by Dawn Lanuza
“Whatever happened to the guy?”
Caty shrugged. “I don’t really remember. I took Lucian instead. We were better off without him.”
Elan’s laughter boomed, and when it subsided, Caty muttered a curse to herself.
“What?”
“Nothing, I just—” Caty looked back at him. “I don’t have anyone like you here.”
He tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
She bit her lip, recognizing the loneliness that had surrounded her since she moved to New York. Maybe since she’d first left San Juan. “Or anywhere in my life.”
He paused, then said, “That sucks. I’d love to have someone like you and have her in the same country. Or in the same time zone, at least.”
That idea pulled at her gut. She didn’t like it at all. It felt as if she was being dumped out of bed and replaced by someone else.
She sniped, “You can’t.” Caty rested her chin on his chest. “I’m one of a kind, you know.”
“Limited edition?” His fingers ran through her hair. He closed his eyes and groaned, “I’ve got an urge to tell you something, but it might ruin the moment.”
“Mmm, I’m always interested in your urges,” she grinned. “Is it dirty?”
Elan laughed, his fingers now massaging her scalp. She laid her head back down on his chest. “The internet sucks. Technology sucks.”
“In the Philippines, I’m sure. But why?”
“Because I still can’t touch you like this no matter how advanced they claim it is.”
She wanted to throw out a funny remark, but what he’d said was so nice she wanted to linger in the moment. So she didn’t say anything to ruin it.
Elan rested his arm on her shoulder. She lifted her head to check up on him. He was watching, and he caught her eye as she scooted closer.
They didn’t say a thing, just smiled at each other and leaned in until their foreheads touched. He pulled away first and let his lips brush her temple.
He breathed her in, and she let go of her tension.
“Tell me again, why are we not doing this?” he whispered.
“Because I said so.”
He agreed with a nod, but they didn’t move away. They breathed in together, bracing themselves as they stood on the brink of temptation.
“Please stay,” he said with a sigh.
Caty repeated what he’d said in her head. She closed her eyes and realized that it was exactly what she’d been afraid of hearing, not from his mouth but from hers.
eleven
“You do this thing, with your face,” she told him, her finger tracing the bridge of his nose.
She always touched his nose before she kissed him, as if it was the most important thing on his face. Elan wasn’t comfortable when people pointed out his crooked nose; it bothered him. But he let Caty do it. As long as she was near him, he was fine. He’d take what he could get, especially under today’s circumstances.
He’d pictured it differently, hoping for a better turnout. He wanted this trip to New York to be a catalyst. They had been talking since she left after the Coronados’ anniversary party, continuing what they’d started when they first met. But the last few months had been harder than the first ones. She’d moved to New York. She was adjusting. She had to repack, decorate her room, buy a rug, get a job, pick up a guy’s dry cleaning, water his plants, order pizza or Chinese food, binge-watch Seinfeld, find a place with good coffee, mingle with people she met at parties in the hope of finding a better job, and decide which bagel shop had the best bagels.
Meanwhile, he had legal cases. He had started training for a marathon with his work friends. He’d adjusted to time differences. He brought laundry to Gia’s place, checked on his niece, brought his mother to church and the clinic, visited San Juan when he felt like it. And he waited. For her. For the time they were together on their screens.
Now he was here, and so was she.
Elan wiggled his nose. “I do not.”
“I’m telling you as the person who gets to stare at your face while you nap.”
“And I’m telling you, as the person who has it, I don’t make that face.” He leaned back. “And I didn’t take a nap. I just closed my eyes.”
Caty laughed. “You don’t even know what I’m talking about.”
“Do I even want to?”
She kept her hands on his jaw, her fingers rubbing his cheeks. “Maybe I’ll just keep it to myself.”
He paused to look at her, enjoying the sensation of her hands on his face. They’d been like this for half an hour, faces close and wrapped up in each other.
“I like you with this,” she said, rubbing his stubble. She raised her hand and ran it through his hair. “And this.”
“So I’m pretty much nailing it with hair.”
“Makes you look more dangerous,” Caty laughed again. “What do you like about me this time?”
“I feel like this is one of those trick questions.” He smirked, his hand touching her arm. “I like you just the same. Is that an answer?”
“Sure.”
He also liked the way she looked the last time—flowing red hair, gold dress, beautiful lips.
Elan ran his thumbs over her cheeks, smooth and pink. “Your hair looks good.”
“You really have a thing for my hair, huh?”
“You change it every time I see you.”
“Well, I only see you once a year. A girl has to get her hair cut. And dyed.”
“Hey, it hasn’t been a year since we last met.”
“I change my hair a lot,” Caty answered. “I get bored.”
He brushed her hair from her face and tucked it behind her ear. She looked up at him expectantly, as if she wanted an answer that would give her something specific, tangible.
“You know what I like most?”
She lifted her brows. “Tell me.”
