in some shitty movie, I’d have my tuition paid for in full. Too bad reality isn’t that sweet, or maybe I’m drunk, and I’m feeling bitter. Probably both.

  “Don’t start,” I growl. “You’re married, and even if he,” I point at Danté, “doesn’t know about your recent nuptials, it’s not okay to fuck around on your husband.”

  I stalk away, angrily. People have such little respect for their significant others it astounds me.

  They can work out their own fucked up affair, tryst, what-the-fuck-ever they have going on. I’m out.

  People dance lazily around the back yard, swaying like the only thing pushing them forward is the hope of taking the person they’re dancing with home. Some people are passed out, others half-humping, and there’s even a couple going full-out on the lawn. I sidestep around each person awkwardly. What the hell? I wasn’t gone that long, and fuck, this is not the time or the place. Or maybe it is. YOLO and all that bullshit.

  I chuckle again, throwing my head back, bewildered at the entire thing. Maybe Puerto Rico isn’t the place to be. Maybe it’s my worst idea to date. When I bought our tickets, I wanted this soul-searching plan, wanted to make her realize how right we are for one another, and—as stupid as it sounds—wanted us to sail into the sunset together. To fall in love and decide to spend our lives discovering new things about each other.

  I’m not the best romantic. Most of my ideas come from books and the sappy movies Leia makes me watch when she’s on her monthly, but they’re ideas nonetheless. I didn’t expect her parents—Sy included—to come.

  I’ve walked around the house twice in search of her with no luck as well. Maybe she went to bed.

  I walk inside the house, run up and down the stairs, and don’t see Leia. I also don’t see Sy. Jesus fucking Christ. She better not be with that sick sonofabitch. I can’t handle her giving into him, giving him what he’s always wanted. Sick fuck.

  Hours pass as I sit on the couch freaking out. She’s nowhere. Time
literally passes as I go through every scenario possible. The worst? She got sold into sex trafficking or is lying in a ditch. I’ve talked to everyone coherent here, but half don’t even know who she is, which would be fine if this wasn’t her birthday celebration. It’s no use.

  She hasn’t come back here, she hasn’t texted or called, and she sure as hell hasn’t said anything to Xo. Xo’s just as flummoxed as me.

  Where the fuck are you, Leia?

  He thrusts into me, his cock filling me whole. With each slide of him inside me, I feel his need and desperation. With each kiss on my body, I feel cherished. With every groan from him mixing with every moan from me, I feel in sync, like we’re meant to be here.

  We should’ve stopped.

  We shouldn’t have lost ourselves into one another, time and time again.

  He’s squeezing my hips, digging his thumbs into the sensitive skin there. My body combusts around him, and he’s spilling inside me several thrusts later.

  “Thank you,” he musters, kissing my sweat-dampened forehead. Slipping out of me, he kisses down my body before rolling over. Within minutes, his light snore fills my ears.

  When the dream fades, realization skitters over me. I’ve broken all the rules for him. I’ve given up Brax for this memory, for this sparse and small moment.

  “Leia,” Sy groans in his sleep, his palm connecting with my thigh, rubbing slow circles. Chills rake over my body, my eyes close, and I shiver with fear and desire.

  This can’t happen again. I slip out of the bed we shared before he fully wakes up, leaving him and my weak moment behind. As I’m debating my escape route, I take the smallest twinkling to cherish his naked, barely covered body. There’s no other valid answer to his beauty other than he was made by Heaven itself.

  He’s so perfect, more perfect than all the times I witnessed him shirtless. His body must’ve been sculpted by gods, each dip and muscle carved for my viewing pleasure. Every scar scathing his skin shows me a story only his skin will tell. Every breath and beat of his heart, my own personal cadence, are mine to absorb and soak up for the last time.

  He moves in his sleep, my name a whisper on his lips once more, and that’s when I dress quickly and run.

  I can’t face him or what we did last night. All night really.

  Whatever got into me and made me brave, it’s gone now. I’m hollow, and the regret that’s consuming me is the least of my problems. I’m not entirely sure how to get to Azalea’s from here, but I hail a cab and speak broken Spanish, hoping it’s her address. It’s not like Esperanza is that large, and everyone appears to know everyone. The driver seems to understand me.

  After about thirty minutes, I’m in front of her home. The place is trashed. Imagine frat party hell from the movies. That’s an understatement of what I’ve pull up to. There are red solo cups, plates, and drunk bodies everywhere.

  If I wasn’t so freaked out about last night, I’d burst out laughing. It’s hard to joke when you finally lost your virginity to a man more than twice your age. A man who’s married to your mom and isn’t the only guy you’re in love with. Someone who doesn’t actually love you, only your body.

  Sy never said he loved me, and I have a feeling he never will.

  Even with the yard trashed, it feels desolate, empty, like the life had been drained from each person. Or maybe it’s simply that Sy drained the life from me, drained my very essence with each thrust. We had sex without protection, and now, precautions need to be made.

  When I make it to the front door, I turn the knob slowly, the metal cold on my hot and sweaty palm. It doesn’t creak or make any noise for that matter. It slides like they recently oiled the mechanism. With an inkling of hope blossoming in me, I smile, shutting the door softly behind me, blowing out a relieved breath. It’s the equivalent to the feeling of getting away with murder.

  Until I turn around.

  On the couch, my almost boyfriend sits with a devastated expression that seizes the air from my lungs and squeezes my chest like a fucking voodoo doll. His ache makes me swallow back tears of complete torment. This is not how I wanted him to find out.

