His hand slips down over my ass. “Te necesito.”
He needs me. Okay, still…
Then both hands cup my face. “Mi corazón late por ti.”
I’m not sure of that one.
“My heart,” he murmurs, “it beats for you, Thalia. Now and always. I love you. Te amo. And this love burns like the sun.”
Then he kisses me.
Sealing our fate.
Behind us, applause erupts.
We break apart, breathing hard, happy, giddy, staring at Alejo’s family who have all gathered in the entrance to the kitchen with their wine.
“¡Salud!” they all cheer, raising their glasses.
I don’t think I’ve been happier.
* * *
Alejo gives me spoons and forks for Christmas.
I stare at the box for a moment, not getting it. The rest of his family is leaning over, trying to make sense of the package I just unwrapped.
“Does this mean something in Spain?” I ask him, trying not to sound ungrateful but…
He laughs. “No, it means I stay true to my word. Remember your poorly stocked kitchen? I said I would get you new cutlery.”
“No knives, I hope,” Luis says. “Bad luck.”
“No knives,” Alejo assures.
“Well, thank you,” I tell him.
“I also got you this,” he says, handing me another, smaller box.
We’ve been sitting around the tree for the last hour opening presents. The family really likes to give lots of little gifts, and there are a lot of us, so we’ve been taking turns. Except Alejo seems to want me to open all of mine at once.
Thinking that the box of forks and spoons was a silly, fun kind of gift, I open the next one expecting something to show Alejo’s deeply romantic side.
It’s nice. Expensive, anyway. A bottle of Tom Ford perfume, Soleil Neige.
“Oh, muy bien,” Yaya says as she slips on a giant sweater Maya had knitted for her.
“Soleil Neige,” Alejo says, gesturing to the box. “Winter sun. Because you’re like the sun in winter.”
“You mean bright but cold?” I joke, and everyone laughs.
I thank Alejo for his gift. I mean, really, it’s a nice gesture, and whenever I wear it I’ll think of him. I can’t help but think maybe he’d be a little more sentimental but then again, he’s twenty-four, he’s doing his best, and I didn’t do much better with what I got him.
“I love it,” I tell him, spritzing some on my wrist. It actually smells divine, a scent you want to wrap yourself in.
Then it’s time for my gift to Alejo.
He was damn hard to shop for. I mean, what do you get a man who has absolutely everything and all the money he could ever need?
I hand him the package and he tears into it.
“Oh, Dios mío,” he exclaims as he stares at it.
I took a picture of everyone at his surprise birthday party, with him in the middle, then had it blown up, printed, and framed.
“Look at everyone,” he says, laughing. “Ah, we look so drunk. That was such a good party.” He looks at me with heart-melting eyes. “But you’re not in this picture.”
I shrug. “That’s okay.” As long as I’m with you anyway. “You can photoshop me in.”
He seems to think that over, probably getting some naughty ideas.
When everyone is finally done with their presents and we’ve cleaned up the best we can, there’s a bit of time before I’m needed in the kitchen. Alejo comes over to me and grabs my hand.
“Come for a walk with me,” he says.
We put on our sandals and head outside. He takes me around the house to the back of the property where there’s a path winding through rosemary and sage, skirting alongside the crashing waves.
“Where are we going?” I ask.
“There’s a private beach,” he says. “Or as private as it gets. Can’t get there by road so we like to claim it as ours.”
“Classic Albarado move,” I comment.
He shoots me a smile. “You’re damn right.”
The beaches in Tenerife aren’t the white sand beaches people are used to, but more of a dark brown thanks to the volcanic activity. It doesn’t make them any less beautiful and it doesn’t make the water any less clear. Here, the azure waves crash against the beach, making a beautiful contrast against the blue sky, the kind of waning, soft blue you get in the wintertime.
“This is gorgeous,” I tell him as he helps me climb down the rocks and onto the sand. From where we are, there is only dark volcanic soil and green shrubs. There are no houses, just the faint peak of a volcano far in the distance.
“Sí,” he says, sitting down on the sand and looking out at the waves. “My aunt and uncle used to live in the next town over, in this tiny little house. I wanted to buy them this one so they could have this beach to launch his fishing boats from. But of course Luis then insisted that he still make his own boat launch, right up to the house. You can’t keep that man away from the water.”
I sit down next to him, trying not to get sand under my dress. I didn’t know we’d be having Christmas here, so this plain black sundress was the dressiest thing I packed.
“Listen,” he says, twisting to face me. “I have something here for you, and it means a lot to me. I didn’t want to give it to you in front of my family because it’s personal, and really, it’s just between you and me.”
Now I’m intrigued. “Okay. What is it?”
He reaches into his pocket and takes out a small velvet pouch. He unties the string and then lifts out a small, shiny silver locket on a necklace, placing it in my outstretched palm.
“I had this made a month ago,” he says. “I wasn’t sure if it would be ready in time for today, but thankfully it was.”
I peer closely at it. “It’s a pocket watch.”
“It’s my father’s pocket watch,” he says.
“Alejo,” I tell him, trying to give it back to him. “No. I can’t take this.”
