“But Kendra, you’re not pretending to be strong. You—”
“Well, that’s kind of the amazing thing. The worst, most humiliating thing that I could imagine was getting pregnant and having my theoretically soon-to-be fiancé insist on abortion. But it forced me to see my choices as my own, apart from anyone else in the world. Which is—well, scary, isn’t it?”
Kendra looks at me and waits. Is she right? Will I be choos ing Remy out of fear? Is he a mirror of my faults or a Band-Aid? What am I scared of? I’m scared of failing. I’m scared of being a nobody. I’m scared of living an ordinary life.
I sigh. I look out over the twisted city, the dusty chaos that doesn’t scare me one bit. But in the fading light, it does seem distant and lonely. Being alone—is that the scariest thing?
“Come on, let’s get ready for dinner.”
CHAPTER
61
IT ISN’T SAFE TO TAKE CABS AT NIGHT IN HON-duras. It’s an unwritten code, Ana Maria says. During the day, fine. But at night, theft is at their discretion. Now she tells me.
But that is how we come to be chauffeured by Ana Maria’s personal driver, deposited gracefully in front of the restaurant. Kendra might have overdone it—she looks like she’s going to a Manhattan gala. I look down at the trash in the street as she glides over it in her Manolos. But she doesn’t seem to care. Actually, she seems elated. I realize now that I may have thought Kendra snobby and a bit, well, shallow. It’s fascinating watching your best friends metamorphose. Or grow up? That’s what it was. And I was changing, too, wasn’t I?
The restaurant is a bustling oasis of light in the dark city. Salsa music greets us merrily in the street. Lanterns hang from the awning around the patio. People of all ages are bunched together in groups, laughing loudly.
It’s not exactly like a record scratching to a stop when we enter, but pretty close. A gorgeous black woman and a freckled redheaded albino chick. We must look like an American TV commercial in 3D.
“Samantha! Over here!” Ana Maria gives me a big hug, and the room breathes a collective aha, the mystery solved.
Ana Maria was one of my roommates in college. It’s fantastic to see her in her element. This is her friend’s restaurant opening, and she is obviously the proud hostess.
If I had to guess, I would’ve thought it was a wedding. Everyone knows everybody, moving around the room like Cuban casino, a group version of salsa dancing. She sits Kendra down in a seat next to a handsome guy and then moves his equally attractive friend over so we’re seated boy girl, boy girl. Kendra cocks an eyebrow at me and I laugh. Ana Maria winks and takes off to continue her duties, match-making apparently her specialty. Had I told her about Remy? That’s odd if I hadn’t mentioned him.
The attractive friend next to me pipes up. “Antonio. ¿Como te llamas, bella?” His warm eyes dig into mine.
“Samantha, Que—” I catch sight of the panic in Kendra’s face. Her idea of a dinner party did not involve practicing her high school Spanish.
Antonio notices immediately. “And your friend here?” he says in accented but clean English, turning to Kendra. “Did you also go to school with Ana Maria?”
Of course—wealthy Honduran kids are sent to the American school and then off to American universities. Kendra beams in relief. “Kendra Jones. Nope, I’m just a visitor. One night only, boys.”
Antonio laughs along with his friend, whom he then nudges and points at. “Armando,” he says in introduction.
Kendra turns to Armando. “Hi there.”
Antonio picks up a fancy shot glass next to my water glass and pours a shot of expensive tequila. He raises his own glass in toast.
Kendra again looks nervous.
“Kendra doesn’t drink,” I say, and throw mine back in one gulp.
Two too many tequila shots later, and everybody at the party is my long-lost old friend.
There’s Señora Lopez, who is the aunt of Luisa, who is one of the two owners of the restaurant. She makes the best pupusas in town and I am having breakfast at her house on Wednesday.
There’s Charlie, whose real name is Marco Reuben Ernesto Cesar Diaz, who is the cousin of the boyfriend of Luisa’s partner Mercedes. His father manufactures corn chips, the equivalent of Doritos in the U.S. He’s insisted we join them next weekend on his boat. Kendra is jealous.
