Then the floor opened and Hector swept me into his rebellious arms.
“You look hot tonight, Kaye. Your hair’s really curly, kind of like Shirley Temple, but all twisted up and stuff.”
“That’s borderline pedo, Hector.”
“Eh. I get the whole eggplant dress thing now. Yum.”
“You clean up really nice.”
His white teeth gleamed brighter than the starched linen surrounding us. “With you all sexy in this pretty dress, I couldn’t look like a bum.”
I laughed and let him swing me across the floor.
When the next song began, my eyes skimmed through ebullient dancing limbs for Samuel. He was across the floor, circling with Caroline, her arm snaking around his neck. Grinding my teeth, I grabbed Hector for another dance. Then Santiago. And then my father. Finally, my nonsensical jealousy subsided and I decided to hunt down Samuel for a dance. But when I turned around, a light blinded me. My hands flew to my eyes, blocking the camera flash.
“Murphy! What the heck?”
“Sorry, Kaye, I need a picture to post on my
WS
blog. Hey, you wanna dance?” Before I could object, Alan grabbed my hand and pulled me back onto the dance floor.
I’d finally found someone who was worse than Santiago and me. Alan mercilessly stomped my toes in a junior-high swaying sort of way as he rambled about how awesome it was to dance with Neelie Nixie (despite my insistence she was fictional—I began to sound like Samuel). More than once, he whipped out his phone and snapped a picture, even kissed my cheek. Before the night was out, they’d probably be posted on some Neelie Nixie fan site.
“Hey, Kaye, before you leave can you sign my book?”
“Um…okay.”
I followed Murphy back to his table, where several of his friends mooned up at me over
tres leche
. Grabbing Alan’s pen, I hurriedly scrawled my name in the front cover and flipped it shut. Thankfully, my father spotted me and waved me over. Returning Alan’s pen, I excused myself and shuffled through the crowd, grateful to be away from the scrutiny of twenty-eight-year-old horndogs.
“Hey, flower.”
Dad had finagled an outdated tie and sport coat for the wedding, and was decidedly awkward in it. I hugged his neck and straightened the tie.
“You look really handsome, Coach Trilby. Where’s Audrey?”
He hugged my shoulders. “At the bar. You’re real pretty too, Kaye. Nice toast, by the way. Almost made me want to get hitched, myself.”
I noticed Samuel beyond my father, making his way through the crowd in our direction. His great aunt from Ciudad Victoria (Bonita? Belinda?) swooped in and patted his cheeks with gnarled fingers. He politely nodded, sipping a cola as they conversed in Spanish. At eighty-something, she was slightly deaf and had a tendency to speak loudly. I had to step closer to my father to hear him, but I couldn’t turn off my internal translator.
“What was that, Dad?”
“…and so handsome.”
“I said not to break a leg in those heels. Say, how’s Hector?”
“He’s as happy as a clam after all the free food and beer the past couple of nights. See him out on the dance floor? That’s two G and Ts at work, right there.” My dad watched my date, scratched his ponytailed hair.
“All of the Cabrals are so proud of you, Samuel…”
“Quite a dancer, isn’t he? Just don’t let him drive you home, now…”
“…so difficult, especially after your father died…”
I started at the mention of Samuel’s father. Holding up a hand, I halted our conversation and brazenly listened. My father frowned at my eavesdropping.
“Well, yes,” Samuel answered.
“You are so much like her, you know—your American mother. She had that same lovely brow, and such a beautiful voice. And the way you smile just takes me back…”
I chanced a look at Samuel. His face blanched, paleness ringing pressed lips. His hands balled into fists so tight, his knuckles turned bone white. His aunt didn’t notice.
“Definitely your mother’s boy, even your eyes. What did your father call them? Blue skies? Sky something?”
Samuel rasped an answer, too quiet to hear.
Aunt Bonita or Belinda clapped her hands. “Sky-Eyes! That’s right. Well, you’d have made them really proud, Samuel—”
Samuel cut her off with a muttered apology and darted into the darkness, away from the white lights and canopies.
