After Us

by Amber Hart

  “Sure,” I reply.

  With the truck in gear, he drives a few short minutes to a family diner. Silence sits between us, making the ride nearly unbearable. I want to know . . .

  Are you mad about yesterday?

  Will we talk about it?

  Is this your way of letting me down easy, over eggs and toast?

  What, exactly, are you thinking about, Javier?

  He cuts the engine. Invites silence to walk beside him into the diner. A girl in a red apron welcomes us and asks if we need a booth. Javier says yes because I can say nothing. Because I’m tongue-tied, needing to see his eyes. Maybe then I can read him.

  Javier stands in front of the booth with me. Waits for me to pick a side. I choose the right, not caring. But then Javier surprises me. He scoots in close to me. On the same side. Our thighs are touching.

  I’ve forgotten how to breathe.

  He takes off his glasses. “I’m sorry.”

  His words are firm. He looks me in the eyes like he wants me to see truth.

  “I didn’t mean to push you yesterday,” he continues.

  I watch the way his lips move. Close to my own.

  “I got a little carried away. Obviously, it’s hard for me not to touch you.”

  I should say that I’m sorry, too. I should tell him it’s no big deal and we’ll figure it out next time because please let there be a next time.

  I watch his mouth and say nothing. My mind is molded to the thought of Javier. I can practically feel his breath against my insides. I can practically feel his tongue dancing with mine. I remember the way he touched me, needed me. I remember my brave hand. I allowed that hand to explore parts of him.

  “I won’t touch near your scars again,” he whispers. “I’ll be careful.”

  And his lips are so perfect that I might need to taste them.

  He’s not angry. He’s sorry. He’s apologizing for my insecurities. He’s letting me deal with my issues how and when I want to, and he’s respecting me. I’m not sure if my anxiety about the scars is warranted or reasonable or normal, but they’re my feelings and Javier is okay with that.

  A piece of me breaks then. Not a huge break, more like a sliver. A crack that releases part of my anxiousness.

  “Thank you,” I murmur.

  He nods. Opens his mouth like he has something more to say, but the server interrupts us. She asks for our drink order and if we know what we want. I haven’t looked at the menu, but I say water and eggs. They must have something with eggs. The server names a meal and asks if that’s the one I mean. Sure, I tell her. Sounds good. Javier knows I haven’t opened the menu. He hasn’t either, but he says that he’ll have the same. I don’t care what we eat as long as Javier keeps looking at me with those brown eyes. As long as he keeps touching me with his stare and making me remember with the presence of his lips.

  “Mami,” he says, close to my face. “I don’t know what happened to you. I don’t know what the scars are from. But if someone hurt you—” He grits his teeth. “If someone hurt you and you want me to take care of it, I will.”

  That might possibly be the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.

  Also, I can’t help but smile. Because something is different about this conversation. Javier still brought up my scars. But this time I didn’t flinch.

  It makes the smallest difference in my heart, that Javier would offer to take care of it for me. That he cares enough.

  It’s the tiniest thing—me not flinching at his offer—like the first snowflake falling at the start of winter, seemingly lost amongst the rest freefalling from the sky.

  But I see it. The first one. The start of something better. Something that might cover the ground of my heart and freeze all the poison that has grown there lately.

  Javier is my start.

  These moments are my something new.

  34

  javier

  “Time to go on a run. You’re comin’ with us.”

  Loco interrupts our poker game. Which is a shame because I’m winning. Monkey smiles. He doesn’t like losing, so this works perfectly for him. The other two MS-13 members playing don’t seem to mind either. Their pockets aren’t deep. I’d want to hang onto my money, too, if I were them.

  “We’re leavin’ in five,” Loco announces.

  Time’s up. My construction job is finished. I have no excuses for not going on a run with them. I’m still not sure if the barbeque joint pickup is considered a run, or if this will be the real deal. But when Loco tells me I have to come with, I need to go. I’m a chameleon. I’ll blend in and follow orders and not complain about it because that’s what they expect of me. I’ll change every color of the rainbow if they’ll just lead me to Wink.

