“It has to read: ‘Hey, I just met you & this is crazy, but my name’s Christina & I’m your baby.’ No exceptions.”
So paint it we did, down to every fuchsia sparkle in Dani’s perfect bubble letters, to honor the auspicious moment in which Christina met her daddy (conception aside).
Sam bumped my knee and looked skyward. Rain clouds had dissipated, unfortunate for a land deep-seated in drought.
Behind us, Alonso and Sofia discussed our “surprise” for Angel, and whether it would survive. We’d asked people all over the Mexican neighborhood if we could attach red, white, and blue balloons to their mailboxes. Unfortunately, a front moved through just before we left. High winds whipped many of them into the air, at the mercy of the sky.
“That was a waste of three hundred dollars,” grumbled Alonso. Sofia poked him in the ribs.
“Not at all! Now everyone knows he’s returning.”
“They would have known anyway, with that gigantic banner—”
“Please Papá, not the banner again.” The baby smacked Dani with an impatient fist. Without blinking an eye, she popped the child off one breast and settled her on the other. Having children certainly seemed to strip one of shyness, and Dani had very little to begin with. All of a sudden, Danita lunged forward, and I wondered if Christina had gummed her too hard (was that possible?). Pure joy lighted her face and I saw the direction of her gaze.
Lieutenant Angel Valdez, in the flesh, sporting the biggest grin I’d seen on the man. He saluted his wife. She bobbed in her seat. Christina mewled in protest and swung—yes, swung— her fist at her mother (if a baby couldn’t eat in peace, was nothing sacred?). By this time, el changuito had also spotted his father and nearly streaked down the bleachers when Samuel caught the back of his tee shirt.
“Easy there, little boy. They’ll dismiss Papá in a minute.”
Everything seemed right in the world as a tearful Angel and Danita pressed their foreheads together, their children between them. Angel said something to Dani and she nodded and tried to take Gabriel from Angel’s arms, but the toddler latched his fingers around the collar of Angel’s uniform. Dani laughed and brushed Christina’s baby fingers against Angel’s five-o’clock shadow.
Samuel gripped my hand. “This is our family, Kaye.”
Warmth and love eased the fractures in my chest. Still, the fractures were there: a longing to hold our own children between us, our hands protecting tiny fingers. Somehow, I had to root out this longing once and for all.
The first day of the Rocky Mountain Folks Festival dawned bright and beautiful. Sunshine. Not even a hint of autumn in the air, as summer clung to the first days of September with the tenacity of a blueberry stain. And that blue was freaking hard to get out.
I studied my fingertips, cuticles—a weird purple color—as I made my way (solo) to Planet Bluegrass. I’d spent the morning helping my mother can blueberry jam, and now it was time to catch the first bands on the Folks stage. I patted my purse, where I’d stashed two small jars and a pack of gluten-free crackers for Samuel. If there was one thing he couldn’t cut out of his diet, it was my mother’s blueberry jam. That stuff was a drug. In fact, I couldn’t be certain she didn’t spike it with something illegal, but whatever. We would empty that jar before the banjo finished pickin’ ‘Dixie.’
I spread my blanket and plopped down, waited. He was supposed to have returned from Brownsville this morning, and after a shower and nap, would meet me east of the main stage. But an hour passed, then two. I checked my watch. The second group finished their set. Checked my watch again—six p.m.
Familiar hurt and anger simmered on the backburner. Let’s give him another hour before we do anything rash, shall we? Rocky Mountain Folks was special. It was ‘our thing,’ had been since we were little. When he’d been gone for seven years, I’d kept it sacred, something between the two of us. After all, when one loses her virginity to the love of her life in the midst of a music festival (well, not literally at the festival, we were at my mother’s house), said music festival goes up on a pedestal.
I whipped out my phone for the zillionth time. Nothing. Something must have been very wrong for him to skip Folks. Had he finally confessed to carrying those kilos of cocaine? Surely it was only a matter of time before it came to light. This wouldn’t be his first drug charge, either. After the last arrest, his lawyer warned him a third offense might land him in jail. But maybe if he was cooperative, they’d be lenient and downgrade... I chewed my thumb nail.
