by Chie Alemán
I shake my head, but Santiago’s eyes tell me he’s skeptical.
“You’re pregnant. Don’t be embarrassed if you’re hungry or craving something.”
I’m reminded that Santiago has ten nephews and nieces and was probably there for Genie through her three pregnancies. I smile.
I can hear the opening band blasting out; they’re loud and raw and not terrible. I can imagine how awesome it must be to open for a band like Green Day, and my excitement flares. This is really happening. The line moves quickly, and soon we’re at the counter, which is low enough for Santiago in his chair.
While he orders, I glance around at the crowd, observing how a few people will look over at Santiago, who would normally be easily lost in the throng, but his crutches stick up like flag posts, making him more noticeable. Even though a few people outright stare at him—at us—I find I don’t mind as much as I did even a few days ago. I’m proud to be with him, kind of like I felt that first night together in the elevator, although this time I’m perfectly sober.
I slip my hand into his hair and massage his scalp until he pulls away to grab the bottled waters he bought, slipping them into the pouch behind his legs.
“You sure you don’t want anything else?” he asks, his wallet in his hands, the cashier annoyed and impatient.
I notice an advertisement for iced lemonade. It looks like a sorbet, almost, so I point.
“Okay, we’ll take one of those too,” he says, fishing out the cash and exchanging it for the carton, which I take from him and lead the way out of the line. I wait, shifting it from one hand to the other; it’s really cold.
Santiago chuckles at me. “You need anything else? Or can we head in?”
“Yes,” I say, leaning in, bracing myself on his shoulder, kissing him hard and full. For a moment, it occurs to me that someone I know—from the neighborhood, from the office, from Stephen’s work—might recognize me, won’t be able to dismiss this as taking my brother or a friend to a concert, but I find I don’t care.
When I pull back, Santiago is biting his bottom lip, his eyes fiery. “Careful,” he says. “You keep that up, and you might not see much of this concert.”
I laugh and head toward the amphitheater, glancing back to make sure he’s following me.
* * * *
The pavilion itself is enormous, far bigger than it seems from the outside, and, as Santiago said, extremely accessible. Gently sloping ramps lead up and down to the various levels, with banisters on the upper tiers. I can see as we enter he was also right about the amount of wheelchair seating, several sections interspersed throughout the theater.
I glance up; the entire area is shielded with a large white permanent awning, soaring up into peaks at various intervals. Huge ceiling fans drop down to provide some circulation, although it doesn’t make too much difference on a hot, humid night like tonight. Far up in the back is a lawn, where a few people have already set up folding chairs in preparation for the concert.
I saw Green Day once, when I was in high school, but it was part of a group tour, kind of like Jazz Fest but for rock, outdoors. Very different crowd. I guess the band isn’t the only one who’s gotten older, and the venue reflects that.
“We’re on the other side, near the front,” he says. “Here.” He fishes the tickets out of his pouch and hands them to me.
Armed with our tickets, I lead the way. Once we reach the other side of the stage, we stop in front of one of the pavilion workers, distinguished from everyone else by their green polo shirts that say STAFF in huge letters on the back. The opening band seems to be reaching the end of their set, screaming loudly into their mics, the drummer shaking the stand on which he sits as he pounds away ferociously.
I hand our tickets to the employee, who is wearing bright-orange earplugs. I guess they’re a must if you work concerts like this all the time. She glances at the tickets, then at Santiago. I wonder what she’s thinking in that moment; despite the heat, Santiago opted to wear pants, explaining he doesn’t feel comfortable with people being able to see his braces. As a result, even with the crutches clearly visible behind his head, he looks like he could easily stand up and walk to his seat.
She doesn’t question him, though, simply leaning in to shout directions to our seats. I nod and head down the ramp toward the stage, glancing back to see Santiago carefully gliding down behind me, thumb sliding along the push rim, modulating his speed with practiced dexterity. Our seats are in the front of the orchestra pit, just off center stage.
