“And I am?” I can’t seem to make my jaw close. I mean, it’s one thing to think, Santiago might be attracted to me. But it’s quite another to hear it from the person himself. I glance down at myself—at my roundness, my jiggliness, the rolls and dimples and wide of everything, from my hips to my feet. And then I say, “But just because of my eye color, though. Everyone thinks my eyes are pretty.”
“I didn’t even know what color your eyes were back then, Moon.” Santiago gestures to the deck behind me. “Pick a card. Pick a card on what I feel for you.”
I can’t speak anymore, apparently, so, with a shaking hand, I slide a card from the deck and turn it over. It’s the Two of Cups, which is a card that basically screams, You’re in a passionate and respectful relationship. And the image I arranged on it is a moonstone surrounded by fuchsia blooms. It reminded me of a heart. Basically, there’s a moon in a heart. Like I’m inside of Santiago’s heart.
“What’s it say?” he asks. He’s trembling.
I swallow. “It says I’m your type.”
He smiles and so do I. And then the wind picks up through the windows, and a dragonfly sails in. It’s purple and electric. It hovers between me and Santiago for a moment before Santiago holds out his hand, and of course, of course the dragonfly lands on it. “Hey, buddy,” Santiago says softly, and he takes it back to the window to set it free. And the second he turns around, I’m there. It’s like my feet do it on their own, but not really. Because every cell of my body wants it. Wants him.
And apparently, he feels the same. Because he says, “I want to kiss you.”
“Okay,” I say.
And then he’s bending way down and I’m reaching up, and it’s so soft at first. Like we’re testing each other for something—what, I don’t know. Well, I do know. I’m still half-afraid he’s going to pull back with a camera and say, Gotcha! But he doesn’t. Instead, he opens his mouth a little, to slide my bottom lip between his. He keeps it really gentle like this for a while, and I realize he’s waiting for me to decide what’s next. All the guys I’ve kissed before have rushed the tongue and the hands and the fondling, like they were trying to get away with as much as they could before I stopped them.
So I’m the one who slides my tongue in his mouth. I’m the one whose hands end up in his hair and then over the firm planes of his chest. Only after all that does he slide his hand down my waist and over my hip, across my lower back until he pulls me forward, until it feels like everything is pressed together. And it’s so weird, how I feel. Warm and shivering at the same time. Like, even though I’ve had sex before, this kiss with Santiago is pretty much the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me.
I don’t even realize I’m pushing myself against him until he falls backward on the bed. He pulls me on top of him so smoothly, we don’t even break the kiss. It’s like we choreographed this.
He’s hard against my thigh, and instead of feeling dread about what he’ll want from me, I like the idea of him being turned on. It makes me tremble even more.
Finally he stops it, breaking apart. “Holy shit, Moon.” His voice is so raspy and deep and breathless.
“Sorry,” I say.
“What are you sorry about?” he asks, angling his head so we can look right at each other.
I shrug. “None of it, actually.”
He smiles a lazy, wonderful smile that makes me want to kiss him again immediately. “Me either.” He clears his throat. “But we should take a break. Um, yeah. That was getting… I was really…”
And I grin. “Oh, I see. Okay.”
“Yeah.”
“You don’t want to keep going?”
He gives me a look like he’s in pain. “We have to be on the bus, like, five minutes ago.”
“What?” I jump up. “Crap!”
“I texted Andro. It’s fine.”
“I’ve got to get dressed, though.” I take my clothes into the bathroom. Just because we made out and dry-humped a little doesn’t mean I’m ready for Santiago to see all the places I’m soft and jiggly.
I don’t have any time to do anything special to my hair, so I braid it really fast and pin it to my head. I put on yoga pants and a lavender wrap top. And minty lip gloss. In case of kissing.
Which we do. Because the second I leave the bathroom, he looks at me up and down and says, “Beautiful.” And I can’t help it, I run and sorta jump on him, and then he stands and carries me like it’s nothing at all, right to the edge of the fancy-carved dresser. And I wrap my legs around him and kiss him deeper. He pulls back a little and licks his lips. “Is that mint?”