Or what if it was worse?
How easy it was to swap Samuel’s name into news stories of Zacatón murder victims. Another man was on the news this morning, thirty-four, drawn and quartered, his body spread along a two-mile stretch of the main highway bisecting Tamaulipas as if he’d been chucked out a window like wadded up fast food wrappers. Was it a face dear to me, frozen in panic, staring up from a ditch hundreds of miles away? Had he known what they were going to do to him?
I hadn’t noticed I’d held my breath, and I gasped for air.
Grounded…switch frequencies…Rocky Mountain Folks…
My stomach grumbled, but still I sat, held vigil, waited. Finally, just as the sun began to set behind the Rockies, my phone buzzed:
Kaye, missed my flight, staying a day longer. Be home tomorrow night. Apologies for skipping Folks.
Right. Now that simmering pot of anger bubbled. I gritted my teeth. You will not cry, Aspen Kaye. Don’t be fifteen. Don’t be an emotional, needy basket case-of-a-wife. This is important.
But Folks was important.
Fudge it. I jerked open my purse and pulled out the blueberry jam and crackers. Gluten free. What I wouldn’t give for a flaky, buttery cracker. Just a single, round, golden, sun-like Ritz cracker.
“Hey Kaye, those crackers empty your bank account?”
The crackers flew out of my startled hands and scattered across the blanket. “Hector Valdez! What are you doing here?”
“Tricia has a shift tonight, I think, haven’t seen her in three days.” Tricia seemed to work a lot, lately, but I didn’t pry. “Thought I’d see what all the fuss is about. It’s okay, if you like folk music.”
“Who doesn’t like folk music?” I said in mock astonishment.
“Er, I could think of a few people. But not me! Put a dulcimer in my hands right now, sister!”
“Wow, you never cease to surprise me.”
He leaned in, secretive. “Santiago dated the dulcimer gal a couple of months ago, remember? He studied up on that thing for a week before asking her out.” He brushed crackers to the side of the blanket and sat. The hairs on his arm tickled my calf. “Where’s your soul mate?”
The sour way he’d said ‘soul mate’ didn’t sit well. “Still out-of-town with Alonso. They’ll be back tomorrow night.”
“Perfect!”
“Oh?”
“Yep. That means we can tackle one of the Ivy League peaks, lady’s choice: Harvard, Princeton, Columbia, or Yale? Just you, me, and that big hard sun.”
Just the two of us...that didn’t sit well, either. “What about Luca?”
“What about him? You and I have done lots of stuff together. Seven years’ worth, remember?”
Tattoos twisted and snaked up the arm next to my leg. It was so close, I saw where dark blues faded into flesh. “I don’t know, Hector. It’s different now.”
“Why, because we’re both married?” he laughed. “If Samuel is that insecure about his wife spending the day with another man, that’s his problem. Maybe he should hit the gym.”
I shoved his shoulder. “Don’t be a jerk, Hector, you know that’s not it. It just seems...disrespectful.”
His face lost its joviality. “You know what else is disrespectful? A husband bailing on something that means the world to his wife, for any reason short of hospitalization. Once again, you’re alone at Rocky Mountain Folks.”
There was that simmering anger again, spitting and steaming, set to boil over. “You know what?
You’re right. It’s just a climb. Anyway, what else am I supposed to do: pace around the kitchen like a little woman, waiting for him to come home?”
Hector grinned. “There’s the spitfire. Pick you up at four a.m.”
Mount Yale
September
Was it possible to be high on fresh air? Perhaps it was a lack of oxygen this high in the sky, atmosphere so thin, so free of humidity it made me giddy, but I couldn’t stop laughing. Hector rolled on the cold ground and gasped for breath. Tears streaked from my eyes, drops of ice on my cheeks.
“Ay, Cabral was so pissed I asked you out before he did. Remember, right after you turned sixteen?”