“Dad, I’ll chat with you later, okay?” I pecked his cheek and chased Samuel into the night before my father could stop me.
I wasn’t the only one who’d noticed Samuel’s bizarre reaction to his aunt’s words. Alonso was also hot on my heels. Samuel tripped up the stairs of the house and stumbled down the hallway, toward the bathroom. I halted, unsure of whether I should enter. Alonso brushed past me and pushed through the door. I caught a glimpse of pale blue tile and Samuel collapsing to his knees, and then the door swung shut in my face.
“Samuel?” I mouthed to the closed door.
What just happened? I’d never, not once, seen anything affect Samuel so swiftly, so violently. On the surface, his aunt’s comments were harmless. So he looked like his birth mother—wasn’t that to be expected? I’d learned a long time ago that conversation about Antonio Cabral and Rachel Caulfield Cabral upset him, but that was years ago. Why on earth would a thirty-year-old man still react so negatively?
Enough was enough. I’d be damned if I’d let Alonso handle this one without me. Mustering my courage, I pushed through the bathroom door, not even bothering to knock. It creaked shut behind me.
Retching sounds echoed from the corner of the room, beyond the washstand. Samuel hunched over a toilet, his fingers clinging to the rim as he heaved. His father crouched behind him, rubbed his shoulders. Neither one of them saw I’d entered.
“Another migraine?”
Samuel shook his head, his entire body trembling from exertion. “I’m fine, Dad. Just didn’t sleep well last night.”
Worried brown eyes swept over his son, taking in his worn appearance. He opened his mouth to say something, but Samuel gave a little shake of his head, staring up at me with blood-shot eyes.
Alonso frowned. “You need to sleep.”
“I’m
fine
, Dad,” he repeated, his eyes not leaving mine.
“Are you still—”
“Yes.”
Alonso followed Samuel’s gaze, seeing me for the first time.
An uneasy feeling settled into the pit of my stomach over the exchange. This was more than just passing concern. And even though Samuel played it down, fear still lingered in his father’s face. Alonso all but confirmed my worry: revisiting our troubled past wasn’t just taking an emotional toll on Samuel. It was affecting his physical well-being.
But just as fear crept through me, it cleared from Alonso’s face and he smiled, giving his son’s shoulders a brief pat.
“Sorry, Samuel. Once a father, always a father.” It happened so quickly, I wondered if I’d even seen the fear at all. But I wasn’t so easily appeased.
“You aren’t
fine
, Samuel.” My voice quaked. “Don’t pretend you are.”
Alonso took a step toward me and gestured to the door. “
Mija
, you probably need to step out for a while. Give Samuel some air.”
“No. I’m not leaving until someone tells me what’s wrong.”
“Kaye,” he stated, more firmly, “you need to go.”
I turned to my former father-in-law, stubbornly planting my feet. “I’m. Not. Leaving.”
He sighed and reached for my arm. For a moment, I thought he would bodily drag me from the room, but he just ran frustrated hands through his gray-streaked hair, at a loss.
“Kaye…”
“Dad, I want her to stay.”
Samuel pulled himself up and took my hand, tugging me to him. I wrapped my fingers around his, a united front, despite the knowledge those fingers had clutched a toilet bowl seconds earlier.
Alonso studied Samuel, then me, some unreadable emotion passing through his face. He relented.
“If you think it’s best, son. I should return to the reception, anyway.” He stepped around me, giving my shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Don’t hole up in here forever, okay, kids?”
The door swung shut behind him, leaving us in silence. I dug through the medicine cabinet and found a bottle of mouthwash. When he was done rinsing, I sank down across from him, a clownish task in heels and fluffy skirt.
“Kaye, your dress.”
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
Samuel pulled up his knees, resigned. I wrapped my arms around them and rested my cheek on his kneecaps. For two full minutes, we stared. In the silence, conversations and well-wishes floated through the house as guests and vendors entered and exited, the screen door ceaselessly thudding. I kneaded circles against Samuel’s legs with my thumbs, waiting. Finally, he spoke.
