Before You (23 page)

“I
love you, too, Diego.”

I choke on a sob, barely getting the words out.

“Just keep breathing,” I tell him. “Help!” I scream.

Diego's eyes are closing. Sirens blare closer and closer.

“Please!” I wail.

I shake his shoulders. “Stay awake.”

I kiss his lips. He is barely breathing. And the blood, there's so much blood.

Please don't let him die,
I pray.
I'll do anything. Just don't let him die.

I press my hands to his chest again. This time he doesn't protest. He is fading, graying before my eyes.

“No!” I scream.

I cannot lose Diego. I finally found a love that ignites every part of me, a love that lives in the soul.

Forever love.

“No.” I sob into Diego's shirt. He is drenched, soaked in blood, blood seeping across his chest like the stains of ink on his skin. Not him. Not my Diego.
No
.

My strength is nearly gone. I feel it spilling out of me like Diego's life out of him.

I look back up at his face. We are both covered in the red stain of death. His lids are closed. I would give anything to look into his beautiful eyes again.

I want to freeze everything at the moment before chaos erupted, the moment when Diego was about to confess his love for me. If only time could be a snapshot, be held still for eternity.

And then I feel it. The last beat of his heart. Barely a flutter, really. But I love that flutter. I love it with all that I am. It's Diego's heart's way of telling me what his lips already said. I love you.
Te amo.
His heart's way of telling me that he will die for me, a thousand and one times if necessary.

Shh, listen. Can you hear it? Fluttering, flapping softly like broken wings daring to fly. It's saying good-bye.

I don't want to let him go, but I have no choice. Silence descends. The lack of beating—the void—pounds the loudest.

I'm being pulled away from Diego. Or maybe I'm being pushed. It's all the same, either way. He's gone. Gone.

Emergency workers surround Diego, attaching pads to his skin, yelling “Clear!” They shock him, his limbs flinching from the introduction of electricity. Diego is put on a board, strapped down. His shirt is ripped open.

And yet all I want to do is curl up next to him. I want them to take me wherever they're taking him. I belong with him. He is bloody and motionless, and yet I don't think I have ever, never in my life, seen anyone as beautiful as he is.

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot something moving like a shadow on the outskirts of my vision. It's him. The shooter. He's pretending to be part of the crowd, but I know better. There are other men, too, following him. The shooter smiles at me as I hear the worst word of my life. He hears it, too, I know. And finally, the man with the gun is satisfied. It's what he wanted all along.

I look back to Diego as the shooter disappears from sight.

They're closing the ambulance doors and somehow I know this is the end. But no matter what, I will love Diego forever. For the first time, I truly understand sacrifice.

“DOA.”

That's the word that came out of the emergency worker's mouth, the word that made Diego's killer smile.

“DOA.”

Dead on arrival.

I
t's been six months since Diego died. I didn't try to find out about his funeral because I didn't want to remember him that way, in a casket, or maybe burned to ashes. I want to remember Diego smiling, touching me.

Every day is still as excruciating as the last. It feels as though I've been tossed off a ledge and I'm desperately trying to climb back up, hopelessly grabbing on to jagged rocks, pain lancing through me with each beat of my heart.

A heart that was meant to stop with the bullet that killed my love.

I miss him. God, how I miss him. He died right before Christmas. I've spent every holiday since thinking about him, wishing I could feel his arms around me, screaming at the sky, begging someone to listen.

Even winning Prediction couldn't make me smile, though it surprised Melissa when they called her name for homecoming queen. And I still remember the look on her face as she threw away the last of her cigarettes, never to pick them up again. High school graduation was torture. It was supposed to be one of the most joyous times of my life, but it was misery. I kept thinking that Diego should've been there, walking the stage.

I cannot, even for one hour, stop imagining the way his lips used to curl like a wave whenever he saw me, or the sound of his laughter, or even his moments of silence. Nothing is ever silent now. I dream about him constantly. It's the only place where I can see him in vivid colors. I don't want to forget.

I refuse to forget.

It took me until the day Diego died to realize that I no longer have autophobia. Because of him, I don't worry about being alone. Diego is with me always.

People don't understand why I left Florida, why I moved to Estelí, Nicaragua, as soon as I graduated. All I can say is that it felt right. I've been here one month, and I've already done more for, and with, these people than I ever did in America.

Dad helped me find this place, knowing I needed to leave the States. It was then that Dad and I had a long talk for the first time. Things were said that have been locked away in a box, rusting, dying. He brought them to life. I learned that he only ever wanted the best for me, that he regrets not communicating better, that my clothes and the church's opinions do not count for more than his daughter's well-being.

I'm to blame, as well. I should've asked how he felt about things instead of assuming. I should've taken the initiative. I'm the only one who can be me, who can choose my destiny. Fate was waiting silently, like a dusty relic, for me to grab it, to polish it, to make it mine.

When I mentioned leaving, Dad told me about American missionaries who built schools and helped out local people in a poor part of Estelí. They were looking for another person to join them, so I did. I don't plan to be here forever, but it's a start. I want to travel to other places. Help more.

