by Leylah Attar
And there it was, a flash of raw emotion on Damian’s face, a hitching of his breath like he’d been punched in the gut. And just as quickly, it was gone.
“Don’t care about me,” he said. “I am a selfish fucking bastard. I’ve killed people, planned, plotted, and orchestrated the whole thing, and never felt an ounce of remorse. And I planned, plotted and orchestrated to kill you. So don’t care about me, because I’m only going to disappoint you.”
“Bullshit! You’re just afraid to let me in, you’re afraid to let anyone in.”
We glared at each other, neither willing to back off.
Then Damian turned and disappeared into the trees.
Fine.
I stormed off to the beach.
I shimmied out of my skirt, tossed my top onto the sand and walked into the water. It was warm, and so clear that the sun’s rays danced on my feet. I lay on my back and gave myself up to the ocean.
Take it. Take it all away, I thought. I don’t know what to do with any of it.
I floated like a piece of driftwood, bobbing up and down on the waves. My finger still stung, but it was bearable. I opened my eyes as a seagull passed overhead, blocking the sun momentarily. I turned to the shore, following its path, and noticed Damian watching me from the verandah. I was wearing my underwear, but it was stuck to my body like second skin. He’d already seen me naked, but this was different. He hadn’t looked at me then, the way he was looking at me now, with the kind of longing that made me feel like I was the Holy Grail to his quest, like I was the oasis and he was two burning feet in the desert sand. He looked away and went back to whittling whatever he was working on.
I came out of the water and picked up my clothes. Damian kept his gaze averted. When I stepped out of the shower, my black-and-blond hair freshly shampooed, he was waiting for me in the bedroom.
“Let me see your finger.” He slipped off the wet, dirty bandage and inspected it. It was healing, although parts of it were still tender. “This will work better.” He’d made me a wooden splint, padded on all sides, but not so bulky as to get in the way.
I sat on the bed and let him slip it on.
“How does that feel?” he asked, securing it with Band-Aids.
“Good.” Really, really good. Look at me like that again. With softness in your eyes. “What about you?” I traced the stitches on his temple. One, two, three, four. Four crisscross latches.
“I’m fine,” he said, but he let my fingers rest on his skin.
He was kneeling on the floor. His other hand hadn’t moved from mine, even though the splint was now secured. Our eyes were level; there was nowhere to hide.
Whenever MaMaLu had sung about the Sierra Morena Mountains, I’d thought of Damian’s eyes. I didn’t know what those mountains looked like, but I always imagined they were just as dark, with ebony forests and caves of coal. Of course, I had no idea back then that the bandits lying in wait would be my own—my feelings, leaping from friendship to this falling, fluttering ambush that came at me from all sides.
Damian had thieving, stealing contraband eyes, and when they fell on my mouth, they robbed me of all breath and thought. I wondered if he was feeling the same undeniable pull, if his heart was racing as fast as mine, if past and present were making out like wild teenagers in the back seat of his mind.
A drop of water trickled from my hair to the shadow between my breasts. There was nothing separating me from Damian, except my towel. My heart was open—my lips, my skin, my eyes—all bare and naked. And in the end, that was my undoing, his undoing, because Damian could take my finger, but not my heart.
So, he let go of my hand and left the room.
I HAD FORGOTTEN THE TASTE of plump, juicy mangoes eaten right off the tree. The mangoes on the island were small, but remarkably sweet. I could fit three in the palm of my hand and when I peeled off the soft, thick skin, the juice dripped down my arms and turned into a sticky mess. I had to watch for ants as I ate them, especially if any got on my legs. Those suckers loved mango nectar and there were times when they went places I did not appreciate. It was a price I was willing to pay, for the pleasure of sitting in the shade of a mango tree, and sinking my teeth into the soft, orange flesh. The best was when I could fit a whole mango in my mouth and suck on it until all that remained was the dry, bearded pit.
The ripest, heaviest fruit fell off the tree on its own, so there was always some on the ground, but it was bruised or picked over by bugs and animals. Damian climbed the tree and shook the branches while I stood beneath, trying to catch them in a wicker basket.
