Dancing in a Hurricane (28 page)

"No, I don't deny it. I'm a self-indulgent asshole." Shifting the truck into drive, he pulled a fast u-turn and drove the short block home in silence. He pulled up to the garage and reached for his door handle.

"Wait." She tipped her head. "I didn't mean to offend you. What I was trying to say is that we have different needs and different goals in life. Our friendship is important to me." She took a deep breath. "If we can't control this thing between us—"

"Our urges?"

She nodded. "Yes, our urges." She pointed to the realty flier. "Maybe we shouldn't be in the same house."

He took a huge breath and heaved it out. He had to think, he had to decide what the right thing was for both of them. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her.

No, the last thing he wanted to do was make a decision they'd both regret.

***

Sixto jumped out of the truck, hauling the bags into the house with him.

Bree sat a moment before sliding out of the truck and walking into the garage.

He passed her, walking the other way.

"Going out?" she asked. Dumb question.

He kept walking. "Yeah. Goodnight."

The finality of it upset her, until she considered how he must feel right now. He needed time to mull over what she said. She did, too. She watched him drive away.

Closing and locking the doors, she went to the kitchen and poured a glass of wine. One of the bags he set on the dining room table tipped over with a clunk and she jumped, nearly sloshing her wine. She walked to the table, emptied the bags, and organized their purchases and the decorations from the box.

The pirate costume she put back in a bag and hung it on his doorknob. Picturing him in it had given her a sweet, naughty feeling in Target and it happened again just now. He evidently felt the same way about her and the maid costume. But the sneaky way he bought it, and the way he talked about her with the cashier… She put it in a bag and tossed it onto her bed. She shouldn't try it on in this angry, seductive mood.

Forcing her mind off sex, she tuned the radio to a soft jazz station. She taped a large black cat cutout on the kitchen window. With a candle in front of it, it would look scary from outside. She picked up sheets of window clings and walked to the patio doors. Pressing jack-o-lanterns, witches, and ghosts on the glass distracted her, until she recalled her ultimatum. She stood looking out at the pool. Sixto had such a baffled expression on his face. It must have seemed harsh to him, but it was twice as bad because it hadn't been as innocent as it sounded. She couldn't be in the same house with him any longer, and the papers from her attorney showed her assets great enough to buy him out.

"Crap." She wanted Sixto as desperately as she'd ever wanted anything in her life. Wrapping her arms around her middle, she admitted, "I love him." After knowing him for only a few weeks, she understood the term soul mates. She needed him to admit there was more between them than "just sex." Wanted him to tell her he had strong emotions for her, something that they would explore, that maybe could last forever.

Every time he came on to her, invited her to be his lover, or pulled that possessive routine, she died a little inside. It frustrated her and she snapped at him. Couldn't he see what was happening between them? While she let her emotions flow, he kept his bottled and corked. He struggled with his feelings for her because—"Damn!" This was all based on what Élian and Marisa told her, who both heard it from Rico, who
said
he heard it from Sixto.

She rubbed her stiff finger. What if they were wrong? She needed to know. She had to find out if Sixto really said those things. Grabbing her wine glass, she picked up her purse and headed to her room to make a call.

Earlier, from Sixto's truck, she'd sent Marisa a text message and asked if she was free tonight and if Bree could call her. Her answer was, "YES! PLEASE!!!"

Bree stopped, went back to the table, and grabbed the bag of fun-size Kit Kats. Just in case.

***

Bree woke the next morning, sat up and stretched. In her dream, she sang "Some Day My Prince Will Come." Now the tune stuck in her head. She was in way too great of a mood. Last night Marisa confirmed everything she'd told her at the restaurant and Élian had told her in the garage.

Marisa had repeated, "He doesn't know what's going to happen between you and him, he's afraid of starting something that'll get too serious, and he's screwed. In big trouble with you."

She'd sat silently, listening to Marisa's take on it, pointing to pieces of her brother's history. Bree had to agree that there was something burning just under the surface. She and Sixto floated on a layer of denial, but once they admitted they wanted to dive into the flames, it would be all-encompassing.

Marisa tried to offer advice on what steps to take next, but Bree thanked her and refused her help. She wanted to tiptoe into this dark forest, not bulldoze through.

Slipping into her robe, Bree went to the living room, humming, but stopped dead in her tracks. The lamp was still on. She'd left it on for Sixto after she finished decorating at around midnight. She spun around and went to the garage door, dread settling heavy in her stomach. Her car sat alone, no truck.

He'd stayed out all night.

Chapter Twenty

Closing the garage door, Bree leaned on it, a sick moan floating out of her chest. The gripping sensation around her heart threatened her equilibrium. Deep breaths. She walked to the lamp and turned it off then went to the kitchen and blindly started making coffee.

Where—and with whom—did Sixto spend the night? Looking in the coffee filter, she saw enough grounds for two and quickly removed the extra.

Damn him… No. Why did she concoct the worst-case scenario? He could have just stayed with friends. Or perhaps with his parents, or at one of his sister's houses.

Sitting on a barstool, she crossed her arms on the counter and dropped her head onto them. But chances were good that he was running scared. She'd pushed him too hard, too fast.

Had she forced him to do something neither of them could forgive?

***

Marisa woke much later than Bree that day, blinking at the light streaming through her childhood bedroom window. She'd  been at Rico's house at midnight when he got a call from a friend in trouble. He told her it was someone she didn't know, but she could see he was lying.

He apologized, asked her to leave, and promised to call in the morning. She'd stomped out, Élian's bedroom door stood open and his room was empty. Was
he
the friend in trouble?