“Yes. And before you get all uppity about it, it’s real mint extract. I checked.”
He chuckles and lowers his lips toward mine, but before he reaches me, his phone buzzes between us, in the front of his thigh against the inside of mine. He makes a guttural groan. “It’s probably Andro. We should get a move on.”
“Okay,” I say. “But let’s not act romantic in front of everyone yet, okay?”
He frowns. “Why?” His voice has a slight edge to it.
“Because Star has a massive crush on you and she made me swear there wasn’t anything between us, when there actually wasn’t anything between us. And now she thinks there probably is, but I’m not actually totally sure on that yet.”
He scoffs. “Seriously? You’re still trying to protect her feelings?”
“I just want to tell her first. About us.”
We’re out the door and walking into the lobby. I realize I’m making a lot of assumptions, so I add, “I mean, if you want there to be an us.”
He gives me a look like I’ve lost it. And then he stops me right before we reach the bus. “I want you to be my girlfriend. Is that clear enough? I want you to be mine and no one else’s. If you want me, too.”
“Yes,” I say, but before I can respond any further, the bus door opens and there is Andro. “There you two are! Hop on, hop on. We’re behind schedule.”
“Sorry,” I say, and Andro looks from me to Santiago and back again, a half smile on his face.
“Ah,” he says. “It’ll even out. Say, little brother, is that lip gloss on your face?”
“Shut up.”
Andro looks like he wants to keep on pestering Santiago, but he shakes his head instead. “We’ve got seven hours today, and then we’ll be in St. Anne’s. Rock and roll!”
“Sounds good,” I say, following Santiago to the back. Star and Chamomila sit on the lounge sofas. Star won’t look at me, but Chamomila gawks and looks away quickly when I make eye contact, the telltale sign that folks were talking shit about you.
I decide to ignore it. There’s too much for me to think about right now. The thrill of kissing Santiago is still around me, tingly and magical like the hovering glow of fairy lights. The bullcrap with Star is burlap. Covering and chafing at my arms and neck. I resist the urge to scratch. Better to focus on the magical.
“Oh, and, Moon?” Star says, like we were just talking. “Might want to check your messages.”
I turned my phone off after Mom called a thousand times in a row, and the last thing I want is to turn it on, but I do anyway, because I’m a masochist. I wait until I’m out of Star’s and Chamomila’s sight. Don’t need to give them any more shit-talking fodder.
There are a dozen new missed calls from Mom. That’s… that’s probably more than she’s called me all year, if you don’t count the times she calls to talk to Star because Star isn’t answering her phone.
“What’s up?”
I guess I look as glum as I feel. Santiago’s just walked in from the bathroom and is leaning against the doorframe.
“All these messages from my mom. I don’t want to listen to them.”
“So don’t.”
“You don’t get it. It’ll drive me wild if I delete them without hearing them first.”
He says nothing for a few moments, studying me. Then: “Do you want me to listen with you?”
“Oh my. N
o. You don’t have to. It’s not going to be pleasant.”
He shrugs. “Come on.” He gestures to the expanse that is his bed. So I sit in it, my legs hanging over. I hit play on the voice mail app and close my eyes. I think I’m already tearing up a little, and Santiago puts his hand on mine. It’s so sweet, I want to cry more.
“No daughter of mine has ever hung up on me. The disrespect! You’d better call back. Within the hour, Moon.”
“Ah, so you’re too good to phone your mother. Don’t know where on earth you got that idea. Probably from my brat sister! I shouldn’t have ever let her take care of you!”
“Oh, I know what you’re doing. You’re out with that boy, the one Star fell for. Of course you’d lure him right now into your bed. Nothing is ever enough for you, Moon. I don’t know what I did to deserve you for a daughter.”
“All I’m saying is, you might want to rethink coming home, m’ija. What if my knife slips—”
Santiago grabs the phone right out of my hands. “That’s enough.” And then he deletes the rest, all at once, with a few swipes of his giant fingers. He turns back to me. “You can’t go home anymore. Not after that threat.”