“Ouch,” I said for the fifth time when one bounced off my head. “Not yet! On five, okay?”
It was one of those things that we fell into so automatically that even Damian didn’t notice. And it worked perfectly. I was still admiring our little haul when the sky broke loose. It wasn’t a nice, gentle drizzle; it was like being splashed with a big wave at the end of a water ride. The tropical shower unleashed more mangoes on my head. I turned the wicker basket upside down over me to shield myself. All the mangoes we’d picked ricocheted off my head. I started running for cover, but the ground was quickly turning to mud and I had to dislodge one foot before pulling out the other. Damian jumped from the tree and was a few feet ahead of me, caught in the same predicament, except he was heavier so he sank lower with each step. We looked like two wet zombies, limbs stiff and awkward, making a run from the crypt.
Damian turned around when I started laughing. He took one look at me, with the upside basket perched on my head, ankle-deep in mud and guck, and started laughing too.
“This way.” He grabbed my hand and steered me to a small wooden shack in the jungle.
The palapa-thatched roof protected us from the passing squall. I dropped to the ground, soaked to the bone, trying to catch my breath, but failing miserably because I couldn’t stop laughing at Damian’s muddy, hobbit feet.
“Dude, for someone who is so compulsive about moisturizing his feet, you need a pedicure. Bad,” I said, sobering up when I realized he wasn’t laughing anymore. “What?” I asked. He was looking at me with an intensity that was making me squirm.
“You still laugh the same,” he said.
I froze and dropped my gaze to the wicker basket on my lap. I didn’t want him to see how these brief, small bursts of familiarity made me want to throw my arms around him and tear down the walls that kept us from the easiness we’d once shared.
“Same laugh, except for that gap between your teeth,” he continued, stretching out beside me.
“I’m still the same girl, Damian.” I put my head down and we lay on the floor, wishing for the simplicity of childhood, the wholeness of hearts, the sweetness of pure, unadulterated life. Muddy puddles and chocolate faces and skinned knees and skipping rope; me hiding behind MaMaLu’s skirts after painting his face ballerina pink as he slept under the tree.
“The day you visit MaMaLu’s grave—is it the same every year?” I asked.
He nodded, staring at the dried up palm fronds that lined the roof. “I used to wait outside the prison. One day I heard her singing. It was the last time she sang for me. It was so clear I could hear it over all the noise and chaos, like she was right there, singing in my ear. I think that was her way of saying goodbye. I go every year on that day.”
I wanted to reach for Damian’s hand, clasp his fingers in mine. I wanted to tell him he’d been a good son and how much MaMaLu had loved him, but I couldn’t get past the lump lodged in my throat.
We listened to the rain subside as the mud dried on our feet.
“What is this place?” I asked, looking around.
The shack was sparse, but with remnants of use: a lantern hung from one of the posts and there was a makeshift bench with tools and rusty screws and nails on it.
“It’s kind of a workshop now. I set it up when Rafael and I first got here. It was just a grass shack then, but we got some wood and patched it up. Eventually, I built the house and outgrew this plac
e.”
“You built it yourself?”
“A little at a time. Lugging supplies over to this place was tough. It took a few years, but I like coming out here, working with my hands, having the time alone.”
“How MacGyver of you.”
“Mac who?”
“MacGyver. It was my father’s favorite show, about a bomb technician who could pretty much fix anything with a paper clip and a Swiss army knife. I bet he could have shown you how to install glass in the windows too.”
“What makes you think I didn’t leave it out deliberately?”
“True. You never did like glass in the windows,” I said, thinking of all the times I had to open mine so he could sneak in.
I knew he was recalling the same thing because he didn’t move away when I touched the back of his fingers with mine. It was the closest I could get to holding hands with him.
“Remember the yellow flowers that fell from the trees?” I asked.
“Yes.”
I smiled, because the rain had collected on the roof and was seeping through the leaves, falling on our faces with big, fat plops, but we stayed there, not wanting to move, pretending they were wet, sunny blossoms.