  Was I even going to tell him?

  Nope. I had no intentions letting him know.

  When my eyes finally meet his, Brax’s are red from lack of sleep or rubbing them too much. He must’ve stayed up waiting for me. If I didn’t feel like shit before, I definitely do now. He checks me from head to toe. Then he squeezes his eyes shut, fisting his knuckles so hard they whiten. I’ve ruined us, whatever little of us existed before last night.

  “Brax,” I begin, hoping to find some lame ass way to justify what I’ve done, trying to escape me before he interrupts me.

  But he steps toward me, lifting his hand, turning my face in both directions like he did when we were kids. He’s examining me. Seeing past the bullshit.

  “Don’t.” He drops his hand. “Don’t make some bullshit excuse when there’s blood on your thighs and on your fucking face, too. Your hair is a fucking mess, and you look like you fucked him all night.”

  I watch as his Adam's apple bobs, but he won't look at me. He gets a foot away, shaking his head in anger. He just swore at me. Three times.

  Brax doesn’t swear.

  Not at me, anyway.

  I start to close the distance, to comfort him in some way, to make this appear less twisted than it is. He flinches from me, backing away, effectively creating a bigger space between us.

  “Don’t act like I mean shit to you when it’s him you chose last night. Don’t you dare fucking act like it was nothing when you decided to fuck him instead of waiting around for me. I was here, Leia! I’ve always fucking been here!”

  Tears stream freely down my face. I cry out, not knowing what to say to make him feel any better.

  “I’m leaving.” He doesn’t say anything more before abandoning me by running upstairs and slamming the bedroom door—and the one to my heart.

  Falling to my knees with a desolate thud, I can’t breathe. My entire body shakes.

  Wet tears flow down to the floor like little waterfalls. I cry so much and so goddamn loud my parents come down to cradle me. Warm and overwhelming arms surround me. I’m a mess, and it’s of my own doing. I’ve ruined the one good thing in my world and all for an obsession no one will ever understand. An addiction we seem to refuse to give up. They say you can’t get help until you see you have a problem and want to fix it. That time hasn’t come yet.

  My parents are freaking out over my current mental state, asking me what’s wrong, rubbing my shoulders, reassuring me that everything is fine, but I don’t really hear them. It’s the first time I’ve seen them in the same room where there’s zero hostility, just love. They fuss over me while my life falls apart, but how could they know just how much? Regardless of the blood, they can only make assumptions. They don’t know exactly what I’ve done. They don’t know Sy is the reason my soul is weeping and Brax is why my heart feels weighed down by a million trains. They couldn’t possibly understand that one man holds the key to my happiness, while the other obtains the solution to my addiction.

  I don’t even understand it. Not how a heart can split for both, love both, and need both. Not how a soul could have two mates. Definitely not how sick and twisted my mind must be to have all of these emotions within me.

  I'm breaking.

  I'm ruined.

  And it's all my fault.

  Time passes. I’m not sure how much, my parents still hold me, and we’re still on the floor. My body aches from my hunched position, I can imagine they ache too.

  I watch blurry-eyed as Brax storms out of the house with his bags, not acknowledging me before walking out that door and leaving me behind. Still, my body shakes as I bawl. Half of my heart just walked out that door and out of my life, and there’s nothing to do or say.

  I’m literally fatigued from how much I’ve shaken with despondency. My body is not only shutting down from last night but also from my heart extracting its
elf out of my chest. It cut and run, just like Brax did. He’s gone. I’ve finally run my best friend away.

  “¿Qué tienes, hija?” Mamá asks, cradling me in her arms. What’s wrong?

  She rocks me back and forth, kissing my temple. Daddy sits there, worry etched on his face and something else too, something akin to acknowledgement. It’s like he knows what just happened when I don’t even understand it myself.

  “Nada, Mamá,” I repeat over and over again, not knowing if it’s to convince her, Dad, or myself. Brax is gone, Sy is asleep far away, and I’ve caused a huge scene at Dad’s sibling’s house.

  “Mi niña,” Daddy whispers, pulling me onto his lap. Laying a kiss on my forehead, he murmurs something unintelligible against me. He holds my face, bending it and moving it to check if I’m okay. It’s funny really, having a father who has never been a part of your life but is holding you like you’re his entire world in the next moment.

  A sob wrenches out of my chest as the tears come back full force. He’s being sweet, kind. Nothing like what I expect. It’s too much. Too much heartbreak, too many emotions, and too little time to find Brax and beg him to forgive me.

  “Lo voy a matar,” he growls while holding me as I shake. I’ll kill him.

  “Danté,” Mamá chastises, slapping his shoulder. My mind is too full to wonder what he said, but Mamá seems to not like it. It’s times like these I wish they taught me Spanish.

  Brax knows what I did, and I didn’t say a thing to deny it. He resents me. I saw the disgust and hostility in his eyes. My heart hurts more for the simple fact that I betrayed Brax than the fact that Sy will wake up alone.

  My body shakes in my parents’ embrace until I’m drained of all the salty drops of liquid in my body. I slowly fall away, exhaustion winning over. The guilt eats away my consciousness. I’m not going to be okay for a while. While sleeping, nightmares plague me, and it’s my own personal hell on replay.

  I’ve failed him.

  I’ve ruined us.

  I’m a shitty person.

  I’ve lost them both.