“Holy fuck,” I say, but the opening band seems to be on their last number, putting their soul into it, and we’re right by the speakers, so my voice is quickly enveloped in the wall of sound.
I feel Santiago’s hand on my leg and look down. He grins, not attempting to talk over the blare of electric guitars and thrumming drums, and pulls into the gap beside my seat. There are a few other men in wheelchairs, and though I normally would have expected to feel something, I don’t. I look back at Santiago and realize all I want is him.
I wait till he slips on his brake, then climb into his lap, my legs wrapped around his backrest, pressing us together. I love the sensation of his body so close to mine, energizing me; his heat—from the weather, from me, from our proximity—a feeling I’m not ready to let go.
A buzz of happiness surges through me as he wraps his arms around me, holding me close, palms on my ass, as the opening band finishes with a final smash and chord strum. I have to do something about this new silence, so I lean in to give him a kiss just beneath his ear and whisper, “Thank you.”
He nests his head in my neck, kissing the skin tenderly. “Thank you,” he echoes.
Chapter Twenty-Six
To my surprise, the concert begins with the hum of guitar reverberating on the moderately dark stage: the opening notes of “Boulevard of Broken Dreams.” Billie Joe Armstrong walks out to the mic in rhythm to the building music as the crowd begins to roar and rise to their feet. I join them, my gaze drifting to one of the enormous screens since I’m so short and can’t see as well as I’d like. His voice echoes as he grabs the mic and starts to sing. He beckons to the crowd, encouraging everyone to sing along, the roar of the throng swelling around us. I start singing, but the lyrics—expressing profound loneliness—hit me hard, and soon I’m sinking into Santiago’s lap, curling my legs up as if I could make myself disappear into his embrace.
He cradles me close, speaking into my ear so he can be heard above the crowd and the chords. “Are you okay? Do you need me to take you away?”
I shake my head against his chest, then look up at him. “You already have.”
“We are alive!” Billie Joe shouts before returning to the song.
We kiss, Santiago’s lips catching my tears, and I find I’m able to stop as the song comes to an end and the rush of applause and cheers surge around us.
“Houston, are you ready to rock?”
Everyone screams loudly in reply.
Santiago glances at me to check that I’m all right again; then, satisfied, he leans in, just as the next song begins. “You can stand on my chair if you want. You’ll see better. Come on.”
I smile, a bit bewildered, as he helps me up, adjusting me so I straddle his thighs, my feet wedged between them and his wheels. He braces me with hands on my calves, a strong, supportive grip that allows me to relax and enjoy this incredible height.
“So this is what it feels like to be tall!” I say, but my voice is drowned out by the music. My emotions shift as the experience sinks in. I’m sharing this with Santiago—who I know isn’t a huge fan of the band—but the fact that he’s here, with me, his warm touch on my bare skin—makes my heart swell along with the guitar vibrating around us.
I inhale deeply, my eyes shut briefly, feeling the music as if it were part of me. I realize this moment is happiness distilled: into the twang of guitar, the mumble of lyrics, the clash of drums that resonates through my body like sexual release. And Santiago’s grip, my fe
et pressed so close to him, only adds to the electricity that makes me feel as if I’m buzzing, as if I’m as much a part of this performance as any instrument onstage. It’s a high unlike anything I’ve ever experienced. I glance down, over my shoulder, at Santiago, who greets me with a huge smile, and I want nothing more than to make this moment last.
* * * *
“Good Riddance (Time of Your Life)” is still humming in my head—their closing song, and one everyone knows, even if they’re not Green Day fans—as we pull away from the long stand where they dole out CDs, T-shirts, and other concert souvenirs, when someone calls out.
“Diego? Diego Durán?”
Ironically, though I was so worried about running into someone I know, apparently one of Santiago’s acquaintances has bumped into us. We both glance toward the source of the voice. A woman, about five-seven and built like a pinup model—blonde, blue-eyed, plush lips, and full bust that threatens to push its way out of the tight shirt she wears. She looks more like she’s dressed for a club than a concert, her makeup awfully thick for this heat. A man follows behind her who looks eerily like an able-bodied Santiago, although he’s taller—maybe six feet—with darker eyes and a face that isn’t nearly as handsome. He also has huge, bulging muscles that suggest he spends the better part of his week in the weight room at his local gym.
