Malentendido (Misunderstood)

by Mara White

  “The guy had a point, the kid does look like me,” Lucky says.

  “Baby, this is your Uncle Lucky, Mommy’s best friend,” I say to my son, and he looks up at Luciano, taking him in, squinting a little in his five-year-old scrutiny of a new face.

  “Didn’t my uncles die in the war?” he asks. Luke is a bright boy. He won’t let us off easy. It makes me realize that for the rest of our lives, Lucky and I will be explaining our story a thousand and one times.

  “That’s what Mommy thought, but Uncle Lucky survived.”

  “I came back to play with you. I heard you like baseball,” Lucky says. His words flood my heart. I can hear him holding back the emotion.

  He takes my son by the hand and walks into the living room with him. Luke looks up at him with a mix of bewilderment and admiration.

  Tía Awilda leaves the room when she can no longer contain her tears.

  “My mommy missed you,” Luke tells Lucky, looking up at him matter-of-factly. Wide brown eyes, lower lip trembling.

  “I missed her too,” Lucky chokes and pulls our boy into his arms.

  Antes

  “Mami, Tía Hemi wants to take us to Coney Island for Briana’s birthday!” I screech at her when she comes in from work. She looks tired as she drops her keys on the table and her purse on the chair.

  “Probably because she wants you to help her with the little ones.”

  “It’s okay! I don’t mind at all!”

  “The twins get so out of hand, it makes me nervous. Is your cousin going?”

  “She said I can bring Yari if I want to.”

  Mami rubs the back of her hand against her forehead and sighs.

  “You can go if Lucky goes. I don’t want Raymond and Ramón to get wild and have no one there to protect you. Does Hemi need money for the tickets?”

  “I’m sure she does. We can use my allowance. I don’t mind.” I’m trying to act cool but I’m bouncing up and down on the hardwood floor in my socks. I haven’t been to Coney Island all summer and I feel electricity zapping through my limbs at the prospect.

  “What about Jeremy?”

  “That’s okay, Mami. I’m good with Lucky and Yari!”

  “What time are you leaving? Stop bouncing, hija! It’s just the beach and the fair. I’d thought you’d grown out of it,” she says, shaking her head at me.

  I peck her cheek and zip off to call Yari.

  The train ride is long and we take up half the car. Hemi’s got beach chairs and coolers, umbrellas and blankets and a stroller for Jovani. I spent the morning staring at myself in the full-length mirror in the hallway. My one-piece is two years old and barely contains my breasts any more. Yari has on a bikini, of course. Lucky is sullen in a white T and his low-slung jeans. He stands and stares out the window as soon as the train goes above ground, one thumb through a belt loop—the other hand holding onto the bar above his head. I wonder what’s got him blue. Yari can’t stop yapping and the twins are goofing off, slugging each other and garnering annoyed looks from other passengers.

  The beach is packed and teeming with families. We’re all sweaty and grouchy after dragging the damned cooler five blocks from the train down Stillwell Avenue. Lucky tears off his clothes and runs for the water. The twins take off after him and leave us with the set-up.

  Hemi cranks up the boom box despite the eye rolls of the neighbors. Bachata and merengue blaze up from the radio to compete with the soft lull of the ocean. Yari pops open a bag of bar-b-que chips and sits her ass down on the cooler. The air is thick with sunscreen, cigarette smoke and spilled beer. I pull off Jovani’s clothes and let him crawl around the sand in his diaper, quickly removing cigarette butts and broken glass from his pathway. Briana’s knocked out in the baby’s stroller, her long limbs touching the sand, pink cheeks flushed and sweat along her hairline. I pull the top out to its full extension to shade her face.

  “Should we wake her up?” I ask Hemi.

  “We should get in the water and see if there are any hot guys from the suburbs,” Yari says. She pulls her halter top over her head, knocking her four gold necklaces. She’s more careful with her hair, which is slicked back into a perfect bun with Vaseline.

  “What about Lucky?” I ask her.

