I’m not sure how long I’ve been out when Alejo kicks me in the leg.
I wake up, heart pounding, turning in the bed to look at him.
He’s lying there, face in anguish, holding on to the covers.
“Papá,” he cries out softly, the kind of cry that comes from the heart and cuts through the night. It brings me chills.
He’s having a nightmare.
Do I wake him up?
I put my hand on his shoulder and very gently shake him.
“Alejo,” I whisper, keeping back enough in case he wakes up with arms swinging. “Alejo, it’s Thalia. You’re safe. You’re dreaming.”
Suddenly he freezes and his eyes open.
He blinks, his mouth wide and gasping for air.
I immediately grab his hand. “It’s me. It’s okay. You had a nightmare.”
He looks at me, still blinking, and grips my hand tighter. Slowly, his features relax, his hand loosening.
“My god,” he says, breathless. He shakes his head. “What a horrible dream.”
I wince in sympathy. “It looked pretty bad. You called for your father.”
He nods. “Yes. I have this dream sometimes. Maybe it’s not even a dream but just a memory I’m having to relive. The night that he killed himself.”
“I’m sorry,” I tell him, rubbing my hand on his shoulder. “I can’t imagine what it’s like.” I pause. “How often do you have these? This is the first that I’ve noticed. Not that we get a lot of sleeping done together.”
He gives me a ghost of a smile. “It doesn’t happen so often anymore.”
“Maybe being here with your family triggered it? It must be so bittersweet to see your aunt and uncle.”
He nods. “It is. My Uncle Luis lost his brother. Yaya lost her son. I look in their eyes and I see my father. It’s inevitable. But at the same time, I need them. Being around them feels like being around my father. When he was sober, of course.” He sighs and leans back into the bed. “It’s complicated. I wish…I wish for so many things.”
“Have you ever thought about going on medication?”
“Sí,” he says carefully. “But I have, how you say…coping mechanisms.”
“Such as?”
“The game. It’s always been the game. Maybe for a while there it was drinking and women and driving fast, I don’t know. But the game has always been there for me. It’s a way to lose myself, to channel things. And sometimes, I feel like it’s the only way I’m close to him” He gives me a sad smile. “He knew I would do great things, that I was born to play. Until his other vices claimed him, all he cared about was me out there on the pitch. So here I am. Out there on the pitch. Doing what he believed I could do, doing what I love to do. And it’s all because of him.”
He picks at the lint on the embroidered bedspread, eyes now downcast. “Sometimes, I do feel a little guilty. Like…had he not died, I would have not put everything I had into playing. I wouldn’t have felt the pressure to provide for my family. I would not have worked so damn hard to get into the youth academy and beyond. Sometimes I worry…he died so I could succeed.”
“You can’t think like that, Alejo,” I tell him, my fingers trailing over the side of his face. “It’s not fair to you, and it’s not fair to your father. We don’t know why things happen in life. Why certain tragedies happen and whether they put us onto different paths, for better or worse.”
“Then how do you make sense of things?” he says, eyes going to mine.
I feel lost in them, the sense of almost drowning, barely keeping my head above water. I’m so close to going under and losing myself completely to him.
Body, mind, and soul.
Heart, too.
I swallow hard. “A few months ago, I couldn’t tell you. Because nothing in my life made sense at all. I was just floundering, grasping for a second chance at life.”
“And now?” he whispers, gaze dropping to my lips.
“Now? I think I need to let my heart tell me what makes sense. And what feels right.”
He moves in an inch, his fingers slipping into my hair, this thumb pressed along my cheekbone. “Does your heart make sense of us?”
I nod, smiling faintly. “It does.”
The relief in his eyes is visible before he closes them and pulls me into a kiss.
It’s passionate and strong, leaving me wanting so much more.
Just like he does.
Chapter 24
Thalia
The next day I wake up bright and early, the sun coming in through the window panes. Alejo is still sleeping. I suppose that nightmare really knocked him out.
I get out of bed and go over to the window and gasp at the sight.
It was so dark last night that I had no idea Maya and Luis’ house was right above the rocky coast, waves crashing not too far below the window. A little stone staircase leads into a flat area of a boat launch, a couple of small fishing boats bobbing on the water. The color of the water itself is stunning in the morning light, a bright turquoise that leads to a deep, vivid cerulean blue.
I can’t believe I’m here.
Not just in Tenerife, this volcanic Spanish island floating off the coast of West Africa, but that I’m here with Alejo, surrounded by his family.
I put my fingers at the bottom of the window and push it up, fresh salty air flowing into my face, moving my hair.
I can’t help but let out a little laugh and turn my head toward the sun, letting the rays beat down on my face. It’s been so gloomy in Madrid that I’d forgotten how much I missed the feeling of sun on my skin, even if my skin tends to go pink during the summer.
“What are you doing?” Alejo mumbles from the bed.
“I’m soaking this all in,” I tell him, scampering back to bed.
I get under the covers. It’s warmer than Madrid, but the morning air is chilly.
Alejo puts his arm around me and pulls me to him.
