by Mara White
“I see.” I stand with my hands on my hips. It’s obvious that he was intending to take his own life, but I guess this exchange of pleasantries and entertaining other scenarios is part of normal coping. I hate that both Adam and I work here, that the rumors will start to take flight any minute now.
“Listen, Ms. Heredia, why don’t you go home and try to catch some sleep? You can come back first thing in the morning and talk to him yourself. He’s a lucky man that you walked in when you did.”
I nod my head, not listening to the doctor at all. If only he knew what an awful person I am. That Adam was crushed believing his own son isn’t his. That his wife took off to do shots, smoke weed and make out with girls instead of staying home to comfort him. Instead of staying by his side and helping him through the bad parts just like I promised him I would when we said our vows. I choke on my own tears and wave the doctor away. “I’ll stay here tonight in case he wakes up. He shouldn’t be alone. I can’t leave him alone again.”
“Right. I understand. But please be aware that it’s not over when he wakes up. The journey is just beginning. He’ll have a lot of work to do for recovery. Oxycodone is a serious drug and there were others in his system. He’s going to have to deal with the problems that drove him to use it in the first place.”
“I understand,” I say. Poor Adam. Poor Luke. Grief isn’t easy, but it’s definitely not something that a pill can take away. Another realization courses through me like ice. It’s like I’ve come full circle, traveled so far only to end up right where I started. I’m going to have to face the fact that I only fall in love with addicts.
The doctor shakes my hand and I hold onto it too tightly. I grip his hand for the longest time until it becomes awkward.
Antes
First kiss
I can score the hot girls like Shaquille O’Neal slam dunks. I’m just like one, two, three and it’s in the bag. Happens all the fucking time. Easy. Like clockwork. Least I’m good at something.
Thing is, I don’t always want them to stick around. I don’t want them to pass me notes in class or stick them in my locker. I don’t want to fucking hold hands or kiss in the yard. But with Yari it’s different; she doesn’t count. Yari’s like a dude and probably jerks off more than I do—the girl is hardcore, badass, malona. The worst is when you accidently sleep over or let them stay the night. And if you go again in the morning, chicks expect an engagement ring by sundown.
“Come to the comida on Sunday; I want you to meet my parents.”
Hell-fucking-no-I-don’t. I got my own damn comida on Sunday and my Tía Betty cooks better than anyone else. Plus if I go, I might get a chance to see Belén. She’ll be grumpy as hell and I’ll tease her to no end. Bey wants me to come, but she’ll act like she don’t. We dance around our feelings and say mean shit to each other. It’s the game we always play now and the tension between us is like a volcano, on the verge of exploding, burns up everything we touch.
We used to be tight, then shit got weird and it’s like we’re scared of each other. The both of us try hard as fuck not to run into one another. Not easy to keep that up when you’re related, go to the same school, and live in the same building. So now we see each other when our families get together. We act like it’s a chore we gotta do, but on the down low we happy as fuck to have the excuse to be together. Bey and I will keep doing this. It’s an addiction, a sickness. Eventually something’s gotta give and one of us will get hurt. I want it to be me. If I broke Belén’s heart, I’d never forgive myself.
“Walk me to the door?” Jocelyn says. The girl is tripping if she thinks I’m gonna be her boyfriend. Fuck that. She’s already gone to the bathroom to fix her hair. I pray to God that she didn’t touch my toothbrush.
I roll my eyes and pull the sheet up over my head. My dick is hard. What I really want is for her to get back in bed.
“You know where the door is. We walked through it last night.” I smile under the sheet at my own joke. I can see her put her hands on her hips.
“All right, all right,” I say, groaning. “I’m joking. Of course I’ll walk you.” Then there’s a knock at the door.
“Fuck!” I say, pulling on my boxers. I hope my mom’s not home early. She’ll bust my fucking balls when she finds Jocelyn dressed in her hooker clothes from last night. “High heels on Sunday morning are never good unless you’re on your way to church,” she told me once and just right now I finally get the joke.