José owns a restaurant around the corner. They have better soup, but the food tonight is divine, he admits.
Lorna thinks I dance better salsa than Mercedes.
Paco wants to take me shopping on Thursday.
Juan thinks Antonio and I make an adorable duo.
Ah, and Antonio.
Antonio is a breath of spring air. He is ice cream with whipped cream. He is s’mores over a campfire. He dotes on me all night. He isn’t shy—he interjects jokes at all the right moments, he dances seductively, he laughs heartily. It’s just that he watches me, appreciative. He presses for more stories. He thinks I live a beautiful, honorable, enviable life. In his eyes, I am powerful, brave and experienced. A feeling spreads through me warmer than the tequila, warmer than the crowded dance floor. The feeling is confidence. I hadn’t even noticed that I’d lost it until tonight. I love my life. When did I start to judge it so unfairly?
It is well after three when we head out to the waiting car. Antonio walks with me. Kendra slips into the backseat, leaving me conspicuously alone with him.
“You are very surprising, Samantha. Will I see you soon?”
I look at his face in the soft glow of the lanterns. They are being blown out, one by one. I can still see his eyes, glinting in happiness. He is so young, meaning he is my age. But there is a confident maturity about him, very un-American in the best of ways. He is gentle, kind.
He raises an eyebrow, teasing me about the pause. I sigh and his face falters.
“I have—” I hesitate. I have no idea what I was going to say next. I have a fiancé? I have to think? I have a free day tomorrow?
“I have to go,” I say, kiss him lightning-quick on the cheek and duck down into the car next to Kendra.
Kendra says nothing as we drive away.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing. You’re amazing.”
Suspicious, I study her expression. She means it. Sincerely.
CHAPTER
62
KENDRA WAKES ME EARLIER THAN MY TEQUILA-laden brain would have preferred.
“What exactly is it that you have in mind?” I grumble.
“A hike. Sightseeing. You tell me. My plane doesn’t leave till afternoon.”
That is how I find myself hiking through a cloud forest.
Kendra is a bundle of glee. She hikes ahead of me, briskly, in awe of the landscape. “It is so green. It’s like the world is trying to make up, in one day, for eight years of New York’s infinity of concrete.”
She stops to caress a tree trunk completely covered in green moss, decorated with twisting vines sprouting big, fat, moist leaves of green.
She’s right. It’s greener than pea soup, greener than Ireland. Actually, green is the only color. There isn’t even much brown to speak of. The whole forest is like a unicorn fantasy movie, done up to perfection by a Hollywood set designer with a bucket of glittery green paint.
Kendra spins around. “God, I’ve really been missing the point, haven’t I?”
I rub my throbbing head. At least there’s no sun. The tops of the trees disappear into mist. “Of what?”
Kendra laughs. “Of everything!” From the ground, she picks up a palm frond larger than my head. “Maybe I should just quit my job and live your life.”
I groan, remembering Isabel’s similar statement. But the groan is a reflex. I’m swelling with some other feeling at Kendra’s words. What is it? Pride? Trust is the closest thing I can think of. The feeling of calm that comes from simple trust in oneself. It feels like making the right decision, choosing the right path, returning to a remote location without a map. I take a deep breath, my headach
e burning off like fog at the beach.
Kendra tickles me with the palm frond. “You’re fearless, girl. Teach me.”
Poof, the calm is gone. “I’m not fearless.”
Kendra drops the frond but continues to smile. “Oh yeah? What are you afraid of, Sam?”
We pushed it with the hike. I made the cab wait out front while we dashed inside to grab Kendra’s suitcases and pack her muddy sneakers into plastic bags.
Now I’m watching her pay her exit taxes at the airport. It’s hard to see Kendra go—disappear into customs with one last wave—forcing me into alone time with my thoughts.
Kendra was a perfect sieve, helping me filter and sort through my decision. But now—whew!—thoughts bounce around in my head like roiling soup molecules. It’s like I spilled a puzzle on the floor, some pieces joined, some aching to combine, but my eyes can only flit over them, no clue where to start. And there’s a timer ticking away. I’m sure I’ll speak to Remy soon, presumably eager to spend the rest of my life with him.