“Thank you for being so understanding last night,” he says, kissing the top of my head.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I ask, peering up at him. “You can always talk to me. I went for so long without anyone to talk to. I had a psychologist, and that helped, as did the meds he gave me. But sometimes you want to open up to someone you’re invested in.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re invested in me,” he says. “In all my parts, or just some of them?”
I laugh, noting the heat building in his eyes. I slide my hand down his firm stomach and over his cock, hard and waiting.
“There might be one I favor over the others,” I joke, making a fist, watching as his eyes roll back in his head.
The way we make love in the mornings might just be my favorite. It’s a little sleepy and slow. It’s easy. It’s intimate. There’s never any pressure, we just seem to find each other at the right time, and we’re always ready to go.
I work my fist until I can tell he’s close to coming, then I let go and slowly pull myself up on top of him.
“Did I tell you good morning?” I murmur to him, kissing the corner of his full lips, his jaw, his neck.
“Buenas dias,” he says, groaning as my nails rake over his chest.
He puts his hands down at my waist, shrugging me up a little until I feel the head of his cock between my legs, pressing eagerly against me. Slowly he pushes up and I spread around him, feeling breathless already.
I’m about to push myself up to ride him like a cowgirl, but he quickly pulls out, grabs my shoulders and flips me over so that he’s on top, his shoulders moving over me.
“Maybe this morning I want to be in control,” he says, staring down at me with a heady mix of lust and tenderness, his gaze only wavering when he starts to push himself in again.
My legs spread, feeling every inch of him as he thrusts inside. I close my eyes and bite my lip in a lazy grin.
“This is my favorite view,” he says to me. “You, beneath me, smiling. Don’t ever change.”
“Don’t ever stop f
ucking me like this,” I tell him, briefly sticking out my tongue.
His lips curl in a lopsided smile, and he leans in, kissing me.
This, this, this.
I want this forever.
I love how he kisses me when he’s inside me, the way his lips rarely leave my skin, whether they’re working my mouth or pressed against my cheek or brushing over my breasts. There’s always some connection between us, as if our bodies only get greedier the more they’re with each other.
He pulls back for a breath and rests his forehead against mine as his pace continues to be easy, slow, and intensely deliberate. “Thalia,” he whispers to me.
“Yes?” I stare up into his eyes.
“Thank you for coming here,” he says to me. His voice is low and brimming with so much gratitude that it unravels me to the core. “Thank you for stepping into my world. I hope you stay. I hope you let my world become yours.”
And just like that, I know.
I know what I’ve been trying to figure out.
I’m hit with a feeling so acute, so potent, I feel it physically manifest in my chest.
In my heart.
I love you, I think, the elation growing by the second.
I’m so fucking in love with you.
I have to close my eyes and nod, trying to keep back the tear that wants to be released.
Every emotion seems to rush at me, wanting me to acknowledge them, to give them attention, but all I can think is love, love, love.
This is it.
He’s it.
I love him.
I love him.
“Thalia,” he whispers again, and my name sounds so beautiful that it burns. “I’m yours.”
He continues to rock into me, our bodies synchronized in an easy rhythm, our hearts beating like wings.
I come first, something soft and slow, the kind of orgasm that pulls at every feeling you hold dear, bringing them to the surface. I cry out his name and I shed a few tears, letting the waves break over me again and again.
He comes right after, hard and intense, and he bites my shoulder to keep from yelling and waking up the house.
I hope his teeth leave permanent marks.
I want to remember this forever.
* * *
The days before Christmas pass at a slow and easy pace, reflecting the kind of lives lived here at this small fishing village caught between tall volcanic mountains and the deep blue sea.
With each passing day, I fall in love with Alejo a little more.
Then a little more turns into a lot more, until my heart fills to the brim, like it’s starting to spill over, and I fear there’s no more room. But it makes room. It keeps making room for him.
He once asked me if there was space in my heart for him.
I want to show him now just how much space there is.
But because I’m a chickenshit, I don’t say anything. I keep the words bottled up because it’s less scary than saying them aloud. Instead, I hold on to his heart with mine, just out of sight.
His family is absolutely lovely, by the way.
His Aunt Maya and Uncle Luis are so sweet and welcoming, going out of their way to make sure I feel comfortable in their home. Mi casa es tu casa, and all of that. Plus, they both speak a bit of English, which makes things easier since my Spanish is pretty abysmal.
Then there’s their daughter, Mila, who is fourteen. She also speaks fluent English. Apparently she hates sports, which she told me right off the bat, but loves fashion and wants to be a designer. Since I’m still a bit of a girly girl, despite my job, we find things to talk about.
Nacho is robust, loud, and gregarious, constantly doing party tricks.
Santiago and Xavier, by contrast, are quieter, but Xavier will talk your ear off about fish if you really get him going. In Spanish and in English, often switching between the two.
Armando is Armando. The more I spend time with him, the more I realize that his slacker, devil-may-care attitude hides a pretty sensitive soul.
Then there is Yaya, who is probably my favorite. As it turns out, once she feels comfortable, she can speak some English. She said she dated an Englishman in college, obviously a long time ago, and liked to watch American soap operas, so she picked the rest up that way.