“Veronica,” Santiago says through his teeth, trying to smile, though it’s more of a grimace.
Oh no.
“You look…” She hesitates, taking him in. “Shorter.”
If anyone else had said it, I would have thought it was a joke, but I can see by the slight, satisfied snarl of a smile she gives him, licking her teeth—blindingly white and obviously caps—that she’s baiting him.
Santiago grips his rims tightly, his knuckles whitening. “And you look…enhanced,” he replies flatly.
Her full lips pout. She waves to the Santiago look-alike beside her. “This is my fiancé, Tomás,” she says. “Tomás, this is Diego, and…his helper?”
Santiago’s face is scarlet, but he takes a deep breath and calmly introduces me. “This is my girlfriend, Di,” he says, emphasizing girlfriend; it’s the first time he’s called me that, and I find I like it, despite our situation.
She looks me over as if appraising me, then back at him. “I heard you left the firm too. You’ve really let yourself go.”
Santiago slips on his brake, eases his feet quickly off the footrest, and grabs his crutches. He pulls himself to his feet faster than I would have expected, looking down at Veronica. Even with his crutches, he’s obviously menacing enough Tomás steps forward, stopping only because Veronica holds out an arm to bar him.
“Fuck you, V,” Santiago says, seeming to forget I’m here.
She shakes her head. “You know, your father told me you were a disappointment, and at the time I thought he was full of shit, but now I can see he knew exactly what he was talking about.” Veronica shoves him, perhaps hoping to make him fall, but he braced himself well enough with his crutches that though he wobbles, he doesn’t lose his balance. He clutches his grips tightly.
“What did I ever see in you?” Santiago says, face filled with disgust.
She laughs, almost a cackle. “Your cock. But if I remember, you were never very good at that.” She glances over at me. “I see you got yourself a spinner now, so I guess everything worked out.”
Fuck. I only know what she’s talking about because in college—before I met Stephen—I had guys call me that. It’s a porn term for petite women like me, because we’re small enough we can sit on a guy’s cock, and, well…
I’ve had a few opportunities to see Santiago angry, but this is definitely the most furious I’ve ever seen him. I place a hand on his forearm, feeling the hard, tense muscle beneath my palm, trying to calm him.
“Santiago, let’s go.” I’m tempted to make an excuse, say I’m ill, and now that I think about it, I do feel a bit overheated, nauseated, dizzy.
He looks down at me, sees the green in my face, and his expression immediately slides to concern. He shifts his weight to free up an arm and pulls me into his body, letting me lean against him. His shirt is warm and damp from sweat; his natural scent is strong, but I find it comforting. Why is it he’s always consoling me? If anything, I should be hugging him. So I return the embrace, clinging to him possessively, staring Veronica down.
Veronica frowns, but her eyes betray more than her lips do. It’s almost as if she’s jealous. Strange, considering how she could clearly have any man she wants at her complete beck and call. Well, anyone except Santiago.
Santiago wraps one arm protectively around me, leaning heavily on his opposite crutch. I think he’s glaring at her, but I suddenly feel exhausted, as if the heat really has finally gotten to me.
“Enough, Veronica,” Tomás says; it’s the first time he’s spoken since they assaulted us.
I watch him lead her away, and as soon as they’re out of sight, I feel Santiago’s body relax, like a balloon deflating.
“Are you okay?” he whispers softly to me.
I shake my head against him.
“Will you be all right for a few seconds while I sit back down? Then you can climb in my lap.”
I nod and step away from him cautiously.
He watches me for a moment to make sure I won’t faint before he slides an arm back in his crutch, looking over his shoulder before easing himself into his wheelchair. He slides off his crutches, fitting his feet on the footrest and shifting his sticks to one hand, beckoning me into his lap with the other.
