Before You (13 page)

D
iego is here. Three breaths. Two seconds. One shock.

“What's he doing here?” I ask Melissa.

My best friend is lying on her beach towel, sunglasses covering her eyes, a frozen virgin strawberry daiquiri next to her, melting faster than she can drink it in the heat.

“Probably the same thing we are,” Melissa says. “Enjoying the beautiful weather isn't a crime, you know. Why so hostile?”

I sigh, frustrated. Diego swims in the ocean. Some girl on his back. She's borderline perfect. I hate that.

“I'm not hostile,” I say.

Melissa laughs. “Sure.”

“What? I'm not.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

I wring out my hair. Drops fall. Land in the sand, clumping it together.

“I don't care,” I reply, knowing my lies are fooling no one.

“Then why are you staring like you want to kill that girl?”

I am staring, aren't I?

I can't look away.

“It's okay, Faith. It's me. You can talk to me.”

I simmer. “It's hard to see him like that,” I admit.

Melissa props herself up on one elbow. “So go to him. That's what he wants. To make you jealous.”

I consider. But what if . . .

“Maybe not. Maybe he's actually having fun.”

“Trust me. He's trying to make you jealous,” Melissa replies.

My eyes slide over my friend. She very poorly hides a grin.

“How do you know?” I ask.

Melissa picks up her daiquiri and takes a sip. “I just know.”

If he
is
trying to make me jealous, he's doing a good job.

“You should go to him quickly, though,” Melissa suggests.

“Why?”

“ 'Cause he may like you, Faith, but he's still a guy. See the way she's all over him? There's only so long that a guy can resist that stuff,” Melissa says.

“He should be the one coming to me,” I say.

Melissa shakes her head in what I can only guess is exasperation. “He did come to you,” she says. “Several times. And if I remember correctly, you pushed him away, just like you will if he approaches you today.”

She's right.

“No one knows we're here. It could be a secret, Faith, if that makes you feel better. Steal him away. It would drive him crazy.”

Her suggestion makes me smile. Tempting. But I would have to remove my mask completely. In front of Diego—and his cousin, no less.

“I can't. You know that,” I say. “Plus, he's having fun.”

“Fine. How about this? Flaunt yourself in front of him. If he doesn't bite, I'll let it drop. Never say a word again,” Melissa promises.

She is one hundred percent serious.

“Big gamble. Never is a long time,” I say. “You seem confident.”

“That's 'cause I am. You should've seen the way he looked at you when he first saw you in the water. I'm
so
not wrong.”

I braid my hair to one side. Shake off the residual water that prunes my fingertips.

“And what would I do out there in front of him? I'd look ridiculous,” I say.

Melissa smiles.

“What?”

“Nothing,” she says.

“Liar.” I scowl.

She tugs down her sunglasses, letting them rest on the tip of her nose. Humor graces her mouth and eyes. “I'm happy to see you admit that you're crazy about Diego.”

“I never said those exact words.”

“You didn't have to.”

With the flick of a finger, reflective lenses cover Melissa's eyes once again. I reach into my bag, pull out ChapStick. My lips drink in the moisture.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask.

My best friend puts her hand on mine, her face sincere. “ 'Cause I want to see you happy and I think Diego is a good start.”

“I wish it were that easy.”

“It could be,” Melissa counters. “What better place to forget? Go to him.”

I'm considering doing exactly that when Melissa says something that throws me off.

“Maybe then I can pull that girl off Javier.”

“What?” I laugh. “Since when do you know Javier?”

“Since recently,” Melissa replies. Something is off about her statement. I study her face. Like a childhood picture, I know each detail by heart.

“You like Javier.” It's a statement. No question necessary.

“Not the way that you like Diego,” she says. “I don't know Javier, but he's hot. Could be fun.”

Might work better. I wouldn't have to face Diego alone.

“We should probably go in soon,” Melissa says and points to the ocean.

My heart seizes. The girl is pressed against Diego's chest like a starfish.

“I can't take this,” I say and stand up. Melissa follows.

By the time Diego looks at me, I'm up to my waist in water. I can't read his expression, but I'm sure he can read mine.

Melissa treads water behind me. The girl doesn't know I'm there yet.