  It hasn’t happened yet.

  But it will.

  “One sec,” I say.

  I lay my cards down. Collect the money I’ve already earned. Fifty bucks. Not bad. This is the third time I’ve taken someone’s money. It’s a nice way to earn extra cash. And it passes time in the warehouse when we don’t have streets to prowl and runs to take care of.

  Business doesn’t always happen for MS-13s, I realize. Some days, they collect debts. Raid the streets. Pay back rivals who have wronged them. But some days are slow. Those are card days. Those are days that the boys, sometimes girls, smoke and drink and chill at the warehouse.

  The warehouse is a second home to most of the members in this area. Some walk in and go right back to one of the rooms. Some relax in the open. There’s about twenty MS-13s that own these streets. More in other districts. This warehouse belongs only to the members who are assigned to our district. This is what I’ve learned.

  Four districts make up Orlando, I’ve also learned. MS-13 is everywhere. Like toxic mold.

  “Listo?” Loco asks.

  Not really. “Sure.”

  I don’t want to go on their runs. What I want is to hang out at this warehouse until Wink walks through the doors, and then hope that he doesn’t recognize me. That’s always a possibility, that I do all of this and Wink remembers my face. But I don’t think it’ll happen. He only saw me once. In the dark. When all of his attention belonged to Diego, anyway.

  Wink hasn’t showed up yet. I’m getting worried that he won’t. That he’s moved to another city. That he’s one of the high members that meet at some other location.

  I wouldn’t know because I can’t say his name. Too suspicious.

  I need to wait for someone to slip and mention him, or for Wink to show his face.

  Until then, I’ll go on runs. Maybe I’ll see Wink on the streets. Somewhere in the slum of this dirty city.

  It’s worth a shot.

  “Who are we lookin’ for?” I ask.

  We’re riding in Loco’s old El Camino. The paint job makes it stick out, which is maybe the point. That way people know who they’re dealing with when he pulls up. Long blue, metallic flames lick up the hood. One shade darker than the rest of the car.

  I’ve taken the passenger seat. Monkey and Colt lounge in the back, which looks like a truck bed—open to the outside.

  “Guy who owes us,” Loco says. Deep drag of his cigarette. “Hombre was supposed to sell some of our stuff. Wasted it on himself instead.”

  A drug deal.

  “We need our money from the product that he sniffed away,” he says. “Dude says he’ll come up with the money, but that was a week ago. He hasn’t showed up yet. It’s our turn to find him.”

  We’re on our way to collect money from a user, who probably doesn’t have the money since he used it instead of selling it.

  We pull up to a house. Boards on the windows. Graffiti on the concrete walls. Lawn overgrown. Weeds choking the cracks in the sidewalk leading up to the front door. We take the sidewalk. Knock on the poor excuse for a door.

  No one answers. Not surprising. Wouldn’t want to answer if the money is gone.

  “Figures,” Monkey mumbles, trying the knob.

  It’s locked. Monkey
motions for us to back up. One swift kick, and he breaks the door open. Splinters fall to the ground. I step on them and make my way inside.

  The stench is what hits me first. Like dirty toilets mixed with something dead. The boys notice, too, because their noses scrunch and we’re all suddenly breathing through our mouths.

  “Shit, that stinks,” Loco mumbles.

  A dirty rug covers the broken hardwood floor in the living room. The kitchen, to the left, is nothing but a wasted space. No table. Old takeout boxes litter the counter tops.

  Life was bad in Cuba, for sure, but at least the families there tried to make something of the little spaces they had. This place is a disaster. I’m not sure that it’s even safe to walk through.

  We make our way down the small hall to the only bedroom in the back. Colt draws his gun. Puts a finger to his lips. The door creaks like old man bones. Colt rushes in, gun drawn.

  But it’s useless. No one’s home. I try not to let my relief show. I didn’t want to run into anyone. I didn’t want to help inflict whatever punishment MS-13 thought the guy deserved. And maybe he did deserve it. He stole from them, after all. But maybe he doesn’t deserve their wrath. Maybe he’s just a guy on hard times with a dangerous addiction.