“I’m sorry,” he whispers into my hair once I’ve curled up. “I was worried this was too much.”
“I’m okay,” I say, already feeling better. “I’m just tired.”
He twists his body carefully, trying not to jostle me, slipping his crutches back in their holders behind him. He double-checks my feet aren’t going to catch in his wheels, unlocks his brakes, and starts wheeling us out of the arena toward the garage.
I rest my head on his shoulder, loving the feel of his muscles moving beneath me. “What she said about your father. Was she just trying to piss you off, or…?”
“Did he actually say those things?” Santiago says on a sigh as he pushes us past the dispersing concertgoers.
I nod, knowing he can feel it against his neck.
Santiago sighs, pumps his arms hard a couple times, then lets us coast along the sidewalk. “My father has always had very high expectations for his children, especially his only son.”
I shift my head, glancing up; the moon is large and full above us.
“Let’s just say I haven’t always been able to live up to them.”
“I’m sorry,” I say reflexively as we grow closer to the garage and I feel the pull of sleep; it’s past midnight, and I know if I close my eyes, I’ll drift off, especially in the comfort of Santiago’s lap.
“I’ve told myself it doesn’t bother me anymore, what he thinks,” Santiago, says, easing us into the garage. “But…” He sighs and doesn’t finish; he doesn’t have to. Not that Santiago has ever been dishonest with me, but in some ways, this feels like the most sincere he’s been since I’ve known him.
I kiss his neck, trying to reassure him as best I can. We coast to a slow stop, and I realize we’re at his car again. He holds me for a while, and I return the embrace.
I whisper, “If your father can’t see how special you are, he’s a fucking idiot.”
Santiago laughs. “Ay, linda,” he says, pulling me closer and kissing me softly on the forehead. “Please let me have my wish.” He’s referring to a few weeks ago, at that faux-English pub, where he told me he’d wish for me, for this baby, even at the expense of being cured. I snuggle in, enjoying the closeness, the warmth of our bodies, his sweet smell wafting into my nostrils.
Yes, Santiago, I want to give you that wish. I sigh heavily, and he echoes me.
“Come on. Let’s get you home to bed.” He’s trying, but he can’t
hide the disappointment in his voice.
* * * *
The ride back to my house is quiet. We’re both tired, and I suspect the encounter with Veronica hit Santiago harder than he’s willing to admit. I can see the long day and late night have taken their toll on him; his movements are slower and seem to take more effort than they normally do. He sticks to the chair, using the door frame to pull himself through with the tight fit, and gratefully transfers to the open futon to start stripping off his clothes, braces, and shoes.
“Thanks for the concert. It was amazing. I haven’t seen Green Day live since I was in college.”
Santiago just shrugs and uses his hands to lift his legs onto the mattress, lying back with a sigh. I notice he didn’t bother to stretch, and his eyes are struggling to stay open. I yawn, and he’s soon yawning too. “Man, I can’t stay up late like I used to.”
“I dunno. You did a pretty good job of it when we were in New Orleans,” I tease, yanking off the last of my sweat-dampened clothes and tossing them aside, crawling into bed beside him.
“Well, you get me into all sorts of trouble. If I don’t get a good night’s sleep, I don’t have as much strength and energy the next day. But you’re worth it.” Santiago hasn’t refused to answer any of my questions about his disease—including my concerns about his heart—and he hasn’t attempted to hide his disability (not that he could). But this feels like the first time he’s admitted the limitations his disease places on him, besides the immediate physical ones I see every time he moves, or the more abstract ones about how his future will change.
“I’m just selfish that way.” I draw my fingers over his skin, a touch light enough it makes him shiver. “As much as I love sleeping with you, I never want a day to end.”
He turns his head and looks at me, smiling faintly. In the dim lamplight, the gold in his eyes is even more prominent than usual. It’s enchanting.
I know I shouldn’t, but curiosity eats at me. “So Veronica was a serious girlfriend?”