“What the hell, Diego?” I say, angry.

Diego smiles lazily. “Oh, hey.”

One hand slips down the girl's back, disappearing under the water. I want to dive deep, find that hand, and break it.

It lands somewhere that makes her giggle. She turns toward me.

“What's up?” Diego asks. The tips of his shaggy bangs are wet, ink-like. Tattoos and scars are exposed in the area his shirt normally covers.

“What are you doing?” I ask through clenched teeth.

“Having fun,” he says dismissively.

“Who's she?” the girl asks. Her arms rest loosely on his shoulders. Pale and silky. A rainbow aura surrounds the two of them where sunscreen has leapt from skin and landed on the water's surface, oil gleaming in the light.

I try to hold it together. She obviously isn't going to let him go easily. I don't blame her. If I were brave, I wouldn't, either.

“None of your business,” I say.

Diego says nothing.

The girl grins, sensing my jealousy. Her arms tighten around Diego's neck. She leans into him.

“Why don't we go somewhere else?” she suggests, whispering into his ear, but making the words loud enough for me to hear. My fists ball. “We have a condo on the beach. I'd love to have you over.”

I'm sure she would love to have him over. All over.

“Back off,” I warn.

She scowls. “You back off.” She turns to Diego. “Seriously, who is she?”

“His girlfriend. Who are you?” Melissa says, getting in the girl's face. She doesn't let anyone talk down to me. I do the same for her.

Javier clears his throat. “Girlfriend?” he says.

Not true. But this chick doesn't have to know that. Diego just looks smug. I tread closer. The girl lets go.

“Jerk,” she mumbles to him, and swims away. The sister clings to Javier, refusing to give up her prize. One look from Melissa changes her mind.

With the twins gone, I turn my wrath on Diego.

“Have some respect,” I say, angry.

Diego walks toward the shore. Mute.

Like I should learn to be.

Without thinking, I follow. His strides are giant scissors, cutting through the tide. I catch up as he hands money to a Jet Ski rental employee. The guy pushes the Jet Ski into the water.

“Diego,” I say.

He doesn't stop to talk to me. Maybe Melissa's wrong. Maybe he did like that girl.

“Wait,” I say.

He straps on a vest, moves into the water. Says something to the guy, who's handing him keys.

“Are you going to talk to me?” I ask.

Finally Diego looks at me. His eyes are dark, hard.

“What do you want from me, Faith?”

“I don't know,” I admit.

What do I want? Him?

I make it clear that Diego cannot have me, but I'm obviously not okay with him having anyone else.

The Jet Ski attendant returns with a smaller life vest. Hands it to Diego. Diego looks at me. Extends the vest. “Hop on,” he says.

The vest hangs in my hand like a limp rag doll. What if someone sees us?

“Now or never,” he replies as he starts the engine. Water bubbles behind it.

I put the life vest on quickly. Stand, undecided.

Diego revs the throttle, ready to leave without me. At the last second, I jump on. My landing is wobbly, a dice unsure of which number to land on, teetering back and forth. A solid, tattooed hand steadies me.

I wrap my arms around his lower waist. Skin and muscle and warmth. I hold on tight. Diego speeds up. Jets out into the deep blue unknown. Wind whips stray hairs around my face, stinging me with each whack. No turning back. Diego drives farther away from shore.

Leaving behind all that complicates us.

F
aster
, I think.

I want to feel Faith as close to me as possible. I push the throttle to the max. She tightens her grip to the point of pain, squeezing the life out of me. It's a good pain, though. The type that reminds me I'm alive, living in the moment.

Making sure the coast is clear, I close my eyes for a brief moment. I want to remember this: the sting of salt water, Faith's thighs squeezing me tight, her face nuzzled into my neck. When I cut the engine, the picture-perfect image will shatter like glass. Words will fly, hurling each broken piece in a different direction.

I'll never see them again.

But not now.

This moment is mine.

“Watch out,” Faith says, fracturing my concentration.

I open my eyes. A piece of driftwood bobs ahead. I swerve. When I look back, the shore is miniscule. Buildings like tiny blocks. I slow. Faith loosens her grip. I cut the engine in the middle of the ocean.