My head is thick with a hangover, my chest tight from smoking so much. Bey’s face is through the peephole and my heart does that little flip that happens whenever I see her. I pull open the door and smile. She’s wearing house slippers; her hair is perfect, like she’s already been up for hours.
“Oh hey, Bey,” I say and turn to walk back toward my bedroom. I can’t hide the goofy grin on my face or stop my body from reacting the way it wants to whenever I see her.
“Luciano, I need a screwdriver,” she says. I smile again. For some stupid reason, I love to hear her say my full name.
“Ugh, don’t remind me. Put the coffee on, I’ll find it in a second.”
Jocelyn is in the bathroom again. When I open the door and let myself in; she’s brushing her hair. So I take a piss right in front of her. I want her to get out, wish I could blink and make her disappear so Len wouldn’t have to see her leave the house. I know how Len thinks and she’ll act like I broke the law, she’ll tell me I’m going to jail for fucking, getting drunk and doing drugs. Oh Jesus, Bey, believe me when I say you ain’t even seen the worst of it. For the shit I want to do with you—they’d bypass jail and send me straight to hell for it.
Jocelyn is all over me, got her hands on my chest. I pull on the jeans I left on the floor by the bed. I feel anxious, guilty that we gotta walk by Belén. But I’m also turned on and just plain fucking confused about everything. I want to take them both and drag them back to my bedroom. Bey would never go for that and I’d hate myself for trying. Jocelyn shoves her tongue down my throat when I go in for a goodbye kiss on her cheek. Shit makes me hard too, and knowing that Bey is watching makes it even more risky and tempting.
As soon as la jeva leaves I go stand over Bey’s shoulder. She’s making coffee in la olla. I try to play it cool like everything is normal between us.
“Done yet?” I ask her. Swear to God I can feel the chill coming right off her. Ice queen, no better yet, ice princess. I want to melt her. Let’s see how long she can resist all the heat that I throw at her.
“I’ll get the screwdriver,” I say. Gotta lean down right by her bare legs. Legs that are muscular and strong; the soft curve of her calf looks like velvet and I want to press my lips into it, drag my tongue along the path that leads to all of her softest parts. Tingles attack the back of my neck when I think of all the secret places on Belén that only her hands have ever touched.
If there’d be no consequences, I’d drag her ass back to my bed and show her how good I can make her feel. I wanna protect Bey’s innocence and at the same time, I wanna steal it. Take it before anybody else tries. That shit belongs to me, not some horny asshole random teenager. I’d worship her; take it so slow she’d beg me to hurry up.
She asks me if the cuero was my girlfriend. I can hear the jealousy in her voice. Her throat is tight like she might cry and I wish I could backtrack in time, kick the girl out of the house so Bey didn’t have to always see my bad side.
Her coffee is good, and necessary at this point; it hits the spot, clears my head. Elixir for my drunken fog from last night. The only thing I can focus on is how beautiful my cousin is. Her long black lashes graze her cheek when she looks down at her hand. She’s in pain and I can see it in the way she holds her body. Her face is full of tension and I want to make it go away. But another part of it feels good, too—the fact that I can make her hurt so much shows me she cares. I get high off that feeling, of mattering so much.
I slide the screwdriver toward her across the table and our fingers touch. When they
do, it’s exhilarating. Just fingers. It baffles me. Am I just that fucking horny or is Bey really that special? She looks like she’s about to cry and it’s my fault; I make her fucking miserable. All of this is too much.
“Wait a sec, Belén, what’s wrong? You going to cry?”
“I’m going to tell Titi you had a girl over and you kissed her goodbye.”
“What the fuck, Bey? I thought we were on the same team? Why the fuck do you want to tell on me?”
I swear I can watch the rage creep in and replace the fear in her eyes. Bey’s mad as hell, not only because I had a chick here but because I kissed her and let her watch. I don’t know why the fuck I toy with her feelings. I can’t help it; I like the power. But apparently she’s had enough because she’s about to stab me with the goddamned screwdriver.
She screams some shit about Jocelyn being a slut. Yeah, tell me something I don’t already know, is what I think but I don’t dare say it because Len is serious as hell and she’s about to stab me in the eye.