Now my stomach’s the one that’s churning. What did Lynette tell me once? The right decision makes your heart race, but leaves your stomach out of it. Whatever. It’s probably the hangover. And my heart is racing.
I turn finally to exit the airport, leaving the cool, clean building for the muck and the heat. I start sweating immediately but with the crawling sensation of a cold sweat, a fever.
In the cab I take out Mina’s journal, tucked securely into my backpack. I flip through the pages, desperate for solace. At the end I notice all the blank pages. I can’t help but find this sad—the missing pages of Mina’s life with us—as I run my fingers over her final entries.
…a long and happy life, Samantha Wheland…if it’s the last thing I do.
I put my fingers to my lips, chew on a fingernail, then sigh and fish a pen out of my backpack. “Forced me to see my choices as my own,” Kendra said. “Apart from anyone else in the world.”
I make a list.
Pros
Successful
Wealthy
Handsome
Instant life
Cons
Controlling
Arrogant
Flirt
Makes me insecure
I bite my lip until it stings, considering the list. Every positive has its negative counterpart. A flip side of every coin. It’s true of all people, I suppose. Boyfriends have always admired my conviction and bemoaned my stubbornness. “You don’t get one without the other, m’dear,” I’ve always told them. With passion comes rage; with intensity comes anxiety; with fire comes chaos. One particularly fiery relationship ended with me laundry-listing my complaints: his infidelity, gambling, temper. He looked up at me and grinned. “You’re no walk in the park, baby.”
I look at the list again. Do these sound like good husband qualities to you? Isabel’s voice rings out, the sound of the ocean behind it. I remember something else Kendra said. Lazy and in a hurry. A dangerous combination.
The cab screeches to a stop, knocking the journal to the dirty floor. I pay the cabbie three times what he asks for, and rescue the journal. I tuck it in my backpack and drag my other suitcase out the door as the guard opens the gate.
Oh my God!
Remy steps out from the shadows of my doorway. Remy in the middle of dusty hot Honduran concrete, in a tailored linen suit and shiny shoes.
“Finally,” he says.
My suitcase smacks the concrete. It isn’t a daydream. He’s real! The list evaporates from my mind. I run and tackle him, jump into his arms and wrap my legs around his waist.
“How did you—” I want to ask, but he buries me in a hot scratchy kiss.
“I get what I want,” he says, and squeezes my waist. He sets me down and puts a hand on my lower back to steer me toward the door.
I open the door with trembling fingers and Remy follows with my suitcase. The instant the door closes, he peels off my shirt. He takes my face in both his hands and brings my eyes to his. “You are impossible, Samantha Wheland. Making me follow you to this ridiculous place.” He kisses me angrily. “I love you.”
I inhale sharply.
Remy falls to his knees and buries his face in my navel. He kisses my belly button and either side of my hips. He runs his tongue down the middle of my stomach. He unzips my jeans and plants a kiss just above the rim of my panties. I’m melting to the floor as Remy undoes my bra. He positions me on his lap and I squeeze my legs around his hips again as Remy stands up and carries me into the bedroom. He flings me onto the bed, rips off my jeans and panties in one fell swoop, then steps back to study me.
“God, look at you, how you turn me on. You make me feel young.”
And then he pounces on me, working his tongue over every inch of my skin, sucking in some places so hard there will be marks. The linen suit is sweaty and rough against my inflamed skin. I almost squeal when he bites down on my nipple, but in the same instant he cups his hand between my legs. He lowers his head to kiss each of my hipbones. And then my inner thighs. As his hot breath and soft lips take the place of his fingers on my pulsing skin, I hug my thighs around his head and hear myself groan, “I love you, I love you, I love you….”
CHAPTER
63
IT’S DARK, AND REMY’S NOT IN BED. THERE’S A TV on in the living room. I don’t have a TV. I sit up and grab a robe.