He presses his fingers over my hand, closing my palm. “Yes. It is for you. I had it remade into a necklace, just for you. It says so inside.”
He takes his hand away, and I open the front of the locket, revealing a ticking watch face underneath.
There’s something engraved on the inside.
“Thalia, te amo,” I read it out loud. I blink at the words to make sure I’m seeing it right. Then I blink up at him. “Te amo,” I repeat, puzzled. “But you said you had this made a month ago.”
“I loved you a month ago. I loved you two month ago. I think I might have loved you even before I saw you. I just knew you had my heart.”
Dear sweet lord.
It feels like a thousand wings are beating in my chest, chasing my heart, making me rise higher and higher until I can’t bear it.
I have no words.
It is absolutely the sweetest, most beautiful, touching gift anyone has ever gotten me.
“Do you like it?” Alejo asks, and his brow is furrowed in such a way that all his hopes are riding on my answer.
“I love it,” I whisper, clutching it close to me. “I love it. I love you.”
“Thank god for that,” he says, chuckling.
“Would you still have given it to me had I not inadvertently told you I loved you?”
He nods, blinking softly. “Yes. I would have. I could not stand to hide my feelings from you anymore. I told you, you had my heart, and I meant it in every way possible.” He takes the watch from me. “Here, let me put it on you.”
He fastens it around my neck where it rests just below my collarbone. The silver looks stunning against my skin, especially in this winter light.
Alejo looks me over, eyes shining with approval, before leaning in and kissing me in such a way that my body shivers from head to toe.
He pulls away, placing another kiss on my nose, and puts his arm around me. We stare at the horizon where dark clouds have gathered, a patch of dark grey amongst the blue and gold.
“Looks like a storm might roll in,” he says. “Hopefully, it misses us.”
“I love storms,” I admit. “Maybe because we never got any good ones on the west coast. I love the feel in the air, the lightning, the charge.”
“You say that, but if the power goes out during Christmas dinner, it’s not going to be a good time.”
He’s right about that.
We stay for a bit, watching the storm roll in, the clouds billowing in monstrous waves. Then, just as we start to see flashes of lightning on the horizon, it seems to head west, away from us. It will probably go on across the Atlantic, picking up speed, plowing through everything in its path.
It makes me think of Alejo.
About us.
About how the moment we laid eyes on each other, everything seemed to click into place.
We got together and picked up steam.
Were we meant to be?
Or were we like the storm, building and building, removing all obstacles in our path, paving a way for the future?
Maybe love is a force of nature that can’t be stopped.
And if that’s the case, maybe the two of us can figure out how to keep going.
Chapter 25
Thalia
“So, if I choke and die, I hope you know this will all be your fault,” I tell Alejo, staring at the large bag of grapes in front of me. Twenty-four grapes, to be exact.
“Don’t blame me, blame Spain,” Alejo says with a shrug.
It’s New Year’s Eve and we’re gathered in the Puerta del Sol, the big square in Madrid with the famous one hundred foot tall golden Christmas tree. Thousands upon thousands of revelers are around us in this crowd, and yet no one knows who we are.
I’m wearing a gold Venetian mask and so is he, though his reminds me of The Phantom of the Opera. I’ve got on my blue sequined dress underneath a big coat, with boots, he’s got on a suit under his trench. I’m wearing red lipstick, and he let me apply some smudgy black eyeliner around his eyes, so it would not only disguise him a little more, but give his mask extra mystique.
It worked. I mean, all night I can’t stop looking at him. Not that that’s any different than normal. But with the mask on, showcasing those hypnotic eyes, which lean more blue today, it’s been making me feel all shivery and squirmy, and it’s nothing to do with the cold.
Could have something to do with the copious amounts of Cava we’ve been drinking all night.
It was Alejo’s idea for us to do something special to ring in the New Year. I wasn’t sure what, since going out in public is kind of tricky for us. Even when we were in Tenerife, we didn’t venture from the house together, and it was a miracle we were able to even fly there and back without seeing anything in the papers (I know, I looked).
But when I discovered that a lot of people dress up in costume for the night, I thought that might just let us squeak past people if we donned some masks and made a thing out of it.
So far, it’s worked.
I mean, it’s almost midnight, so I’d say it was a success.
We’re both staring up at the screens near the end of the square near the clocktower where the TV presenters are stationed for the live broadcast, about to count down to New Years.
Everyone has their grapes.
I assume everyone is also wearing red underwear like me.
The Spaniards and their superstitions.
“Are you ready?” Alejo asks me, just as the announcers ask the crowd the same thing.
To choke and die? Sure.
You see, it’s tradition in Spain to eat twelve grapes symbolizing twelve months of prosperity for each second the clock strikes after midnight.
So, twelve grapes in twelve seconds or your year will be shitty.
I also think choking is pretty shitty too, but I’m willing to give this a go.
And then the clock strikes midnight.
Instead of everywhere else in the world, where people pop champagne and kiss each other while playing “Auld Lang Syne,” we’re all staring intensely at a bag of grapes.
Then they start playing the chimes for the seconds.
And we’re off.