“Damian,” I said, keeping my eyes closed, “I know I have to go back to that other world, the world you abducted me from. And I don’t know what happens between now and then, but this right here—this rain, this shack, this island, this moment—I want it to go on forever.”
Damian didn’t reply, but he moved his fingers away. It was okay though. In fact, it was more than okay, because Damian Caballero was struggling with the one thing that scared the hell out of him. Me.
“READY?” ASKED DAMIAN.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” I folded the list of supplies we needed and adjusted my sunglasses.
“It’s a touristy town, busy streets, tons of people. I have a beard. Your hair is different. We don’t look anything like our photos. No one will notice.” Damian slipped on his baseball cap. SD.
So Damnfine
Rafael’s plan had worked. Finding Damian’s discarded phone in Caboras had thrown the search off, but they were running out of leads and the trail was turning cold. It wouldn’t be long before they backtracked, but for now, we were okay.
“Don’t forget this.” Damian handed me the seashell necklace he’d made for me. “Nothing says tourist better than local handicraft.”
I slipped it on and checked my reflection. I was wearing a black tank top and the pants I’d had on when Damian had abducted me. The runway look had been bleached out by the sun and heat and humidity. I didn’t think twice about sitting my butt down on a mossy tree-trunk, or wearing them on grub-hunting trips in the jungle. Of course, I just held the pail while Damian unearthed the worms. It’s one thing to get your hem muddy; but I wasn’t about to touch those wiggly suckers.
Damian removed the camouflage roof of palm leaves he’d tied to the boat. It felt odd being back in the space I’d longed to escape from. I felt a sense of freedom now that I could not have imagined then. Being ripped out of my sparkling, tinsel world had been excruciatingly painful, but I didn’t know if I could ever go back to being that person again. I was no longer mannequin-plastic, pretty and perfect; I was hacked up, inside and out. My hair was a mess, my nails were a mess, my heart was a mess. But my skin was alive and sun-kissed, and my face glowed from ocean breezes and salt spray.
I watched Damian steer and tried not to stare. The wind molded his shirt to his body, accentuating his shoulders and impeccable abs. He hadn’t shaved since we’d been on the island, but his beard wasn’t quite full. It made him look free-spirited and bohemian and uber masculine, like he belonged in the pages of a nautical magazine. His face had healed. His stitches were still there, but they were ready to come out, close to the hairline and hidden under his cap. He had a sharp nose, bronze skin stretched tight over his cheekbones, and black lashes that fringed deep, dark eyes. Damn. He had a fine, proud profile.
It was early afternoon when we anchored in a busy port. Cruise ships and yachts dotted the sparkling harbor. Golden beaches backed into sprawling resorts, shops, and restaurants. We cut through the clutter, dodging the hail of pink cabs, the souvenir stores crammed with tanned bodies, the sushi bars and pushy vendors. Crooked alleys opened up to the main square, where shops and banks faced teeming crowds from under deep, arched porticos.
I followed Damian as he zigzagged past the tall buildings, ignoring the supermarkets and chain stores, to the other side of the plaza. There, stretched out for blocks on either side of the street, was an outdoor market—stall after colorful stall filled with just about anything and everything: rows of watermelons and pineapples and oranges, jalapeños the size of small cucumbers, spices heaped in fragrant pyramids, pirated DVDs and CDs, piles of Gap and Hollister knock-offs, headbands with giant penises sticking out of them, and cactus paddles stacked in pillars at least six feet tall.
Damian was right. This dizzying cacophony of sight and sound and smell was the perfect place to disappear into the crowd. We bought eggs and white beans and tomatoes as big as cauliflowers. I sucked on chili-and-sugar coated tamarind balls that made my mouth buzz and my eyes water. We passed rows of seafood on ice: bass and octopus and angry-looking sharks called cazón. Damian picked up some clams with creamy, brown shells.
“Chocolate clams,” he said. “For when you want real ceviche.”
