Before You (22 page)

“W
hat did he say?”

The question does a somersault, tumbling out of my mouth as Diego makes his way across the backyard to me.

“That he loves you and he wants you safe,” Diego says.

Come on. He's going to have to do better than that.

“What did he say about
us
?” I ask.

Diego shrugs. “He's not thrilled about me, but he's not mad, either. As long as I make you happy, he's okay with it.”

Too good to be true. “Really?” I ask.

“Really.” Diego smiles.

I throw my arms around his shoulders and hug him tightly.

He rubs my back. “See, what did I tell you? Piece of cake,” he jokes.

I'm a little surprised it wasn't worse. They must've talked about more than me being happy and safe, but I'm not going to question Diego further.

“He's not as bad as you think,” Diego says. “He wants you to leave the church issues and opinions to him. You should let it go, Faith. It's about time you lived for you.”

When Diego leans in for a kiss, I forget everything but him. His lips are soft and full, his mouth warm. His tongue never snakes out, much to my disappointment, but the kiss is intense all the same.

I feel a tug at my leg, breaking the two of us apart. I look down. Grace is smiling at me like a shiny penny that I must pick up.

“Hi, Gracie!” I say, swooping her into my arms.

“Hi, Faith,” she sings sweetly. She turns to Diego. “Hey, D,” she says nonchalantly.

It cracks me up.

Diego grins. “Hi,” he says as he reaches for her. He sets my little sister on his hip and wraps an arm around her back.

I almost tear up at the sight of him holding Grace so gently, cradling the treasure that she is.

“Happy birthday,” he says.

She giggles and reaches for his hand. I hope the tattoos don't scare her.

“I like your paintings,” Grace comments.

“Thanks,” Diego says. “I like yours, too.”

He's referring to the star and cake painted on Grace's cheek.

“Want to meet my friends?” Grace asks.

Diego couldn't possibly be interested in the crowd of children. But surprisingly, he says yes and sits on the grass with the kids. They flock to him like a new toy. He's a natural. They love him, too. For the first time in a while, I feel a kind of giddy happiness that I thought abandoned me long ago. I am wishing on a star and watching it come true.

I'm about to join him when Mrs. Magg comes to my side.

“Hello, Faith,” she says cordially.

“Hi, Mrs. Magg,” I reply.

“Is this for my son's benefit?” she asks, gesturing at Diego.

I laugh.
Is she kidding me?

“Jason has apologized many times. What does he have to do for you to take him back?” she asks, completely serious.

I stop laughing, but for the life of me I cannot wipe the grin off my face. It lingers like the bittersweet aftertaste of cranberries.

I honestly don't think her question deserves an answer. So I walk away instead, leaving a slack-jawed Mrs. Magg standing alone. Some people will never change.

“Hey,” I say into Diego's ear. I sit on the ground beside him. Grass pricks and tickles my thighs.

He's laughing at one of the little boys, who is making funny faces. “Hey,
preciosa
,” Diego replies.

Dad and Susan are bringing out Grace's princess castle birthday cake.

“Want some?” I ask, motioning to the gigantic pink-and-purple cake. They set it next to a leaning tower of gifts.

“Sure.” Diego stands and extends a hand to help me up.

I love the way he looks in that moment: hair mussed from kids climbing on him, grass stuck to his clothes, completely and utterly happy.

After cake, Grace opens gifts. She tears into them with such excitement. I've never seen so many presents in one place in my life. Grace's face is lit like a firework. When the festivities die down and it's time to go, I give Dad a hug and say good-bye. My little sister gives Diego a kiss on the cheek, awakening a flutter in my heart.

I don't say anything on the way to Diego's apartment, mostly because I'm replaying the evening in my mind. When Diego invites me in, I follow him to his room. I sink into the beanbag chair and imagine that's what it feels like to fall into a puff of clouds.

“It's good to see you happy,” Diego says.

“It's your doing,” I confess. “All of it. Everything.”

Diego challenged my whole life. From the first moment in the office, he dared me to drop the mask. Thanks to him, I have.

“I'm lucky to have you,” I say.

“Come to me,” Diego commands.

I kneel on the carpet and lean over Diego.

He presses his mouth to mine. His kiss is a flame, sparking my insides. His passion is embers catching fire. Before I know it, I have abandoned the carpet and taken position on Diego's lap.

Diego says how good I feel in English and Spanish.

“
Que bonita. Te quiero. Te necesito,
” he says.

Diego is closer than my skin. Love forged into being. There is something about his touch, his fingers driving slowly over my ribs, that makes my heart thud as though it wants to break free of me and live in Diego's hands, where it belongs.