  I’m glad that this time I didn’t have to be a part of whatever they planned.

  A nagging voice reminds me:

  Eventually, you will.

  35

  melissa

  My car won’t start, which figures because I have to be at work in twenty minutes. I try again and again. No use. I storm back inside.

  “Megan!” I call upstairs. “Can you give me a ride?”

  Monica doesn’t have a car. May is out somewhere. Mom’s working, like always. So that leaves Megan.

  Megan walks down the stairs swiftly. Like she’s not wearing six-inch heels. Though she is. Have no idea how she manages to wear them all day.

  “If by ‘ride’ you mean to my work, then yes.”

  Obviously, that’s not what I mean. “To my work, Megan.”

  “Then, no.”

  She applies an extra coat of red lipstick and smacks her lips together loudly.

  “Please, I’m gonna be late.”

  “So will I if I take you to work,” Megan replies. “Try a cab.”

  She opens the fridge for a soda. Uncaps it and drinks. Careful to not spill any on her perfect outfit.

  “Really?” I say, frustrated. “You want me to take a cab when you have a car and are on your way out, anyway?”

  Megan opens the front door. Totally serious about the ride situation.

  “I don’t have time, Lissa, or else I would. This is a brand new job. I cannot be late. I’m sorry.”

  She doesn’t sound sorry. But I kind of understand. She loves this job. She went to school for years to get this job. I don’t want to mess that up for her.

  “Forget it.”

  Megan walks down the driveway, hollering over her shoulder, “Call your boyfriend to get you.”

  I could try Javier. I don’t like to ask non-family for favors, but maybe he wouldn’t mind. If he’s not busy.

  I dial his number.

  “Hola, mami,” he answers. Sounding good enough to eat.

  “Would you mind doing me a favor?” Cut right to the chase. “I have to be at work in”—I check the clock—“thirteen minutes and my car broke. Are you busy?”

  Guess I could call a tow truck. Wait for them to get here. Pay lots of money. Lose out on tips from work. No thanks.

  “I’m leaving now.”

  He hangs up. That was easy. But by the time Javier makes it to my house, I’m already five minutes late and we haven’t even driven the twenty minutes to the beach.

  “You a fan of speeding?” I say by way of a greeting.

  “I’ve been known to go a little over the limit.” He grins.

  “Wonderful,” I say, hopping in. “Let’s go.”

  Today is decorated with a gorgeous, glassy blue sky. Scraps of clouds that play with the sun. A slight breeze, lazy in its pull. A perfect day for the beach. A perfect day for tips.

  Javier is true to his word. He does ten over and takes the highway. Shaves six minutes off our drive.

  “What happened to your car?” Javier asks.

  “Have no idea,” I say. “I know nothing about cars. Except that mine won’t start.”

  “Did it make a clicking noise when you tried to start it?” he asks.

  I shrug. Don’t know.

  “Do you remember anything about it?”

  “I remember that it doesn’t work,” I say.

  Javier reaches out and grabs my hand. Rubs my pointer finger softly. Brings my palm to his mouth to kiss, eyes on the road. It’s intimate, his little gestures in the middle of my rush to get to work.

  “Sorry,” I say, feeling bad for rushing. “I just hate being late.”

  “No prob, mami.” He sets my hand back down. “Call me when your shift is over. I’ll come get you. I can look at your car afterward.”

  Perfect. “Thank you.”

  We pull up to the beach. Javier leans in and kisses me softly. I swallow the taste of him. Move my hands to his face. Pull him in harder.

  “Mmm,” he says, grinning against my mouth. “Hate to say it, but you better go. Unless you wanna be even more late.”

  I kiss him again.

  “Or we could just leave,” he says. “I’m game for that.”

  With him, I’d love to. “Can’t. Thanks again for the ride.”

  I break the kiss and reach to the floorboard for my purse.

  That’s when it happens. I pull out something that is definitely not my purse.