I made a face and waved another vendor away, wondering why no one was sticking slices of cheese and avocados under Damian’s nose.
“You are the worst person to shop with,” I said, as he slapped my hand away from the locally crafted bags and shoes. I lingered a few seconds to admire the intricate patterns hand-carved into the leather, before dashing after Damian.
“I’m hungry,” I said.
We were standing near the taco stands. I could smell fresh tortillas and wood smoke, roasted vegetables and grilled meat.
“We’re almost done.”
“But I’m hungry now.”
“You are the worst person to shop with,” he said.
I trailed him to a couple more stalls before staging a protest.
“For a seasoned shopper, you have a complete lack of focus and discipline.” He pulled me off the curb. “Then again, you’re used to air-conditioned malls and bubble tea breaks.”
“I hate bubble tea,” I said, as I followed him down a narrow cobblestoned pathway to a street cart.
“How about Papas Locas? Crazy potatoes?” he asked.
The vendor was roasting large potatoes in foil, mashing them with butter and fresh cheese, and serving them with an endless variety of condiments: grilled beef, pork, bacon, beans, onions, garlic, cilantro, salsa, and guacamole.
“Good?” asked Damian as I dug into the bulging spud.
“Heaven,” I replied.
“Want some of this?” He held out his burrito: chargrilled beef with cumin, garlic and lime juice.
“No thanks.” It looked delicious, but I wasn’t about to admit I wanted his burrito.
I was still smiling at my silly private joke when a loud wedding procession entered the alley: a tipsy bride and groom, followed by a group of giggly children, followed by an entire mariachi band, followed by family and friends. Damian and I pressed into opposite sides of the path to let them through. The trumpets blared in our ears, slightly off-pitch, attacking us with tight bursts of vibrato. My potato quaked in despair and a few green onions slid off. My gaze met Damian’s. Suddenly, we were kids again, and we were laughing as men with wide sombreros and twangy violins filed through between us.
He noticed them at the same time I did—the rows and rows of paper stuck to the walls on either side: pink and yellow flyers with our faces printed on them. I couldn’t make out what they said, but I’m pretty sure the captions read ‘Missing’ for me and ‘Wanted’ for him. It was sobering, seeing ourselves up on display, as the entire wedding procession rambled past us, two at a time. Our eyes remained locked
as we held our breaths. The street was so narrow, that two lovers standing on balconies across from each other could have leaned over for a kiss. There was nowhere to run.
We stayed glued to the walls until the last of the wedding party had shuffled through and the guitars had turned into a distant strum.
“Come on.” Damian picked up the shopping bags at his feet.
We were making our way to the boat, through a maze of streets, when he stopped outside a walk-in medical clinic.
“I think you should get them to look at your finger,” he said.
“It’s fine.” I waved the splint at him. “There’s nothing they can do. Besides, don’t you think it’s a bit risky? If they’ve been watching the news they could put two and two together.”
“Not if you go in alone. Maybe we should split up.”
“And what? Make up a story about what happened?”
“Do what you have to, but get it checked out. Go. I’ll wait for you out here.”
“It’s fine.” I started walking away. “The last thing I need is for someone to go poking at it when it’s finally healing over.”
“Suit yourself.” Damian wouldn’t budge. “If you’re not going in, I will. I need to get my stitches removed.”
I wavered for a second. I just wanted to get back to the boat, but he was right. His stitches were ready to come out.
“Wait for me in the supermarket,” said Damian. He motioned to the store across the street. “It shouldn’t take too long.”
“Okay.” I started crossing the road, but he pulled me back.
“Here.” He handed me some bills. “In case they have chocolate peanut butter ice cream.”
“That’s way too much for ice cream!” I laughed, but he was already walking into the clinic.
After the jostling crowds from earlier, the supermarket was cool and quiet. “Demons” by Imagine Dragons was playing over the loudspeaker. I wandered over to the freezer section. No chocolate peanut butter ice cream. I was checking out the frozen pancakes when the lyrics made me stop dead in my tracks.