Remy is sitting in a plastic chair with his laptop, sipping ice water and watching some old French movie. When I tiptoe over and kiss the top of his head, he reaches around and squeezes my ass. Then he points at the screen and laughs. No subtitles.
“I’m starving!” I say. “Should we go have a nice dinner to celebrate?”
Remy doesn’t look up. He shakes his head and waves a hand at me. “Where would we have a nice dinner in this country, ma chérie? Can you cook something? I saw there is chicken in the congélateur.” He puts a finger to his lips as if I were about to speak. He points at the movie again and laughs. “Hilare! And there is some, eh, garlic and pasta. You could cook this.”
Yeah, or you could. Sigh. He did come to see me, after all. He came all this way, as a surprise. It’s so romantic. Or arrogant, Isabel would say.
On my way to the kitchen, I see a bottle of vodka on the counter. I take a closer look at Remy’s glass of water. Remy always orders vodka on the rocks. He will fill your life’s bowl, a voice says in my head.
Seemingly sensing what is about to come out of my mouth, Remy says, “Come here, baby,” and pats his lap. He sets down his drink so I can sit. Then he reaches into my robe and fondles my breast. I feel him get hard beneath my legs.
“Mmm,” Remy growls, and finally he takes his eyes off the movie.
After another round of melting, pounding sex, I curl up next to him in bed. He shifts away.
“It’s too hot, baby.”
I forgot that he always says that.
“So, how long can you stay?” My head is piling up with activities we can do together. We can go hiking in the cloud forest, horseback ride on the beaches near La Ceiba. Maybe we can take a canoe into La Mosquitia. I still have a few days until the residency. Maybe I could even start a few days late.
“Just tonight, chérie. My work. I cannot be away from Paris now. We leave in the morning.”
“You came all this way to woo me for one night?” Did he just say we?
“To woo you? You are too adorable, chérie. I came to rescue you, princesse. To take you back with me. I thought about it—you don’t have to do this residency thing now. We’ll get your work into all the galleries in France. My friends own them. And you’ll have plenty of time to paint, or whatever you call it, at my house. It’s not like you’ll have to worry about money anymore, angel.” He tweaks my chin. “You can have everything you want.” He kisses my forehead and then my nose. I turn my head before he reaches my lips.
“You want me to leave with you tomorrow? To Paris? Have the wedding there and stay there?”
I tr
y to imagine a fancy wedding in Paris, the girls in French couture, holding lilies. But for some reason, all I can think about is Cesar Guerra. Of course that makes me think about Jesse and now the image of Arshan’s naked butt pops into my mind.
“Oh my God, I have to tell you,” I say suddenly. I can’t help myself, I have to share it. “This morning we caught Arshan and Jesse having sex!”
“Which one is Jesse?”
“Isabel’s mom. Isn’t that awesome? Gross, but awesome, right?”
Remy groans. “I think I would have to agree with gross.”
I laugh and throw my arm across his chest. He nudges me away again. “It’s five hundred degrees in this room without air-conditioning, baby.”
For some reason, now his first comment annoys me more. “Wait? Don’t you think that will be us in twenty years? Still madly in love and doing it in the afternoon?”
Remy laughs again and plants a soggy kiss on my cheek. “Your idealism is adorable.”
Uh-oh, I’m hearing voices again. You will give him your youth, your idealism, and your capacity for hope.
Remy is looking at me, studying me like a Sunday buffet. He touches my hair, traces my freckles. He glides a finger between my breasts. He grabs my hair, pulls my head back and digs his teeth into my neck.
Electricity courses the length of my body, and I automatically give into the heat that threatens to burn me up. I try to imagine a happy life wrapped in that embrace. Instead, I feel a surge of panic and a premonition of regret.
“Remy.”
“Mmm-hmm,” Remy says, biting my shoulder.
“No, Remy, stop.”
“Mmm, you don’t tell me to stop.” He growls and thrusts his fingers between my legs. The sensation is overpowering. Delicious and searing. Dangerous. Everything you could ever want. In a lover.
The Summer We Came to Life Page 23