Which leaves me with Alejo’s mother.
I think she’s coming around. She’s often in the kitchen baking Christmas treats with Maya and she’ll bark at me if I’m around to come and help. Never with a smile and always with a suspicious look. Sometimes I’ll catch Maya telling her to be nicer, but she waves her off.
Still, it’s nice to be included, I guess. At least she thinks I’m a good help, since my kitchen duties seem to keep piling on.
Then Christmas Eve comes, and the whole house is in a frenzy preparing for tomorrow.
Or I should say, the women are.
The men relax in the living room watching some Spanish variety show, drinking beer and wine, or smoking cigars outside on the patio.
Meanwhile, me, Alejo’s mother, Maya, and Mila are all working away.
I don’t mind, though. I mean, I’m sure if one of them was my husband I’d whoop their ass into helping me, but the women seem to take great pride in it, even Mila, who is dutifully creating a broth for the seafood stew that will be part of the appetizer. Since we’re on the coast, seafood plays a big part in the cuisine.
I’m in charge of the truffle stuffing, which appears to be the most important part of the cooking other than the turkey. I’m just preparing it, but even so, there’s a lot of work to it and a lot of different things to be chopped.
Most importantly are the truffles, which Alejo’s mother carefully brings toward me like she’s presenting Jesus in the manger instead of a bunch of dark mushroomy things in a crinkled paper bag.
Her eyes implore me to follow her every move, which I do.
First, she takes out a proper paring knife, then she delicately removes each crumbly truffle and places them on the cutting board. “Vigílalo,” she says to me gruffly.
Watch this.
Or, the way she probably means it, watch this or I’ll cut your eye out.
She slices through the truffles at the speed of sound, her hands going fast. Part of the truffle is sliced off into paper thin shavings. She holds one up to the light so I can see.
“Muy bien,” I tell her.
She nods gravely. “Sí.” Then she looks over at Mila and Maya, and says something to them. I watch them grab bottles of wine from the counter and disappear into the other room.
Oh great. Now I’m alone with her.
Is this where she murders me?
“Now you,” she says in broken English.
At least she’s trying. And she’s giving me the knife.
I take it with a grateful smile. Then I take out a truffle and attempt to do what she just did.
I make a total mess. The truffle turns into mush.
I glance at her standing right beside me, shaking her head. She looks upset but also like she’s trying not to laugh.
“Can you?” I say, handing her back the knife. “¿Otra vez?”
“Vale, vale,” she says.
Once again she moves her hands so quickly I can barely see what’s going on.
The knife comes back to me.
I’m about to cut into another truffle, to mimic her, but she says, “¿Lo amas?”
I still, unsure of what she just said.
“¿Qué?” I ask.
“Lo amas,” she repeats. She frowns, licks her lips. “Do you,” she pokes me in the arm, “love my son?”
My mouth drops and I blink at her. I place the knife down on the board.
“Do I love Alejo?” I repeat.
“Sí, sí,” she says, watching me intently.
“Sí,” I say, the smile spreading across my face like a tidal wave. “Sí, me encanta Alejo. Alejo…” I press my hand to my heart. “Mi corazón.”
She watches me for a moment. Then nods. “Ok
ay.” Then she rattles something off in Spanish that I don’t understand even a little.
“Lo siento,” I tell her. “No entiendo. I don’t understand.”
“Do you want me to translate?” Alejo’s voice cuts between us.
I gasp and turn around to see him standing in the middle of the kitchen.
He’s grinning like a fool, a smile from ear to ear.
He had to have heard all of that, right? Right?
Oh god!
“She said,” he goes on, “she gives you her blessing.”
His mother nods and then starts talking again with lots of hand gestures.
Alejo happily translates. “She says that she doesn’t understand how this, us, came to be, but that it doesn’t matter. Not everyone will understand your journey. It’s not theirs to make sense of, it’s yours. In this case, it’s ours.”
I manage to give his mother another grateful look and try to nod my thanks, but my heart is pounding so loudly I’m almost dizzy.
She just gives me a dismissive wave and leaves the room, leaving us alone.
“Did you…” I start to say.
“Did I hear you tell my mother that you love me?”
I swallow thickly. “Yeah. That.”
“I did,” he says, taking a step toward me. “Was it true?”
I’m still scared to say it, even though I already said it to her, even though he already heard, but the longer I look into his eyes, the more I know where I stand and there is no fear anymore.
“Sí,” I tell him. “Te amo.”
He puts a hand at my waist, the other at my chin, eyes peering down at me with so much intensity that I think I might shatter. “Tell me again, in English.”
“I love you,” I whisper.
“Tell me again in Spanish.”
“Te amo.” I lick my lips, feeling like my heart might explode. “I love you Alejo, and I can’t…I can’t feel or think of anything else but that. I love you.”
He smiles at me, the kind of smile that leaves a mark on a person. It’s the smile of a man who has everything he’s ever wanted.
“Te adoro,” he says, pressing his lips against mine.
He adores me. Sweet, but not exactly what I wanted to hear in response.
The Younger Man: A Novel Page 30