She checked her phone, but Rico hadn't called yet. Walking down the stairs, she heard her mother and Dayami talking in the kitchen. Friday morning and the women were home. Their mother never worked a day in her life. Their father wouldn't have allowed it, even if Mom wanted to do anything other than raise her children.

Dayami worked weekends at Bloomingdales and got Fridays off. And, of course, Marisa was still unemployable. Maybe today she'd try to put a resume together, but her skills consisted of ten years of entertaining children while wearing a tail.

"Good morning."

Estelle hopped up from the big kitchen table. "Good morning, Marisa dear." Her voice was thick with a Cuban accent. "Would you like coffee?"

Her stomach turned over. "Not yet, thanks." She went to the toaster and dropped in a couple pieces of wheat bread.

She turned to find her mother and Dayami gesturing silently to each other. "Charades?"

Dayami pulled a face. "We want to know why your mail is forwarding to a P.O. box."

"Do you?" Marisa walked to the table and put her hands on it, leaning toward her sister. "Why do you think that's any of your business?"

Estelle shook her finger, as if to prevent a fight. "We are concerned that something might be wrong."

"Why?"

"The phone rings," Dayami said. "It's an Orlando number and no one is on the line."

Marisa drew in a sharp breath. Was he looking for her? She tried to make her voice sound neutral. "It might be a coincidence." A drop of panic plunked into her brain and the ripples expanded, surrounding and engulfing her. Her knees wobbled and she pulled out a chair and sat.

Her mother shuffled on slippered feet to the toaster and popped out her toast. She set it in front of her and poured a glass of orange juice for her.

Looking at the toast, smelling the juice, her stomach lurched. She swallowed the fluid that filled her mouth.

Water ran in the sink and a cool, wet cloth slapped against her forehead. Her mother stood beside her, holding it there before kissing top of her head.

"Honey, tell us what is happening. We love you. We can help."

"Oh, Mom." The tears started, she pressed her face to her mother's stomach and wrapped her arms around her. In seconds, sobs overtook her. Dayami came to hold her from the back. Her mother rocked gently and smoothed her hair, just like when she was a child.

She had to tell someone. And since she had no insurance and couldn't afford a therapist, who better than her mother and sister. "Victor used to hit me."

She felt Dayami stiffen.

"My baby girl," Estella said. "You should have told us. We would have gone up there and brought you home."

"Why would you stay with someone who beat you?" Dayami's voice snapped.

She let go of her mother's waist and turned to see tears flowing from her sister's eyes. "He didn't beat me." She held up a hand to stop Dayami's response. "I know, one strike makes it battery. He'd hit me once then immediately apologize. Things would be good for a few months until it happened again."

"You're such a smart person." Dayami looked confused. "And you're so pretty. Why didn't you leave him?"

Estelle leaned across the table for her coffee cup, her hand shaky, her face pale, and sat next to her.

"I loved him," Marisa admitted.

Her mother closed her eyes and swung her head abruptly from side to side. "He did not love you, Marisa." She looked at her, reached over, and brushed her fingers across her cheek. "No person who hits another is in love. They are only controlling them."

Marisa was unnerved by her mother's observation. Who was this wise woman speaking as if she was channeling Mother Teresa? "Mom, you're right, but I didn't figure it out for three years."

"Is that why you never brought him home?" Dayami sat on the other side of her.

She shook her head. "He never wanted me to come home. And when any of you came to Orlando, he'd make sure to be away on business trips." She made a fist with her hand. "Shit." She looked at her mother. "Sorry."

Estella pursed her lips. "Shit is okay for this occasion."

Marisa smiled. "Thanks, Mom." She searched deep inside, opening her heart. "The worst part about it is the embarrassment."

"Why?" Dayami asked.

"I don't want anyone to know what an idiot I was to let a man run my life and hit me when things didn't go the way he wanted."

"No," Estelle said. "You survived and you can help others. I think you should tell your story. Anonymously. In our newspaper. Let people know what you felt when it happened. And show them there is a way out."

It would be difficult to relive it and actually write it down, but probing those turbulent emotions might be cathartic. "I'll think about it."

Estelle patted her hand. "Okay. But…" She looked at Dayami. "These phone calls."

Marisa ran her hands through her hair. "I don't know what to do. I left him a note saying I was done with him and he should get help with his anger. The first few days I couldn't stop looking over my shoulder. After a while, it got better, but now…" Victor was calling. He would never let her go. "I thought I was safe."

"You are safe," Estella squeezed her fingers. "But I will need to tell your father—"

"No!" Her father would round up Sixto and ten cousins and drive to Orlando to kill her ex.

"My sweet girl, he has to know in case that man shows up here."

She looked to heaven for help. After a minute, she said, "You're right. I'll tell Papa tonight."

"You can tell him in ten minutes. He will be home for lunch…Oh!" Her face looked panicked for a second. "I did not make anything for him." She jumped up and opened the refrigerator door. "He will just have to eat leftovers."

Dayami looked at Marisa, as if she could transfer her strength into her. "Do you want us to stay with you?"

"No." Marisa put her head in her hands. "You two go upstairs. I'll fix his lunch." The women left and Marisa stood, her shame and panic nearly making her black out. She ran to the bathroom and threw up, but with nothing in her stomach, all that came out was thick, yellow fluid.

She trembled as she got to her feet and rinsed with mouthwash. In the kitchen, she forced down a piece of toast. Breathing through her mouth, she tried not to smell the food in the Tupperware containers as she made a plate for her father's lunch.

After starting the dish revolving in the microwave, she sat at the table, trembling, waiting to hear his footsteps on the front porch, and trying to decide how to phrase her confession.