His thumb touched her lips and paused on her cupid’s bow. “I know this.” He smoothed the line that formed between her brows. “This is familiar. I know you.” It was almost a whisper, but they were so close he knew she had heard not only the words but also the misery in them.
Her hand reached up to his wrist, eyes boring into him.
“This feels like coming home.” He didn’t think about how to phrase it before he said it; he just let it roll off his tongue. If he thought about it anymore, one of them would hesitate, and they would lose the moment.
Now he knew that sometimes, life offered you a window to stumble through into something wonderful. All one had to do was be present enough to recognize the opportunity and be brave enough to jump into it.
He had missed a lot of windows because he’d hesitated. Sometimes hesitating is wise; it saves you from recklessness and trouble.
But some things are worth the trouble.
Elan didn’t want to miss the window again.
Caty bowed her head, forehead hitting his shoulder. “There’s irony in that.”
His hand slid back down to her arms, thumb circling the skin, hoping it would soothe her.
She scooted closer, pausing before she asked, “You working out now, Judy?”
Elan laughed at the abrupt change of direction. “Training for a marathon.”
“God, why?” Her groan was muffled.
“It’s for a cause.”
Caty threw her head back. “Of course it is. It’s always for the greater good with you.”
“It’s proving to be a good cause for you too, isn’t it?” He squeezed her.
“You’re so full of it.”
Elan loosened his hold.
“Thank you,” she said, and it was soft and delicate.
“What, is this over?”
“No,” she pulled him in, hands digging into his skin. “We’ve got time.”
>
Did they? He wanted to check but didn’t. He guessed they still had a few hours.
Elan lowered himself to rest his head on her shoulder. She adjusted, putting her chin on the top of his head.
“Hey, Judy.”
“Hmm?”
“Did you lie to me, ever?”
He cleared his throat, not sure this was a good question considering the mood. “You’re a master of changing topics.”
“I majored in it,” she joked, her fingers curling on top of his head.
Elan took a second, opened his mouth, then sighed.
“That’s not a no.”
He lifted himself up to face her, head tilted. “Well . . .”
She frowned. Elan let out a ragged breath. He knew this day would come. He would have to tell the story. The right one. Not the version he told everybody else. “I don’t play basketball.”
She snorted, “No offense, but I didn’t believe you.”
He smiled as she urged him to continue.
“It was a late night. I was coming home from a game. I really was playing basketball. Not greatly—just average. I had snuck out when I wasn’t supposed to.”
Now that he was actually saying it, he couldn’t help but spit it out. It wasn’t rehearsed. He hadn’t played it back in his head. Everything was just flashing at him, bits and pieces, smells and sights.
“The house was dark. Everyone was asleep. Except there was a light in the dining room, and I heard a sound like a crack. I thought we were getting robbed.”
He looked at Caty’s face and could tell she was confused.
“It wasn’t a robbery. I went to my mom’s room to check on her.”
He remembered this much: his mom was crying on the bed, curled up in a fetal position. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen her that way, and he didn’t know how to approach her. She knew he was there, but she didn’t run to the bathroom to hide her face as she’d done before.
“I checked the dining room. My father was there, standing by the table.”
It was one of those wooden tables with a glass top. His fist was on top of a huge crack right by the edge. It was a vivid memory, the whole thing. The yellow lights in the dining room. His father’s shadow on the floor. He remembered pausing before approaching his father. He had to. He remembered being afraid, but he’d done it anyway.
His jaw tightened. “My father has a temper. He drinks a lot. We all know that’s not a good combo.”
“He was drunk?”
Elan nodded. He and his sister had been told not to go near him when he was drunk, because he hit people. It was the alcohol, they said. But when Elan was in his teens, he had punched a classmate for teasing him constantly. It was the temper, like his father’s, he always believed. But he rarely touched alcohol, afraid of what it would do to him if her ever had a bit of his father in him.
“Did you do anything?”
“Not really. But it seemed as if I had walked into something, and he didn’t like it, so . . .”
“What happened?” Caty goaded him, knowing he was omitting details, things he couldn’t say out loud because it would be awful to hear and even worse to say.
“He’d broken the glass on the dining table. I guess they were fighting before I came in.”
Her hand flew to her mouth. He looked away, took a breath to fill his lungs with fresh air. “So I said some things and ticked him off.”
Elan tried to look back at her. She looked horrified, so he quickly said, “It’s fine.”
“It’s not,” she snapped. “It’s not fine.”
“He was drunk. His aim sucked. I hit the wall when I tried to avoid him. That’s why I have this,” Elan pointed to his nose. Not entirely true. His father had hit him in the face when he asked about his mother. Then he hit the wall.
Elan tried to hit his father too. But he was a kid, and he wasn’t used to fighting. He avoided fighting, always hated it. That’s why he liked the law. He thought there was a better way to deal with conflicts.
She paused, trying to hide her shock. “What happened in the morning?”