I shrug. “She threatens me all the time, though.” But I’m shaking. She’s never brought up the knives, not like that. She’s never admitted that she’d premeditate something like that.
Santiago puts his arms around me. “You can’t go back home.”
“I know,” I say. And the fact is, it’s something I’ve known ever since Dad left. Ever since Mom first gleefully made me feel like shit. And it’s the first time I’m really, really admitting it to myself.
Did Star know what was on those messages when she told me to listen? Good Lord. What would the Virgin Mary do, indeed.
When the tears come, I let Santiago hold me tighter.
“What is she talking about?” I say while sniffling. “What she did to deserve me? What did I do to deserve her? You know? Why do I get to have a mom who thinks it’s okay to abuse her kid?” And I briefly wonder what it’d be like to have a mom like Santiago’s, to have someone who even goes against her husband to make sure her son feels worth something. And I cry harder, getting his shirt all wet and snotty, but I don’t think he cares.
And we lean back in bed and I tug his shirt up and lower my mouth onto his smooth brown nipple. He sucks in a breath and goose bumps flare all over his chest. But then he stops me. “Hey, what are you doing?”
I swallow. “Kissing your body.”
“But you’re still crying.” He sits up, and his shirt comes back down most of the way. “Hey, look at me.” His voice is gentle and firm somehow. And I do. I look right into his eyes, amber in the sunlight pouring in through the window. He takes both of my hands. “I don’t want us to fool around while you’re sad. Okay?”
I look down. He puts his fingers along my jaw and lifts my head up. “I’m telling you this because it’s important to me that you have me because you want me. Not because you need a distraction.”
“That’s pretty much how it happened with the guys I’ve been with.” I don’t know why I’m telling him this. I guess it’s like I’m at church, confessing something. Except, I want Santiago to know exactly what he’s getting into.
“That’s fine,” he says. “But I don’t want to be your escape. I want it to mean something more to you.”
“Yeah. Me too.” I sigh and collapse on top of him. “How are you so comfortable to lie on? Your body is harder than the exterior of this bus.”
He laughs, and I lift my head up. “Seriously. Real talk. I’m probably never going to look as beautiful as you.”
He helps my head back down against his shoulders. “You’re more beautiful than me without even trying.”
“But I’m squishy.”
“I like squishy.” To prove his point, he lowers his hand to my hip and squeezes. And I can’t help but smile. He does like my body. He wasn’t lying. He thinks that I’m beautiful! Without even trying! I mean, he must, right? He said it, after all.
“I want to kiss you again,” I tell him.
“Why?” He’s smiling.
“Because I like you. And the way you make me feel. And I want to.”
I guess this works for him, because he leans toward my lips. And we spend what feels like forever kissing. And yeah, I get a bit eager, putting my hands under his shirt and touching all the places he’s firm, which means everywhere, basically. And he cups my face and then my shoulder and then all my squishy bits—the side of my ribs, my hips, my thighs, my chest. When I try to dip my fingers into the waistband of his boxer briefs, he stops me. “Everyone’s right there,” he says, laughing and breathless, like he can hardly believe me, but not because I’m slutty. More like because he loves how much I want to do things with him. And then we both angle our bodies toward the window and watch the whole world spin in it. The little spots of cerulean sky between bright clouds, the canopy of trees, all pine, larch, cypress, their tall green enveloping the whole earth with their needles.
“What do you want for dinner tonight?” Santiago asks.
I smile. “I’m cooking tonight.”
“Oh?”
“We’re having pizza.”
45. Pizza and Honey like Alaska and Fireweed
I HALF EXPECT Santiago to take over at some point during the pizza-making process, but surprisingly, he lets me have control. He doesn’t say anything when I knead, spread, and prebake the dough like the directions say. I spoon on the sauce and add the five-cheese blend.
“Any toppings?” he asks. “I have chopped bacon, peppers, olives.”
“Those all sound good to me,” I say, and he hands me the Tupperware, and I add an even layer. The pizza is beautiful. If I do say so myself.