People back in the States think I'm running away. They're wrong. I'm running
to,
not
away,
from Diego. I want to be somewhere I can make a difference. I want to carry out the dream that Diego and I shared. A dream to make this world a better place. To love in the face of hate. To laugh in the midst of turmoil. To create hope instead of fear.

Diego never gave up on me. This is my way of never giving up on him.

As I unpack the new shipment of supplies—medicine, water, packaged and canned food—I hear Raymond, one of the American missionaries, entering the building.

“Hi, Faith,” he says to me. “
Hola,
Faith
.
”

He's teaching me Spanish, the native language in Nicaragua. He says things to me in English, then Spanish. I always thought Diego would be the one to teach me. He'd be proud of my progress. I allow myself a small smile.

“
Hola
,” I say.

My story is an open book to Raymond and his wife. They share my need to help others, a need that motivates me to place one foot in front of the other, to wake up each morning. Maybe I can plant seeds of hope in young people, water them, watch them grow.

Every time I tell Diego's story to a young person, every time I help build a new school, or help a local build a home, or give the community food and water, I have a chance of reaching them. If I help save even one life, it's worth it. Maybe in the future, the streets can be a safer place. Maybe kids will see that there is always another choice besides hate and fear and violence.

Raymond asks me to go to the backyard—which is more like a tropical paradise considering that the year-round temperature is eighty degrees—to hand out food. I pick up the box of food and head out back. There can be anywhere from two to twenty kids at once. Parents are usually working in the middle of the day, so I only expect children.

I walk outside, squint, pause on the back step to let my vision adjust to the bright midday sun. Trees block little of the glaring sun. Using my hand as a visor, I take a few steps and stop dead in my tracks. The box of food drops from my hand.

This can't be.

It's impossible.

There aren't children waiting for me. In fact, only one person waits and he looks just like—

“Diego?” I say.

I must be dreaming because when I say his name, he smiles and walks toward me. He wears a plain blue shirt and jeans, his hair mussed. He looks angelic, sun bursting around the outline of his body, filling in the cracks between his arms and torso.

“Faith,” he says.

I run to him like I'm chasing the past. Dream or not, I want to feel him. I need to feel him.

“I've missed you,
mami
,” he says.

I back up. I haven't heard that word since before he died.

“How? But . . . I saw . . . they said you were—”

“Dead?” he finishes.

I nod.

“I was. For three minutes and two seconds, apparently,” he answers. “They restarted my heart in the ambulance.”

“This whole time,” I say.

Diego rubs one thumb tenderly across my cheek.

“I'm sorry I couldn't tell you. The government wouldn't let me. For your safety. For mine, as well.”

“Government?”

He holds me close. “They've been watching
El Cartel de Habana.
When some of its members entered the U.S., American operatives followed, which led them to me. They were there, in
La Plazita
.”

“They should've stopped them,” I say, touching the spot above Diego's heart.

His thumb strokes my jaw, then my lips. “The crowd was too thick. By the time they made it, well, you know.”

I do. I always will. The image haunts me.

“Like I said, it wasn't safe,” Diego continues. “Will you forgive me?”

Safety. He hid from me, to protect me. He took a bullet for me, to protect me.
Will I forgive him?
There's no question. I will.

“Yes, of course, yes. But what about the guy with the gun? The gang? They'll come for you,” I say.

He brushes hair away from my face. “Don't worry about that. They think I'm dead.
La policía
covered all tracks. I am invisible. Forgotten. They took me to a government hospital, hoping for my help when, if, I awoke. I've spent the last six months recuperating. If you thought I had bad scars before, you don't want to see my chest now.”

I love his cocky grin. He knows I don't care about his scars.

“What about Wink? The others?” I ask.

I know by the way Diego winces that Wink was never found.

“I'm okay now,” is all he says.

Diego is okay.

I wrap my arms around him. He never takes his eyes off me. I always said I would give anything to look at him again.

Here's my chance.

“Stay with me,” I say.

“I wish I could,” he replies. “I don't have much time. The government didn't want to approve this trip, but I refused to help unless they did.”

Diego pulls me to a shaded area under an awning of trees. I sit next to him, leaning into his warmth.

“Here's the deal,” he says. “For the next three months, the American government wants me to work with them. They want to know everything I know about
El Cartel Habana
. And they won't put me on the frontline. I can't tell you any more than that, I'm sorry. They've offered me protection and a free pass out of America. I can go anywhere I want when I'm done.”

“What's the catch?” I ask. There's always a catch.

He takes a deep breath. “The catch is that I can't be with you at all during those three months. They've approved phone calls from protected lines only.” He pulls out a small cell phone. “Keep this on you at all times. I'll call you.”

I take the phone and put it in my back pocket, hating that I have to pull my hands away from Diego for even one second.

“But I just got you back,” I say. “How can I watch you go again?”

“It'll be torture,” he agrees. “But if I do it, I'm free. Afterward I can be with you, no limits. If I don't cooperate, they can rack up gun possession and drug affiliation charges and send me away, eventually deport me back to Cuba. If I'm deported, the cartel will know in no time.”

He doesn't have to say the rest. I understand. The cartel won't just find him, they'll kill him.