The air around us is two thousand degrees. His breath, my breath, becoming one. His body, my body, sharing space until there is no difference between where he starts and where I end.

More.

I need more.

His touch moves, wanders, discovers new places: my hip, my thigh, the spot behind my left ear. My fingers tickle the back of his neck. Make their way over the topographical map that is his body.

What lies underneath?

I want my hands on bare skin, but I'm afraid. What will happen? Will we be the same? Closer? I can't help the thoughts that enter my mind like a haunting whisper. Now is not the time for nerves.

Three, four, five fingers on my stomach. Six, seven, eight seconds until the thunder of pleasure allows me to move again. His breathing has climbed to new heights. I take the risk. My palm slides under his shirt. Muscles make his skin protrude in spots. Scars form craters in the unknown terrain I explore.

When Diego pulls away from me suddenly, I'm surprised.

“What's wrong?” I pant.

His look is that of pain.

“
Dios mío
, this is one of the hardest things I've ever had to do,” he says.

Diego eases me off of him.

“Did I do something wrong?” I ask.

“No, definitely not. You're doin' everythin' right,” he answers. “That's the problem.
Eres especial.
You have changed my life. I want our first time to be something you'll never forget, something that lasts all night.”

My curfew is soon. Diego doesn't want to rush things. I smile at him. It must have taken a lot to pull away from me. I reach for his hand. Bring him to me, careful not to touch him the way he likes. I ease into his arms and let him hold me.

There are moments in life set apart from the rest. The
before
this moment, and the
after
this moment.

Diego is one of those moments for me.

“D
o you think she has a clue?”

Javier's excitement is met by my own. I'm jittery, as though I've gulped gallons of caffeine.

“No,” I answer.

“Have to admit, it's a good plan,” Javier says. “Never knew you were romantic.”

“
Cállate
,” I say, grinning.

“So you goin' to be down on one knee tellin' her how much you love her, or what?” Javier jokes.

“No,” I answer. “I'm just goin' to be there, waiting for her. She won't expect it. Now, leave me alone so I can finish gettin' ready.”

While Javier waits for me in the living room, I check the clock. Hands tick like a reminder of the time I almost didn't have. I throw on jeans and my only white button-down shirt.

“Come on,” I say to my cousin.

Javier drives me to a giant fountain at the entrance of
La Plazita
: a stretch of about three blocks with Latino cuisine, culture, markets, dancing, and more. This is my world, without the danger.

People drift everywhere. My throat constricts slightly. I'm suddenly flashing back to Cuba. A hundred memories cram together like pages in a book. I am aware of my scar, pulsing almost. I'm scared to remember that life.

Javier laughs and slaps me on the back as I'm getting out of the car.
“¡Buena suerte!”
he hollers.

I spend the next thirty minutes roaming the streets. For many, this is more than a fun getaway. This is a way of life. I wonder if any of them have escaped like me. Do they have dangerous secrets, too?

My phone chirps. It's Melissa, in on the surprise. Her text tells me that they are approaching the fountain. I stand to the side where Faith can't see me.

Faith wears a white spaghetti-strap dress that shimmers like an opal. When I walk around the corner, her eyes widen.

Melissa smiles, a best friend to the end, and leaves me and Faith to spend the evening alone.

“Did you plan this?” Faith asks.

“Sí, mami.”

I reach for her hips and pull her to me.

“Why?”

She can be who she wants to be here, who she truly is at heart.

“Because you let me into your world. Now I want to let you into mine.”

She has tried so hard to be what everyone wants. She has tried and tried and tried not to let them down. But time and time again, unhappiness was her reward.

Where are they now?
I wonder.

Where are those people who expect the world of Faith, who smile as her dreams slip through her fingers like dimes and clatter to the ground? Who judge whenever they want and leave her for dead if she doesn't meet their expectations?

She doesn't have to be that girl anymore.

I take her hand and lead her through the streets. So many places to stop, so many things to see: the market, trinkets, music. Sugar cane plants sprout around us, their tall stalks swaying in the gentle evening breeze
. La Plazita
is alive, moving in beautiful chaos. I buy an
annona cheri-mola,
custard apple, for Faith to try.

“This is delicious,” Faith says around a mouthful. She hands it to me so we can share.

We pass several tents filled with everything you could think of—clothes, household items, artwork, instruments—all part of my world. Faith picks up half of the items, asking me what they are and what they're used for. She wants to know why nothing has price tags. I explain that the vendors expect you to name a price.

It's common for an item's price to be dependent on the purchaser. Salespeople throw out numbers; you counter with one of your own. If you're good, you'll barter them down to the bare minimum amount, like an auction, only instead of the price going up, it goes down. And unlike American markets, these sellers stay open well into the night.