  “Fuck him. He’s so moody. I wanna have fun,” she growls. Her jean shorts peel off her hips, almost taking the tiny bikini bottoms with them. She jogs to the water, ass jiggling, and makes a daring, splashy entrance for a girl who can’t swim. I sit my butt down on the blanket, not totally trusting Hemi to watch her own kids. Yari’s left nothing but dust in the chip bag. I lick the greasy red powder from my fingers as Lucky lifts Yari high into the air and swings her around, her feet skimming the water. She howls in protest but her delighted smile reveals how much she likes it.

  Raymond and Ramón buy beers every time the vendor passes. He yells, “Ice cold beer, cerveza and pibaaaa!” covering all of his language bases. Hemi gives the twins sweaty, rolled-up bills from her cleavage. She wears a black bikini that the elastic is all shot on. The rolls on her stomach are bigger than her breasts. I’ve always liked that about Hemi, she makes her own rules and doesn’t ever conform. Her older kids are like her friends and enjoy the kind of freedom I can only dream about. Jovani is asleep and Briana and Annalise are both covered in sand.

  Hazy summer humidity makes it feel like the world is moving in slow motion. Lucky and I make furtive eye contact a few times. He looks away guiltily while my heart gallops after glances from those smokey eyes.

  I wonder what Hemi would think if she knew how I felt about Lucky, if she would think I was sick or would be more lenient because she hasn’t always made the best decisions when it comes to her life.

  “Let’s go tear up the park!” Raymond says. He has a wandering eye, so it’s always easy to tell him apart from his twin. “I’m sick of the fuckin’ beach. Who wants to ride the Cyclone?” he hollers and takes off running. No one besides me offers Hemi a hand with the kids.

  I push the stroller while Hemi drags the cooler and Jovani dangles from her hip. Seems like most of the adults leaving the beach are drunk, sunburnt and rowdy. Ready to pick fights or find the next party. Dusk is on its way and all the lights on the boardwalk come on. The wood juts up in places and caves in others. Long nails rise up from the wood and threaten to rip unsuspecting strollers’ tender feet up.

  My cousin parts from the older kids and runs back to where we lag behind. He lifts a giggling Briana onto his shoulders and grabs onto her ankles. Briana throws her head back and laughs when Luciano starts galloping like a horse; he’s just as good as any kiddie ride at the fairground.

  Lucky pays for everyone’s tickets. When he fastens the unlimited ride bracelet on my wrist I smile and say, “Thank you.” Lucky winks at me conspiratorially. We all smile at his generosity—no one mentions where the money came from. The boys go off to play games and Yari and I to find cotton candy.

  “I bet I could blow Lucky in the Haunted House before the ride is over,” she says. Her nails are long and painted as pink as her cotton candy, which she pulls off in large chunks and expertly folds into her mouth.

  “I want to go on the Wonder Wheel,” I respond, ignoring her comment. It’s multicolored and grand, the only ride that doesn’t blast loud music and induce vomiting.

  “Let’s get the boys!” Yari is off and running before I can react. We find them at the darts, where Lucky has won big and holds a giant stuffed bear and a huge, red-velvet heart.

  “Which one you want, Len?” he asks me first. Yari pouts and kicks Lucky’s leg with her high-top.

  “The bear!” I say, giddy that he asked me first.

  “Fine!” Yari counters. “The heart is more romantic anyway.” She rips the pillow from his grip and darts off toward the Wonder Wheel.

  “The bear, huh?” Lucky asks.

  “I already have your heart,” I say boldly. Lucky swallows as he hands it to me. He looks at the ground and then back up through his lashes, trying to pl
aydown his smile. His eye contact kills me. Maybe I said too much.

  We walk side by side in silence down the ramp to the ride. The air between us is heavy with unspoken words. We catch Yari and the twins just as they’re stepping into a cage.

  “Sorry, folks. Max four per cage,” the ride operator warns. Lucky hangs back, hands in his pockets.