“Put that down, loca.” I tell her calmly. But she charges at me anyway and I grab both of her wrists in the air and push her back against the refrigerator. I look deep into her eyes to try to figure out what she’s thinking. Bey seems close to hysterical and she’s never been one to lose her shit so easily. She pushes back with her hips and my dick takes the push as an invitation. I tell my body to calm the fuck down, I don’t want to scare her while she’s so emotional like this.
Bey pushes down with the screwdriver, aiming for my face. I shake her wrist hard, just once, and it tumbles from her grip. We both watch it hit the floor. I can’t help notice that her lips are parted when we look back up and make eye contact. Her face is flushed. She’s sniffing while tears run down her cheeks. I squeeze her wrists hard, trying to communicate something—anything, at this point. Bey pushes back against me again. I shove her back even harder and my thigh lands between her legs. Bullseye. There is heat in the ice princess and I just found where she hides it.
We’re so close I can smell the conditioner she uses; I can smell her damp, showered skin as it heats up from our fight. I feel like I’m falling like you do in a dream. The seconds come at me in slow motion and suddenly there’s nothing in this whole fucked-up world but me and Bey and these feelings we share. The little flame between us becomes a roaring fire. It’s too late to put that shit out—only choice is to give into it.
“Belén?” I ask her, trying hard not to let my voice waver.
I want her so bad it feels like my chest will bust open. Everything on the inside will spill out. It hurts to be this vulnerable.
“What?” she asks me. She’s still crying, her lips are trembling.
I let one of her arms go and it falls to her side. Bey stares at my lips and I study her face. She shoves her hips forward again and this time she’s not playing. I push back, letting my erection hit just below her belly. Her lips part again and this time she lets out a little moan that tells me she likes it. Her cheeks are pink and her pupils are dilated. My heart charges forward, bent on winning some race we’re not even running.
Nothing matters. Only me and Belén. Only us. This moment.
“Do you want me to kiss you?” I ask her in a hoarse whisper.
It’s so fucking hard to say it but once it’s out I feel like a free man, the weight’s been lifted off. I’m so light I could take off and fly around the apartment. She stares at me in a way I’ve never been looked at before, not like I’m hot or like I’m impressive because I’m rebellious. Bey looks at me like I got the key to unlock all the doors she keeps closed, like she’s letting me in and I’m the only who’s allowed to go. She nods her head just a tiny bit and her breathing is husky. I understand it as a yes, dip my head and lay my lips on her sweet mouth.
Now a kiss isn’t supposed to be anything like Holy Communion, where the wafer melts in your mouth and you feel like some kind of miracle is happening on your tongue. Like you’re special and part of something bigger, and all the bad shit you ever done can be erased in a minute.
But that’s the only thing I can think of that can compare to Bey’s kiss. Her kiss feels like that one second before it starts pouring, where the air is so thick and heavy you feel the weight of it on your skin and the pressure is so high that there ain’t no way you going back to clear skies without getting your ass drenched. It’s gonna pour and you’re gonna get soaked and you just gotta accept what’s happening. ’Cause there’s not a person can hold back the force of Mother Nature. You need to do what she says without asking questions. You just shut up and listen. If the rain is gonna pour on your head—that’s it. You take it.
That’s what this kiss is. A downpour. A rain that washes away every bad thing I ever done before.
And Belén’s mouth is the best thing I’ve ever tasted. Her lips taste like off-limits, forbidden, don’t open that door, like laughing, like secrets, the end of time and the very beginning all at once. In Bey’s kiss I taste my whole future and my past. I’ve got a kiss I shouldn’t have and I am never giving it back.
Her body pushes against mine and I lose all control and go crazy. Her hands are in my hair and mine are all over her. I lift her off the floor onto my cock and she grinds right back into me. My heart is thudding, my skin is alive and I’m fucking intoxicated. Love-drunk off Bey’s kiss and at the same time tripping the fuck out because it’s finally, really happening. It’s real and we’re kissing and it’s better than I imagined. Her breath comes short and hard and she lets me tongue her. It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t know how to kiss. I will teach her. She moans when she likes it and my dick gets even harder.