I’m cramming down a grape just as another dong of the chime sounds.
Shit!
I’m trying to pick the next grape up, my fingers tangling with Alejo’s in the bag as he’s simultaneously stuffing his face. It’s not fair, he’s a man, he’s got a bigger head and a bigger mouth!
I finally cram the third grape in, half-chewing, half-swallowing, but I’m seconds behind already. So I just grab as many as I can and pop them all in my mouth at once, my maw so full I can’t close it.
Alejo is doing the same. We both look at each other and start laughing hysterically, the grapes threatening to fall out of our mouths.
Chew, chew, swallow!
The final chime goes and I’m practically gagging on them, managing to swallow the last mushed grape down. Of course, Alejo is done, and still laughing, I guess more at me rather than with me.
“Hey,” I tell him once I’m sure I’m not going to die, gasping for breath. “I did my best.”
“You did it!” he cries out, picking me up and twirling me around, my legs knocking into another couple.
“¡Lo siento!” I yell at them, giggling as Alejo leans in for a happy kiss.
“Happy New Year, Thalia,” he says.
“Happy New Year, Alejo.”
“You’re still wearing that red underwear for good luck, right?” he asks.
“How long do I have to keep it on for?”
“I think I’m free to take it off you at any time now,” he says and kisses me again, deeper this time.
He lowers me to the ground and he cracks open the next bottle of Cava he had stored in his backpack. He had the genius idea to line the bottom of it with plastic and fill it up with ice.
He pours us two plastic glasses (they both say “Cheer Up Fucker” in gold lettering—I saw them online and had to have them) and we clink ours together. “Here’s to a new year with you,” he says.
“Here’s to you wearing more sexy masks and eyeliner. I like it. Me gusta mucho.”
He gives me a self-assured grin. “We’ll see,” he says, sticking the cork back in the bottle and packing it up in his backpack. With glasses of sparkling in one hand, our other hands intertwined, we make our way through the square and to the side streets where the crowds are spilling, going every which way.
This feels right.
This is right.
These last few days with Alejo have been some of the happiest I’d ever had. Being in Tenerife with his family (even his mother, who became less standoffish by the time we left), put our relationship into the stratosphere, a level where we can just be with each other. All the fear I carried with me, about how I felt about him, how he felt about me, what our future was, just…dissolved under that winter sun.
That’s not to say there’s a future that makes sense for us, but I’m choosing to ignore that pesky detail and do what I can to just enjoy every moment I’m with him and stop worrying so much. Our future together would never be guaranteed anyway, no matter our age or our jobs, and the same goes for everyone, so you might as well make every second count.
At least those seconds where you’re not swallowing grapes.
“Where shall we go?” Alejo asks me.
We’ve made it a few blocks and I don’t even know where we are at this point. Everything is a blurry, sparkling, drunken haze, with partiers constantly walking past us, hollering and blowing horns.
“I don’t know but my drink is done, so keep pouring,” I tell him, handing out my glass.
He takes it from me and starts fishing the bottle out of his backpack when my cell phone rings.
I glance at it.
It’s Helen.
The name makes my stomach queasy, probably because I hadn’t talked to her in weeks, not since I checked in to see if she arrived home okay after she visited me. I know it’s a b
usy time of year and all, but even so, I didn’t feel like calling her and I’m sure she didn’t feel like calling me.
But something tells me I have to take this.
I have to see what’s left of our friendship, even if I already know the answer.
“Hello,” I say.
“Happy New Year!” she cries over the phone. She’s at a party, I can hear many drunk voices in the background.
“Happy New Year,” I tell her. “Where are you?”
“At a party,” she says vaguely, which gives me an idea of whose party she’s at. “Sorry I haven’t stayed in touch lately, you know how the holidays are. Busy, busy, busy.”
“Yeah, I hear you,” I say, watching Alejo pour me more sparkling wine. He’s frowning, trying to figure out who I’m talking to.
“What are you doing?” she asks.
“I just celebrated the countdown by eating a lot of grapes,” I tell her.
“You mean drinking wine?”
I don’t have the energy to explain. “Yeah, sure. Wine.”
“Where are you?”
“Just wandering around town.”
“Madrid?”
“Claro. Of course.”
“By yourself?”
Here’s the loaded question.
I clear my throat. “No, I’m not alone. I’m with Alejo.”
Alejo’s eyes widen beneath the mask. He points at the phone and mouths “Helen?”
I nod, wincing.
There’s silence on her end though a familiar laugh rings in the background, her husband Frank and some other people.
“Are you serious, Thalia?” she eventually says. She coughs. “The kid?”
“He’s not a kid. He’s twenty-four. You know by the time my brother Steve was twenty-four, he was already married with a baby.”
“He’s a fucking kid,” she whispers harshly into the phone. “Hold on, I don’t want other people to hear this.”
At least she has the notion to keep things private.
I hear a muffled sound and silence and only then do I realize how loud my heart is drumming in my chest. But with each beat, I seem to get braver.
I hear the sound of a door closing, and then her exhaling. “Okay, how drunk are you?” she asks me.
The Younger Man: A Novel Page 31