La Plazita
is mostly Cuban, but other cultures trickle in. I take a seat on a bench in front of a Mexican mariachi band. Faith laughs at their huge sombreros; they look like ants trying to balance something three times their size.

“What do you think?” I ask her.

Faith smiles. “I think I love it.”

Streetlights shine dimly on her face like a waning candle.

“So beautiful,” I whisper.

She leans toward me, her expression soft, so soft in the light. Warmth spreads just above my knee where her hand rests. Her lips part. It's an invitation that I happily accept.

“I'm glad you did this for me,” she says. Her breath tickles my skin, raising gooseflesh. “I know you miss home. And I know you can never go back. It's probably hard to be around all this and not miss what used to be.”

“It is,” I admit. “But I'd never change a thing, 'cause coming here gave me you.”

“And I'd never go back to my old life because the new one gave me you,” she says.

“Well, isn't that
preciosa,
” a voice says from behind us.

I stand and whip around so fast that I nearly lose my balance. My body tenses. Faith jumps up, too, clutching my arm.

“Wink,” I say.

Surely there are too many witnesses for him to fight me here. He's wanted by the police. It's taking a huge risk, showing up alone in a street full of people.

“
¿Qué quieres?
” I ask.

“What do I want?” He sneers. “I want revenge. You hurt
mis amigos, mis hermanos
. You insulted me and my offer for you to join us. It wasn't hard to follow you. I know your past, Alvarez. You should have listened to me.”

I take a closer look. So many people surround us, but four stand out. It's the way they're perched, motionless, statues in a river of moving bodies. It's the way their eyes zoom in on us, oblivious to all else. They begin their march.

There are other men, too—aside from the four—dressed in normal clothes, acting like part of the crowd. I see the way they watch us.

“Leave,” I tell Faith.

“No,” she whispers. “Not again. Last time you almost died.”

I have to convince her to leave. Her life depends on it.

“If you don't go, they'll use you against me. They'll kill you.”

Steely hard eyes return my gaze. “I won't leave you again.”

I don't have time for this.

“Please,” I beg. I will do whatever it takes to get her to listen.

She doesn't waver.

The men stop several feet in front of me. “Hola, Diego. Remember me?” one of them asks in a deep accent.

It hits me like a tidal wave. My mind is churning, churning, beneath the memories. He smiles. A gun flashes at his side.

“Never thought you would survive that night,” he says, eyeing the scar on my neck. “I'll be sure not to make the same mistake twice.”

Faith stiffens and I know she understands. A diagonal scar protrudes proudly from his skin, traveling from the left side of his forehead to his chin. His nose is crooked, suggesting a severely misshapen bone beneath the surface.

My stomach turns to water, twisting and clenching. I look at Wink. He's smiling. This is because of him, because I didn't join his gang. My refusal dug up my past.

And now it will surely kill me.

I whisper under my breath so only Faith can hear. “When I say go, run.”

“But—”

“Do it.” I smile for one second, the briefest flicker of love. I want to convey everything I feel into one moment, like she will somehow remember that last look every time she visits the memory of us.

“Say
adiós
to your precious
mujer,”
he says with a smile. He doesn't want Faith, but he'll kill her to hurt me.

“Go!” I yell.

It happens so fast. Faith turns to run best as she can with her nearly healed foot. I jump to the spot where she once stood, blocking a direct shot at her. The bullet has already left the gun. Pain rips through my chest, tearing, clawing my flesh open on its way inside. I cry out. People start running through the streets like mad, deranged animals. As a herd, they don't know where to go, unsure from which direction the gunshot rang.

My body sways slightly, a pendulum swinging with one final effort.

My time is up.

I collapse. The air has been punched out of my lungs. My vision is filled with calves and feet. Some of them are stepping on me on their way to safety. My ears ring from shouts and the rushing of wind. I grab at my chest. My hands come away covered in blood.

Suddenly Faith is at my side. People are running over her, too. Blood blossoms across my shirt.

“Diego,” she says, tears streaming down her face. “No!” She is racked with sobs.

“Don't cry,” I say. My voice is raspy. The pain is nearly unbearable. I concentrate on Faith. Only Faith.

She tries to apply pressure to my chest, but I scream in agony. She stops.

“What do I do?” she asks desperately.

“Let me go,” I say. At least she is safe. I took the bullet that was meant for her. The men got what they truly wanted—me.

“No, Diego. No. I can't. You'll be okay. It'll be okay.”

I am dying. She knows it.

“I love you.
Te amo
,” I say. “That's what I brought you here for tonight. I wanted to tell you that I love you, Faith.”

My eyes are heavy, so heavy. I take one last cherishing look before my final words escape me.

“Te amo eternamente,”
I whisper.