I wait for Faith to let go of me before I withdraw the key and turn. It's more difficult than I thought to move on a Jet Ski without dumping us into the water, but I manage. Water sloshes on our lower legs, helping to lessen the scorch from the sun.

I take off my vest. Too bulky and awkward. Faith does the same. I hang them over the handlebars. Faith looks at my body. Her lips part slightly, her eyes skip from feature to feature. I watch her, too. Her ink, especially. It's beautiful. Images that wisp around her hips and up her ribs like smoke, stopping just beneath her underarms.

On the left, tattooed waves crash against the bone of her hip as if it's a protruding rock. Beneath the curl of a big wave is a surfer, riding the rogue. A sea mural—coral, seaweed, and neon-colored fish—drift in the current. Whoever inked her is a pro. Her work is amazing.

On the right, a skull and crossbones leaps out of bright red flames. Charcoal gray smoke seeps from the fire, carrying with it tiny images. Demons, if I had to guess. A message. Perhaps Faith has demons. Come to think of it, doesn't everyone?

Faith's body is near perfect. My eyes trace long legs, tiny freckles on her knees. Her hand cups saltwater, drips it along her arms and back.

“
¿Que pasa, mami?
” I ask.

She bites her lip. “Nothing,” she replies.

“You didn't charge into the water back there for nothin',” I say.

The hard glint in her eyes suggests anger.

“Talk to me,” I request, taking her hand in mine. I want to have a chance with this girl, a chance to know the real Faith.

She sighs. Looks at me. “You were flaunting her in front of me.”

“True,” I admit.

A small wave approaches. We grasp the seat until it passes.

“Is it real?” she asks. “With that girl, with any of them?”

I think about lying. Change my mind. “No.”

“Then why do it?” she asks.

Gentle ripples in the water rock us slowly back and forth. I motion to our surroundings.

“It got you out here, didn't it?” I say. “You wouldn't have come if I asked nicely.”

Faith bends, collects more water with her hand. Drips it down her legs. It puddles in places.

“Why be nice now?” she asks.

I lean against the handlebars. “I can be a nice guy. You haven't given me a chance.”

I have her talking. I don't want her to stop. It's like the club, only better.

“Do you want a chance?” she asks, worrying at the strings on her suit.

“Of course,” I reply. “But something holds you back. I know when people look at me they don't see someone who deserves you. And they're right. I don't. But I want you anyway.”

She shakes her head. I'm losing her. She's fading.

I gently pull her toward me. She gasps when I place her hands on my chest. I take her pointer finger and lay it on a scar.

“That's from a knife,” I say, holding her gaze. “Back home in Cuba—”

I pause, wondering if I should admit it. Only a few members of
mi familia
know the truth. If I tell Faith, she will be forever close, held to me by my secret.

No turning back.

“In Cuba, a deal went bad. Hospitalized me.”

I watch her eyes. I expect her to want to leave, but she doesn't.

I continue. “This one,” I say, moving her finger to my shoulder, “is where I was thrown into a metal fence. Twenty-seven stitches to close.”

Faith breathes evenly, in and out. I move her finger again, this time to my arm.

“Bullet.”

She gasps. I pause.

Neither of us speaks. I let it sink in.

When her face relaxes, I guide her fingertip to my other arm. “These five are from a broken bottle. Crazy how much damage a bottle can do.”

She traces my scars. There is something insanely intimate about it. Her touch is soft. Her eyes are hope mixed with sunlight.

I move her hand to my scalp, where hair meets forehead. “Butt of a gun. Needed staples.”

She moves to a four-inch slash on my stomach. “And this one?” she asks.

A gull screeches above, perhaps interested in the fish beneath us.

“Another knife,” I answer.

Her fingers reach for my throat. I block her hand. Not that one. Not yet.

“Your turn,” I say.

Faith stares at me. Debates answering. I don't want to push her, but I need something. Finally, she speaks.

“My scars are on the inside,” she says.

I wait for more. She glances away, dips her feet in the warm water.

“My dad's a pastor,” she says. “I live with him, my stepmom, and my baby sister, Grace. Grace is amazing.” Her mouth curves up for a second. “Melissa is the only one I let get close. We've been friends forever. Our parents split at the same time. It was tough, you know? She was there for me.”