I smudged away tears with fleece-covered fingers. “You took me to that terrible slasher movie right before Halloween.” I remembered my friend, skin greasy and porous in the throes of puberty, his killer smile covered by metal braces. “You know, I never knew Samuel had been angry until he wrote about it a few years ago. I had no idea about a lot of things.”
Hector shook his head. “Oh mamacita, I was crazy about you. You featured in a lot of my teenaged fantasies.”
“If you cherish our friendship, don’t tell me about your sixteen-year-old romance with Luciderm.”
“Trust me, you don’t want to know.” Silence stifled our laughter as we rested on the summit of Mount Yale, thoughtful. The sky was so bright, so blue, we stared into the core of a flame. Hector continued. “I never got it…why you didn’t even consider me.”
Warning bells tinkled. “I did, after Samuel left. You know I did. You also know why it never happened.”
“Look, I know Samuel is a good guy. But he’s done some really ugly things, too.”
“So have I. So has everyone.”
“Quit making excuses for him, Kaye. All I know is you are not the woman you once were, ever since he came back. Frankly, you used to be fun.”
I ground my fist into the rock, an outlet. He wanted the ol’ ‘spitfire’? He was about to get it.
“First of all, you and I both know Samuel has never stopped me from doing dangerous crap with you, despite the pain it might cause him. I stopped myself. I didn’t want to break my head, my back, or my neck just for an adrenaline fix. I grew up. And I swear on my mother’s farm, if you don’t grow up too, Tricia will be a widow before she’s forty.”
An angry flush burned up and under his stocking-capped head. “I once thought you were something special. Though the others lost their passion—Angel, Santiago, Dani, Molly—lost themselves to the trappings of a safe, boring existence, you never would. But here you are, a mere photocopy of that bright, wild woman. Where is your soul, Aspen Kaye?”
I jumped to my feet and flipped him the bird. “Get off my mountain, asshole.”
With flagrant defiance, he stomped right up the summit and towered a foot above me.
“Make me.”
I shoved his shoulders, but he didn’t move an inch. I growled and shoved again. His lips curled. Soft, cruel lips. My middle churned as if I’d just been thrown into a skydive. The smile dropped from his face. His eyes brightened and he inched down, and for a panicked, torturous second, I thought he was going to kiss me. In that torturous second, a single thought blinded my judgment: I should let him.
Don’t you do this, Aspen Kaye Cabral.
This man sees me, I argued. He’s not afraid of my passion. He doesn’t see my carelessness as a flaw.
Neither does Samuel.
Just one kiss.
Just one will scar your marriage forever.
Hector’s mouth, his warm breath, those soft-looking lips, waited. Oh my God, Kaye, what are you doing? I stumbled back and fell, so hard, I cracked my elbow on the summit rock. “What the hell, Hector?”
Hector straightened, his eyes now cold, full of accusation. He wiped his hands against his jacket, his pants. Then he turned his back on me. “Whatever. Let’s head down.”
I shoved myself off the ground. “Hector Valdez, you come back here. We need to talk!”
He spun around and pointed a finger at my face. “There’s nothing to talk about. Nothing happened.”
“How can you pretend—”
“Very easily.”
And he could, too. We trekked down Mount Yale for miles, our huffing breaths and drip-drops of sweat our only conversation. The void left me ample time to consider what I’d almost done, what I had done, and what this would do to Samuel.
Because I would have to tell him.
There was no other option.
And I feared, dreaded, that our separation was not simply a horrible possibility. It was imminent.
Oh the irony. Here I was, pacing the kitchen like the little woman I swore to Hector I wasn’t, waiting for my husband to walk through the door.
I’d nearly kissed another man. I was that woman—that self-centered, careless cheater about whom I’d been oh so sanctimonious. I wasn’t one of those women, so swept off her feet by the first charming guy who came along, she forgot her marriage vows and the man she claimed to love.
I even knew what it felt like on the cheated end, to see the person you’d given yourself to in the arms of another. What would Tricia say if she found out? What would Samuel say?