“Looks like we have no other choice,” I say.

“You know what they say about long-distance relationships, right?” Diego says with a grin. “They make for a great first night back.”

He winks at me and I laugh.

We stay like that for a while. Laughing. Talking. Wrapped in each other's arms. Wrapped in the hope of a future together.

“I have to go,” Diego finally says.

I am reluctant to let him leave. His lips brush the bridge of my nose. It's intimate in the sweetest way.

“If we can make it through death, we can make it through anything,” he says, standing.

Men in black suits await him. He kisses me lightly, touching my heart once before he goes. When the car door opens, he waves to me. I wave back.

Diego—the love of my life, the light of my heart—is alive.

I
t has been three months to the day since I saw Faith in Nicaragua.

I'm dying to get back to her
.
Every late hour spent awake talking to her on the phone, each agonizing second working for the government, is all worth it. I'm free.

The driver opens the door to my car. Faith waits for me. She looks tanned from the paradise she now calls home. Her smile shines brighter than a million lights. The sun sets behind her, giving the illusion of a fiery-red halo above her head.

Mi ángel
.

And then she runs to me.

I wrap my arms around her and draw in a deep, long breath, inhaling the scent of strawberry hair. I've always loved strawberries, but never more than I do right now.

“It's good to see you,” she says.

I don't have words. I let my lips do the talking. I kiss her softly at first, then harder. I miss her. I love her. I never have to leave her again.

I am a juxtaposition of emotions, all lining up, then falling together like dominos.

Faith's hands slide up my shirt. I play with the hem of hers. I don't care that we are standing in the yard, that people may be watching. I don't care about anything but Faith.

Only Faith.

“Come inside,” Faith says.

I follow her. She leads me to a small, round bungalow made of wood the color of sand. Decorations are sparse—a small bookshelf, a two-seater love seat, a tiny kitchen. A curtain of beads separates an area that houses a queen bed and a nightstand. It's about the size of my old apartment, the one
mi padre
still lives in.

No one except
mi padre
knows I'm alive. I want to tell Javier, but it's not wise. The less he knows, the better. It kills me to leave him in the dark, especially after he took a bullet for me, but that's exactly why I don't inform him. If by some small chance the cartel found out about my involvement with the U.S. government, they would go after anyone close to me. It's better, safer, for Javier to be uninformed.

I cannot think about any of that. I have been gone from Faith far too long to give an ounce of energy to anyone else.

She is
mi vida
.

“Like you always wanted,” I say, commenting on her bungalow. Less is more for her.

She grins and takes my hand. “Glad you like it. It's your home now, too,” she says.

My eyes slide to the queen bed. I want nothing more than to lay her down on that bed and show her exactly how much I've missed her, but first there's something I have to do.

“Show me the school,” I say.

Faith watches me.

Did she see my eyes on the bed?

Does she want me like I want her?

“I want to see what my
princesa
built with her own hands,” I insist.

“Okay,” she replies.

We walk out of the bungalow and down a narrow path that winds like a twist tie. Our way is paved by uneven bricks that lead to a small gray structure made of concrete blocks. The inside has one long table with foldout chairs. There are no decorations. Just a simple desk that I imagine the teacher sits behind.

“Isn't it perfect?” Faith says.

It really is.

“Yes,” I answer, truth lacing my tone. “You did this?” I motion to our surroundings, trying to imagine Faith up to her elbows in dirt and cement and dust, working her hands till they are calloused and bruised.
She did this
.

“Yes.” She smiles proudly.

I want to feel proud like that, too. I want to be strong like my girl, not getting paid a penny but still rich in other ways that matter more than money ever could.

“I can't wait to do this with you,” I say.

“Soon,” Faith replies. “We'll be building another one, a few miles east, next month.”

I take her hand. She leads me out of the school toward her favorite spot; a canopy of leaves sways above us. I make sure to keep Faith in front of me so she can't see the nervousness in my face. Under the trees, flowers and vines wrap around each other in a natural embrace.

“This is where I come to think of you,” Faith says.

The temperature is slightly cooler here, in the shaded garden, moonlight taking over.

“I mean, I think of you all the time, but this is the spot where I can lose myself in our memories,” she says. “This is the spot that got me through the last three months, through missing you.”

I see it, how time could rewind here, how thoughts could be lost in the beauty surrounding us.

I reach into my pocket and pull out a small box, taking Faith by surprise.

She looks as though she wants to say something. Her mouth opens. Shuts. Opens again. She reminds me of a cute little fish.

“Faith, I love you,” I say. “I hate any pain I caused you. And I know I don't deserve you, but I can't imagine living this life without you.”

I open the box. A silver ring glints inside. She smiles a huge, earth-splitting smile.

The ring doesn't have a big diamond. As a matter of fact, there is no diamond at all. But it does have two small, defined wings engraved on it.

“
Te amo con todo mi corazón.
I want you to be mine forever,” I say.

She touches the ring. Time stills. We lock eyes.

“Will you marry me,
muñeca
?”

She tries to speak, but her voice is caught by emotion. She clears her throat and tries again.

“Yes,” she whispers. “Forever yes.”