  “What is this?” I ask. Horrified.

  Please don’t be what it looks like.

  “Nothin’.” Javier tries to grab it, but I pull back.

  I unfold the tan shirt with red splotches. My eyes narrow.

  “This is blood.”

  Silence.

  “Javier, why do you have a shirt stuffed by the seat that’s covered in blood?”

  He looks away. “Like I said, it’s nothin’.”

  Anger edges its way into my tone. “At least look at me when you lie to me.”

  He faces me then. Expression fierce. Muscles coiled.

  “Let it go.”

  The conversation or the shirt?

  I gladly drop the shirt, disgusted, but won’t drop the conversation. Not until he tells me what this means.

  That’s when I see the gun and bandana lying next to my purse.

  “Oh, my God.”

  Javier looks down. Curses. Reaches across the console to grab his gun and bandana. Stuffs them in the glove box like hidden truths. Like if they’re gone, out of sight, then what I saw must not have happened, right?

  “What the hell, Javier?” My voice rises. A fever pitch. “A bloody shirt? A bandana? A gun? Are you kidding me?”

  Javier won’t admit anything, though he’s caught.

  “Just answer this for me,” I say, trying to keep it together. “Are those things yours?”

  “Technically,” he says through clenched teeth, “yes.”

  I try to not let Javier see how much this bothers me. I try desperately, but I’m no good at hiding. My eyes well with tears.

  “Did you hurt someone?” I need to know.

  “No,” he replies. “The blood is mine.”

  My hands shake as I grab my purse. Slide it to my shoulder.

  “You know what this looks like, right?”

  He nods. Sun glints off his hair, and brightens his always tan skin.

  So much blood. All from him.

  “You’ve been lying to me. You have a bloodied shirt and a gun and a bandana with gang colors, Javier. Are you going to try to deny it?”

  This is where he tells me that I’ve misunderstood.

  Do it, Javier. Contradict me. Prove me wrong.

  Please.

  “I’m not denying it,” he says to the window, not
looking at me.

  “Damn it, Javier!” I yell.

  How could he?

  Javier makes a move to touch me but I’m too fast, mad, upset.

  “Don’t,” I say, a tear slipping out. “You can’t just be a part of something like that and not tell me.”

  “Melissa I—”

  “Stop,” I say. “You’ve lied enough.”

  It hurts, but I throw open the door.

  And slam it shut on the one who has my heart.

  36

  javier

  She saw my gun. Not only my gun. My bandana and shirt, too.

  I should have known something like this would happen. I forgot about the shirt and bandana. And my gun never leaves my truck, except for when I have it on me.

  Slipups. This shouldn’t have happened.

  I didn’t think Melissa would ever have a reason to look under my seat. I never imagined that she’d reach down for her purse and grab evidence instead.

  I check my watch. Ten p.m. Melissa hasn’t called. She’s supposed to be off now, unless she had to work late, closing the bar.

  I hop in my truck. Drive to the beach anyway. I have a sinking feeling in my gut the moment my feet hit sand. I find Brock. Melissa is nowhere in sight. Maybe she’s in the back. Maybe she went to the bathroom. Maybe, maybe, maybe. Not.

  “Where’s Melissa?” I ask him.

  He looks up from pouring a beer. “Gone.”

  That’s what I thought. “Who’d she go with?”

  Brock looks away. Not a good sign.

  “I don’t wanna get in the middle of it, man,” he says. Slides a beer down to someone at the bar.

  “Guy or girl?” I know I’m asking too much, but I need to hear.

  “Like I said, not getting in the middle.”

  A guy then. Why else wouldn’t he answer?

  “How long ago?”

  I like Brock, but if he doesn’t answer me I’m gonna jump over this bar.

  “A few minutes.”

  I take off. My feet hit the sand, not stopping until I’ve reached my truck.

  Melissa left a few minutes ago. I could have passed her in the parking lot. I decide to take the highway. It pays off in the worst way. I pull up at Melissa’s house and cut the lights just as an unfamiliar car parks by the curb.