The only time Santiago tries to say anything is when I place the honey on the table he’s setting. “Please tell me that’s for after-dinner tea.”
“It’s not for tea.”
He and I participate in a staring showdown for almost five seconds, and then finally he breaks. “No.” He shakes his head, trying to hide his smile. “No way.”
“Yes way.”
“That’s not for pizza.”
“Yes, it is. Furthermore, I’ve eaten everything you’ve made without complaint.”
“That’s because everything I make is good. And… makes sense.” He lifts the jar of honey with a grimace on his face. It’s some fancy type from New Zealand, according to the label. Belongs to Santiago, of course. “Explain to me, please, why are we going to ruin perfectly good pizza with this?”
I sit down next to him and then decide that’s not close enough, so I slide onto his lap. He looks a little surprised at first, but then he slips an arm around me and smiles. “You’re trying to butter me up.”
“I’m trying to honey you up,” I correct, and he laughs so hard, the whole bus shakes.
And then he’s kissing my jaw and neck and I can’t think, so I start rambling. “My mom has a mental illness. Or a lot of them.” He stops kissing me and then rests his jaw on my shoulder. He hasn’t shaved today, so it’s a little prickly. It makes me think of all those pine needles just outside.
“Before Star and I joined the tour, Mom went with us to church. Star wanted us to get blessed so we’d stay out of the path of darkness or whatever. And that was the third time she’d left the house since my father died. It’d been almost six years.” I swallow. “She shook all the way there, and to the airport, too. But she refuses to talk about it.” Santiago runs his hand on my back, around and around like the way a leaf falls in autumn. “Mom was really poor growing up. We were really poor when we were young, too, especially after Dad. And Mom had this great idea, from when she was little, I think, that happy, rich, successful families ate pizza all the time, I guess. It’s what they show in pizza commercials. So when we got my dad’s life insurance, she put some into Star’s blossoming Fotogram career, and then she started her tradition of ordering a massive amount of pizza once a wee
k to last all week.”
I rest my head back on Santiago. Now we’re ear to ear, his short, soft whiskers on my cheek. “She stopped cooking completely when Star started making a shit ton of money. And gosh, it used to be so good. She’d make enchiladas and arroz con pollo with bone-in chicken. Not all the time, but when she did, Star and I loved it. But once we had more money, Mom said she wasn’t going to cook like some nanny anymore. And so Star and I lived on pizza pretty much until we started driving. And after a while, I got so sick of it, I added honey. It made it so different and much better. That’s my favorite way to eat it since.”
“That sucks,” Santiago says after a beat. “It sounds like your mom couldn’t handle losing your dad.”
“She wasn’t… all that great before. But yeah. She definitely got worse after.”
Santiago kisses my earlobe. “Was she always this cruel to you?”
I nod. “Yeah. It wasn’t always direct cruelness, but more like, she didn’t have any love left over for me after loving Star.”
“I’m not sure she ever loved Star, though. From everything you told me.”
“You said that yesterday… but I’ve been thinking about it. She gets Star better birthday and Christmas gifts and spends hours with her, choosing outfits and having debates on whether newer, younger influencers can hold a candle to Star—”
“Is any of that really love, though?” Santiago asks. “Has she ever done anything for your sister that didn’t ultimately benefit her in some way?”
When I think back, the feeling of being stunned comes over me like sheets of ice. I’m at the end of a glacier, and it’s being peeled away like an onion. Because… no. Star is not a person to Mom. She’s a thing to show how great Mom is. She’s Mom’s proof of Mom’s own beauty, Mom’s proof of piousness, Mom’s proof of great motherhood. And most of all, she’s Mom’s paycheck. Star is Mom’s little object. And deep down Star knows it. That’s why Star treats me like crap too.
“No,” I finally say. And then the oven timer dings.
“Ah. The witching hour has arrived,” Santiago says, but he’s grinning. And when we stand, he gives me the biggest hug.
How Moon Fuentez Fell in Love with the Universe Page 23