I bit my fingernail. Was this some delayed, passive aggressive revenge for Samuel’s dalliance with the brunette in the brownstone, all those years ago? I paused. No, definitely not.
While still painful, I’d forgiven him, long ago.
What, then? Was my head so easily turned? Again, no. I’d clung to Samuel’s memory long after we’d signed those divorce papers. If I’d been seduced by Hector, we would have hooked up when Samuel lived in New York for seven years.
I clattered around in the kitchen, made hot chocolate. It cooled in my hands, untouched. Something stronger? A fruit bowl occupied the place where my wine rack once sat. I rested my forehead against the granite counter-top, the coldness easing my flushed cheeks.
You know why you did it. You are hungry for attention. An embrace. The warmth of another body. A man to appreciate you, to peer into your heart and like what he sees.
But I didn’t want this from Hector. I wanted it from Samuel.
This is easy, Kaye. In the seven years Samuel was gone, to whom did you go for companionship? All those ski trips, mountain climbs, ski-dives?
Hector.
And who petted your ego and told you how gorgeous you were?
Hector.
And who conversed with you for hours about your hometown, your friends, your adventures?
Hector.
I dumped my mug of cold chocolate down the drain, rinsed out the sludge. Hector and I had all the ingredients of romance, minus the romance. It had to stop or I’d lose Samuel.
Had I already lost him?
I didn’t want to return to that dark and lonely place. Not seeing Samuel’s brilliant blue eyes across from me in the morning. Not having his magnetic presence fill our apartment, fill my heart. Never again, Aspen Kaye.
As it turned out, it was so late when Samuel rolled in from the airport, he simply grabbed my hand and pulled me into our bed, asleep in minutes. But I tossed and turned over one final question:
How can anyone look into my heart and love what they see, when I don’t love it myself?
I slept fitfully in his embrace, afraid of what morning would bring, when I’d confess.
Morning did come, and I did tell him.
I forced myself to feel the hurt in Samuel’s glassy eyes. His nasty green smoothie sat at his elbow and his whole body was motionless. A tear streamed down my cheek, but I wouldn’t look away.
“You didn’t kiss him, but you wanted him to.”
“Correct.”
“Why didn’t you kiss him?”
“Because I won’t betray you.”
“Do you love him?”
I shook my head vehemently. “No. Do you hate me?”
His hand fell away from his face and his blue eyes pierced me. “I can’t believe you just
asked me that. Have we really sunk so far?” He pushed away his smoothie and strode from the room.
“Where are you going?”
“For a run. Just—” He warded me off. “Give me some space, okay?” I sniffled and nodded.
“I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”
After he left, I watched the door for a full minute, then resumed my ‘worry route.’ Pace.
Fix a cup of coffee. Review financial reports and invoices. Pace. Check email. Drink coffee.
Pace. Put laundry in dryer. Check email again.
Just as I put the last glass from the dish washer into the cupboard, Samuel returned. His shirt was drenched with sweat and his hair dripped. Red dust coated the backs of his legs, shoes, socks. He’d run hard. Really hard, which meant he was really upset. Without a word he crossed the kitchen and took the clean glass from my hand, filled it with water, and chugged. Then he rinsed it (who rinses away water with water?) and placed it in the empty dish washer. I was dying during this entire performance. Finally, he met my eyes.
“Here’s the deal. I’ll be damned if we drive this marriage into the ground after fighting so hard to get each other back. You with me?”
My heart unclenched. “How...how are you now?”
“Furious at you. I want to kill Hector. Kicking myself for not giving you what you need.”
He growled and all but slammed the dish washer door. “The thing is, I’ve walked your shoes and I’ve experienced crushing guilt. Remember the woman at the brownstone?”
I dropped my gaze to my fuzzy slippers. “How could I ever forget?”
“Exactly. I’m afraid trust is always going to be an issue for us.”
“Trust isn’t a light switch. We’ve both dealt some heavy blows and it takes time to recover.”
“And God knows I haven’t been there for you this summer, considering this mess with Marieta.”
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