Elan shrugged. “He didn’t remember all of it. So we just said it was because of basketball.”
“And he believed you?” she exhaled. “Was that the only time?”
No. There were other times. Not just punches. “We had help from outside. That’s where I met Pascual, you know?”
His uncle Pascual, the man he worked for now. They had asked for help, and he had given it to them pro bono. Since then, Elan had never left the man’s side, even when Pascual insisted they didn’t owe him anything.
Elan did owe him everything.
Pascual made sure their father could never come near them or hurt his mother again. So his father left them alone completely, as if it was a relief to finally be free of them. Elan hadn’t seen the man since.
“Same guy you work for?”
Elan nodded.
“That’s nice,” she mused.
Elan looked directly at her. “You shouldn’t feel bad for me. It was a long time ago.”
“That doesn’t make it right.”
He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling. The truth slipped from his tongue. “Sometimes, I get scared that I’ve inherited his temper.”
Caty paused. “You count to ten under your breath when you’re getting mad.”
He smiled. “You noticed.”
“Someone taught me the same thing.”
“It’s become a habit,” he admitted. “A precaution. I don’t know. I don’t want to risk it.”
Caty rolled over to face him. “You think one day you’d just snap?”
His jaw twitched. “I think about it, yeah.”
He didn’t say anything then, just took a couple of deep breaths after realizing what he’d done. He’d told the story. He’d never told it to anyone before. The only people who knew were his mother, Gia, and a childhood friend.
And it wasn’t so bad.
He was still breathing.
He was still . . .
Elan turned to Caty. “Does it scare you that I have that history?”
He meant that it ran in his blood—that he might have the tendency, the probability. But mostly he was ashamed that he had a father like that.
Caty pursed her lips. “Should it? Did you ever hit anyone before?”
“Kid from school.”
“Why?”
Elan suddenly felt very awkward about the conversation. “Nothing. I was young. I got picked on; I fought back.”
“Did you feel like you had to; it was necessary?”
“At the time? I don’t know. I wasn’t thinking.” He knew he was giving her brief answers, but he didn’t want to talk about it anymore. Maybe the discussion had gone further than what he was comfortable with.
“Hey,” Caty’s brows met. “You’re the one who brought this up.”
“Yeah, but . . .” he exhaled through his nose.
She lay back down and didn’t speak for a moment. “Maybe it should scare me.”
He lay completely still. That was one of his greatest fears,
for someone to find out and use this truth against him. It’s
why he never got too involved in relationships, didn’t explore further. He thought it would be better if he just stuck to the people who already knew about it or those who wouldn’t force him into telling. Then there was also that paralyzing fear that he could just snap; he could hurt someone, like his father had.
Her hand grabbed his, making him snap back to the present. She spread her fingers across his hands, radiating heat to his cold palms. “But I’m more concerned about you; does that make sense?”
He was in New York, in bed, with her. Of course it made sense. Elan swallowed and blinked at the ceiling. Was he going to cry? He couldn’t,
shouldn’t.
Her fingers interlaced with his. “As awful as that was, if it hadn’t happened, I’m not sure I would have wanted to meet you.”
He cleared his throat. “What do you mean?”
Caty lifted herself up over him and spread her legs on either side of him. His hands slid to her hips as she lowered her weight on top of him.
“It’s my favorite thing about you.”
Elan snorted. “My nose?”
She shushed him. “Shut up. Your nose was the first thing I noticed about you.”
Confused, he let her talk.
“It’s the main reason I kept bugging you that day in the car,” she continued. “I wanted to know the story. Can you imagine what would have happened if you didn’t have the most interesting nose?”
Elan shook his head. Caty smiled.
“Your hair,” Elan spoke. “Not the first thing I noticed about you.”
She looked puzzled. “It’s not?”
Elan rolled her over to her back, staring at her face as he settled on top, careful not to crush her.
“What was it?”
His thumb brushed the bottom of her lip.
Eyebrows raised, she breathed, “Oh.”
Her eyes sparkled, and the smile she rewarded him with was wide and giddy. Whatever wall had been between them collapsed. She was Caty, free and unfiltered. Like before.
She let the tip of her nose touch his. “Hey.”
He closed his eyes.
“Thanks for telling me about that,” her voice was calm, and he felt her hand touch his cheek. “It was really . . .”
“Shitty?”
“No,” she smiled up at him. “Personal. I could tell you haven’t talked about it with other people a lot.”
“I never . . .”
“I’m glad you feel like you could entrust me with that,” she said.
“Yes, well, you almost saw me naked the same day you met me, so I might as well share my deepest, darkest—”
Caty laughed, an unexpected outburst.
“And clearly, the memory of it brings you such joy.”
She kissed him then, hand on his nape, pulling him down. He responded the way a man lost in a desert would upon seeing a stream of water. He caught her kiss and drowned in it.