  “S’aight, I’ll go with Bey. You guys have fun.” He nods at them and Yari pouts. I’m so thrilled I feel manic, like I could run a marathon and more. The young girl in line is eyeing my bear and I hand it to her and smile in my stupor.

  “Shit, Bey. That was for you,” Lucky says.

  “This is better,” I say. I squeeze his hand to let him know how happy I am. The next cage is up and Lucky crawls in first and offers his open palm to me.

  We rise up above the fairgrounds and the blaring music fades. You can actually smell the sea up here instead of suntan lotion and fry grease from funnel cakes. The ocean and sky roll out and converge in a seamless sea of blue. My heart pounds at the height yet I smile hugely. People down below are tiny and so is their world. Lucky and I are expanding; maybe up here we can touch the moon.

  “Len, I was thinking about that note you gave me, how we’re thirteen parts the same . . .” His voice trails off as he takes in the beauty of the miniature world below us.

  “Eighty-seven parts different,” I counter.

  “Eve was made from Adam’s rib, wasn’t she?” Lucky says, staring me down.

  I’m surprised he knows that.

  “I guess that would mean they shared a lot of DNA.”

  Mr. Ranesh would tell me that was a myth and then probably start talking about cloning.

  “Only thing I remember from Sunday school. Don’t quiz me.” Lucky looks sheepish like he sometimes does when he’s feeling insecure. I want to say the right thing, but my thoughts stumble around like a toddler learning to walk.

  We look at one another and I feel like I’m flying. Nothing can touch us up here; it’s me and Lucky against the world. Our cage swings in and I’m propelled across the divide into Lucky’s arms. He pulls me up onto the seat.

  “I guess we have to hang on.”

  With his hands on me, my heart flutters and races; I lift my eyes to his.

  “Len, look at this,” he says as he reaches deep in his jean pocket. He pulls out the tiniest piece of red sea glass, no more than a pea, or a pomegranate seed. “I found it in between the rocks when we were walking on the jetty.”

  Lucky places it in my palm and then uses both hands to slick back his hair. It’s a gesture of exasperation—of not being able to express what he’s feeling.

  “It’s not quite finished, I mean, the edges are still pretty rough. It needs like a thousand more waves to smooth the sharp parts away. I don’t know if you can wait that long,” he says with a smile.

  I close my fist around the tiny red sea stone with the jagged edges. I smile at Luciano and feel my love for him warm through me, brighter and more glorious than the lazy August sun.

  “I can hang on forever,” I say.

  It’s not hard when it’s true love.

  Después

  Waking up next to Belén reminds me of being drunk. It feels warm and perfect, giddy, like I never want to leave, like I’m drowning in love. My heartbeat slows to something sluggish. A permanent smile stains my face and I lazily pull her body to me. She begins to nuzzle immediately, tosses a leg over mine and an arm wraps over my torso. My hand slides to the v in between her legs automatically, seeking out her heat. Belén is responsive to me, always. It feels natural. Right. But that doesn’t mean the guilt is gone completely. Sometimes I lie here with her in my arms and remember getting a hard on from her fifteen-year-old body. Instead of swallowing that shit down, I tell her.

  “Me too,” she says. “We’re going to hell.” Then she peppers my face with a hundred little kisses. I get even harder. Belén and I fuck like somebody’s gonna take that shit away from us. So far they haven’t. And now Bey is pregnant.

  I knew our baby would be perfect even before she put herself through the marathon of tests. Because no matter what our blood says or the read out of our genes, Len and I make magic. That’s not science, it’s divine intervention. Believer or not, some things were just meant to be.

  “I had a bad dream!” Luke yells. We both groan in our cocoon.

  “Your turn,” Belén says. She ducks her head under the covers.

  “Alright,” I say, already missing her warmth and the slow peace of her embrace. “Coming!” I yell to Luke. Sometimes he calls me, “Dad,” sometimes, “Dude,” sometimes just, “Lucky.” His pops is still around more or less and the guy owes me big time. I don’t bad mouth him, I don’t slug him, I do nothing but respect the guy. I got what I wanted so I don’t waste my energy hating on him. Luke goes every other weekend and Len and I barely leave the bed. We got time to make up for and that’s exactly what we do.