“You shouldn’t want to be around me, Kaye.”
“That’s a different tune than the one you sang yesterday. What’s changed?”
“I read your letter last night.” He pulled the piece of paper from his inside pocket and held it up, absently crushing it in his fist.
“I figured as much.”
“I didn’t know. I never believed I could hurt you the way I did.” Samuel reached out and rubbed away a lipstick smudge from the corner of my mouth. Then he dropped his hand, as if he were ashamed to even touch me.
“I see someone attacked you with foundation,” I murmured, brushing his healing nose, the week-old injury barely visible.
Samuel caught my pointing finger and drew my entire hand into his. “Kaye, remember what I said about letting me take the knock-out when I need it? Well, I really, really need to feel this one.”
I shook my head. “No, Samuel.”
“I need to feel that same pain I caused you in New York.” He began to choke up. “The things I did and said to you…”
“You’re getting worked up again, and it’s not helping.” I pulled my hand back.
He looked at me incredulously. “I violated every single marriage vow within a handful of minutes. I wasn’t loving or faithful, I didn’t honor you—”
“Samuel, please stop.”
“—or even protect you. The shock you were in…What if you’d left the brownstone? What if those drunk guys—”
I tightened my grip on his knees. “
Samuel
. You need to breathe.” His face twisted as he grappled for control. He took a deep breath. “Take another. And then you need to calmly tell me what this was that I just saw. A panic attack?”
He offered me a half smile, the fakeness of it marring his otherwise handsome face. Today had been tough on him—on both of us. Samuel gently pried my fingers from his knees, wincing as my manicured nails relinquished their grip. His eyes on mine, he brought both hands to his lips and kissed them, running his thumbs over the tendons trailing from each knuckle. I sighed and returned them to his knees, resting my chin there.
“Tell me what happened to your parents,” I whispered.
His head fell against the wall tiles, eyes closing. “I can’t. Not yet.”
“Why not?”
“Because…there are other things. Things I need to explain. And this all just takes time.”
“Samuel, the mere mention of your parents made you vomit into a toilet. This is really serious.”
“Most days I can handle it better, believe me. Today is more stressful.” His eyes cracked open and bright slits of blue greeted me, pleading for understanding. “Please, Firecracker, let me tell you when I’m ready. I swear I will tell you.”
I nearly acquiesced to his pleading, gave in to that damaged, haunted boy, circling in that endless hole of forward and retreat. All the old fears surfaced—that if I didn’t back off, I’d lose him forever, that I had to protect this fragile thing floating between us. But love is not meant to be fragile, and regret is a hard thing to live with. I remembered:
Perhaps I should have pushed.
And if I didn’t push now, then I’d lose him forever.
I shook my head. “No.”
“What?”
“I said no. No, I won’t wait. For years I waited for the tiniest crumbs of information from you, telling myself that this was painful, that you’d open up some day because you trusted me and loved me. But you never did. So no more waiting.”
His back stiffened in cageyness. “That sounds a lot like an ultimatum, Kaye.”
“I suppose it is.”
“And if I don’t tell you? What?”
“You want to earn my trust? Well, you’ve got to trust me back. When there’s no trust…nothing. We shake hands and maybe see each other in a few years.”
He shot up from his slouch. “Bullshit! I’m
trying
, Kaye. Do you have any concept of how much I want to make this right? But maybe I’m a little reluctant to drag you down a path that would be extraordinarily unfair to you. Maybe I don’t want to hurt you, to watch you throw your life away trying to fix someone that can’t be fixed!”
I ripped my hand from his sweaty grip, wiped the dampness on my dress. “Now I call bullshit. This has nothing to do with self-sacrifice. It’s plain old self-preservation! You’re not protecting me, Samuel, your protecting
yourself.
It’s always about protecting yourself. That’s the
real
reason you ran away to New York.”