I’ll never kiss another girl if I can have this all the time. A goddamned thunderstorm of feelings. All the pouring rain and lightning of other storms ain’t nothing but a light shower when you realize, for the very first time, you’re in love with someone.
Bey’s kiss wasn’t my first, but it was the only one that mattered.
Después
I head back up to the hospital after I drop Luke at kindergarten. There will be no way to avoid co-workers or not tell them what happened. Adam will be transferred to psych today and I’ve been on the phone scrambling trying to see if we can get him into a bed at another hospital to spare him the humiliation.
I didn’t tell Luke what happened, just that Daddy is sick. There’s no easy way to broach a subject like addiction or suicide with a kid. The A train is packed and there are no seats, so I hang onto the bar and let my thoughts run away with what this huge mess means. If Adam is suicidal, I can’t have him around our son. If he’s got an addiction problem, he needs rehab, and if he’s been acquiring drugs illegally, he’ll more than likely lose his job.
But how the hell do I support him and stand by his side if he resents me for loving my cousin and possibly tried to end his own life because the thought upsets him so much?
Maybe some breakfast will help us.
“How much are the croissants?”
“Three fifty, ma’am.”
“I’ll take two almond and one chocolate, and a double latte, skim milk, as well as a large black coffee, please.”
I’ll bring Adam breakfast and we can try to get some of this mess sorted. What seems like a sweet life can sour so quickly.
“Morning, Champ,” I say as I stick my head in the door.
Adam looks up from his phone and smiles genuinely. He looks so much better than yesterday; his color has fully returned. I started calling Adam “Champ” because it’s what his dad calls him. The first time we went to visit, the juvenile nickname made me giggle. But I grew accustomed to it and the name was actually pretty fitting. I like to call Adam “Champ” in bed, so the meaning is slightly different for us. I feel pressure to bring him back, to help him remember that we’re a strong couple, a strong family—even when the going gets tough.
“Brought you breakfast,” I say, holding up the bag of croissants.
Adam just nods. Swallows. He looks on the verge o
f tears.
“Hey, it’s okay.”
“I’m sorry, B. God, I fucked up!” Adam says. He brings his hands to his head and starts massaging his temples.
“Don’t apologize, Adam. Christ, I shouldn’t have left you alone. I suck.”
“I told you I needed space and I pushed you away.”
He looks like a little boy with bed head. I really do love him so much.
“Let’s not argue about what went wrong. Let’s figure out how to fix it.” I set the coffee and croissant onto the arm of the hospital bed that reaches around in front of him.
“Thanks for this. The French toast was inedible.” I burn the heck out of my tongue on my first sip of the latte. Adam demolishes the pastry and I let him eat mine too. I brush the powdered sugar from his cheek and struggle to find a starting point in which to ground this conversation.
“You look good,” I say.
“I look terrible.”
“Better than yesterday.”
“I’ll take it.”
At least he’s smiling.
“I’ve got to get something off my chest before we even have this conversation.”
“Shoot,” Adam says. He takes another sip of his coffee. The breakfast has perked him up.
“When I left last night, I went to Yari’s. We got drunk and I smoked some pot.” I cast a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure there aren’t any nurses or doctors looming. “I kind of made out with her too. It was sort of spontaneous. Weird, I know, I’m sorry.” I say it all in one breath and then suck in some much-needed oxygen.
“What the fuck, B? Kind of made out?” Adam asks. He cocks his head to the side and looks at me like I’m crazy. I am crazy. He’s got powdered sugar on his nose and I bring my hand to my face to stifle the nervous laughter that bubbles up. “Yari, the slutty friend from high school?”
I brush my thumb over his nose to dust away the powder.
“Yeah. That’s the one. Slutty is a mean word, though, and it’s only used for girls, which isn’t fair. Yari is self-confident, she likes sex. She’s very, um . . . she’s generous when it comes to her sexuality.”