  “Hey, little man,” I say as I scoop him into my arms. He’s not so little anymore. Six years and counting, outgrowing shoes and pajamas like nobody’s business. Bey got curtains in here with lizards on them that Betty made by hand. I pull them back and we look out the window, four stories up from Broadway. This kid is never going to stand on the corner. Sports, music lessons, Karate, whatever it takes. His mother and I know all too well where the demons hide and the various forms they can take.

  “I dreamed we went downtown to see the lights and I lost mommy,” Luke confesses. Big tears crest in his eyes and fall over, rolling down his cheeks in quick succession.

  “Yeah, little man? I know how that feels. Sucks. Truly does. But that was just a bad dream and she’s right next door in the bed.” Luke sniffs and nods his head, sticks his face in my neck. “You want to go see for yourself?” He nods again wiping his nose on my shirt.

  Sometimes I get that little hiccup of panic too, that I’ll wake up and she’ll be gone. But she’s not. Bey is warm and snuggled in our bed, beckoning with both arms. I put Luke down and he jumps in between us.

  There are millions and millions of stars in the sky, but there is only one Belén and I know as well as I know anything that she was meant to be mine.

  The two of them, along with the little bump fit perfectly in my arms. Luke falls back asleep and Belén watches me with the softest expression in her eyes. I know now to count my blessings, every single damn one. I remember, like it was yesterday, lying out under that white hot desert sun. How I longed for Belén with every ounce of whatever I had left in me, for just one moment to be by her side again, to let her know how much she meant to me.

  I remember how the universe answered my call, with a transparent rock the size of my thumb. A smoky gray little talisman that rose up through centuries of sand grains to find its way to my hand. The universe’s way of telling me not to give up. A simple piece of desert glass which now sits in the bedside table drawer right next to me. I can pull it out and in the palm of my hand, hold onto mine and Bey’s destiny.

  What happened to us wasn’t a curse, or even bad luck. It was the road we had to take to consecrate our love.

  Thank you first and foremost to Katie Larsen and Katy Evans, for believing in me even when I don’t, for kicking my ass, but doing it with kindness, and supporting me, the person, as well as the work. I don’t know how to adequately thank either of you and I only hope that I can return some of the encouragement you give me.

  To my husband and kids, thank you for putting up with me and my weird side job.

  To my beta readers, Leslie, Jiya, Sunny, Trisha, Yaya, Mo and Supreet, thank you for taking the time to read and for your incredible feedback.

  To Leslie DeJesus, Zak Matías and Carlos Mejía for jumping in with slang and dialect answers every time I need help.

  To Tami from Integrity Formatting.

  To Daniela Medina for my gorgeous covers.

  To Leanne Rabesa for impeccable editing—any mistakes that appear, I made on my own. To Sue Rohan for my copy ed
its.

  To Neda Amini for always championing my writing.

  To all the authors who inspire me with their work.

  To my readers for reading, spreading the word, leaving reviews, and giving me feedback, I appreciate you so much.

  To the bloggers who work so hard to keep this whole industry up and running, your dedication to books and the people who write them is nothing short of a miracle—so thank you for your time and commitment.

  Mara White is a contemporary romance and erotica writer who laces forbidden love stories with hard issues, such as race, gender and inequality. She holds an Ivy League degree but has also worked in more strip clubs than even she can remember. She is not a former Mexican telenovela star, contrary to what the tabloids might say, but she is a former ballerina and will always remain one in her heart. She lives in NYC with her husband and two children, and yes, when she’s not writing you can find her on the playground.

  You can connect with her via

  Twitter: @authormarawhite

  Instagram: @authormarawhite

  Or Facebook: www.facebook.com/heightsbound/

  To read Yari’s story, El Pozo (The Puddle), visit my WattPad page

  www.wattpad.com/user/authormarawhite