She pauses. Blinks quickly. I'm not sure if she has salt in her eyes. Or tears. Or both.

“My dad's world is different. There's stuff we've had to compensate for. Past issues.”

She hasn't said much, but it's something all the same. The possibility of her clamming up at any second is high. I rub circles on the back of her hand.

“At church, people expect everything from me. I have to be perfect. Have to date the star football player. Have to smile and nod and never make mistakes. They don't know the real me. None of them do.”

She looks at me. Really looks at me.

“You being here with me, hearing me say that, is more time with the real Faith than any of them have ever experienced. Combined.”

Baby steps for sure, but better than nothing.

“Thank you,” I say. I want her to know I appreciate her trust. She has mine, too.

She doesn't say anything about her mom. That's fine. Neither do I.

“Why do you have to be
perfecta
?” I ask.

She squeezes my hand. Her body tenses.

“Because it's what's expected,” she says. “I can't ruin my father's image. Someone . . . came really close to doing that once.”

She winces as though she's said too much. I graze her cheek. This time, she doesn't pull away.

“I don't know what it's like to live up to other people's standards,” I say. “But I do know what it's like to want to run away. And you,
mami,
want to run away. I see it in your eyes. ¿
Por qué tienes miedo?
”

“I've only had one class of Spanish, Diego. You're going to have to help me out,” she says.

“What I'm askin' is, why are you scared? Why do it? Why do you care what they think? Stop goin' to church if you hate it.”

She shakes her head. Thin strips of hair fall in her face like spun silk. Crazy beautiful.

“I don't want to stop going to church. I have never felt as calm as when I'm in that sanctuary alone,” she says. “I've gone unaccompanied a handful of times. While my dad worked in the office on the other side of the church. There's nothing like it. I just don't get the same feeling when it's full of fake, pretentious people.”

I understand now. It is not the church that drives her away. It's the people, their impossible standards.

“Do you know what happened when someone showed up at my church in board shorts and a tank top one day?” she asks.

“No,” I answer.

“They turned him away. Told him to return when he was more appropriately dressed. Unreal.” Faith scowls, frustrated. “What's wrong with showing up in board shorts? So what if he looked like he just stepped off the beach? At least he came.”

“That's messed up, Faith. It really is,” I say.

No wonder she dresses the way she does.

We drift, gazing at the horizon. Birds fly around us, occasionally diving headfirst for a fish. I stay quiet, listening to water babble with the wind. Old friends.

I'm dealing with a heart that I didn't break. Faith is a wound that has been packed with gauze, but never actually closed. I want to explore her in full and then suture her injuries shut so no pain remains. I am fracturing rules that govern her life, and she is silently begging me to show her the way.

“Don't get me wrong, not all churches are like that,” she says in a soft voice. “In fact, most aren't. But my father's is. He's the head pastor, but he can't change anything. A board of people makes the decisions. When the situation, the stupid shorts thing, was addressed at a meeting, my father and a few others voted against the dress standard that the church wanted to mandate. Majority ruled, said no to anything more lenient. They disregarded my father's wishes, and he still preaches there.”

She reaches for a piece of lost seaweed. Bends it this way and that.

“Maybe my father's afraid of change,” she says, almost a whisper. “So my fate's sealed. Because I will not abandon my family. Ever. No matter how bad it is.”

I stare at her in disbelief. Words are not enough. I don't bother.

She
is
trapped
.

In some people's worlds, reputations are everything. I would not have survived as long as I did in Cuba without mine.

When Faith looks at me, I feel the ice around my heart start to splinter. I have never let a girl in.

Until now.

Something changes between us. It's calming, freeing.

“Thanks for talking,” she says. Leans toward me. For a second I think we might kiss. But then she pulls the vest out from behind my back and almost sends me toppling into the water.

She laughs.

Dios mío
, it's good to hear her laugh. Even if it is at my expense.

“I need to get back,” she says. A genuineness ropes through her voice that wasn't there before our excursion.

“Sure,” I reply. Help her put on her vest. Then mine.

I turn around and start the engine. One more glance. A smile. I take us back to the shore. Faith holds on to me like she never wants to let go.

We're alike, Faith and I. And we are both messed up in different ways.

Different, but the same.