WHEN I WOKE UP, I was still facedown on the deck. The stars were out and Damian had covered me with a blanket. It was late May or early June. I had lost track of the days, but I knew we were heading south, somewhere along the Pacific coast of Baja Mexico.
I was born in Mexico, birthed by a midwife at Casa Paloma. Mexico had been home for nine years, but I had never been back. I wondered how far we were from Paza del Mar, and if MaMaLu had retired there, and bought a white house with a red tile roof—the kind she’d always stopped to admire on our way to the market. I wondered if Esteban put in a wrought iron fence and helped her plant flowers in the yard. It would be small, of course, because MaMaLu never dared to dream big, and she was always afraid when Esteban did. Even then, he had been larger than life, and no one, and nothing was going to stand in his way. And if he knew someone had abducted me, he would find me and rescue me, and God help Damian.
Maybe he already knew. Maybe he’d heard the news. Maybe he believed I was dead, just like my father. Either way, Esteban would not rest until he had Damian. He was my hero, my champion, my lean, mean, Gidiot-punching machine. I could picture him in pirate garb and a fake eye-patch, commanding a ship from Paza del Mar, scouring the seas for me.
I smiled, because the brain can conjure up the most ridiculous, improbable scenarios that are so far off center, you have to wonder at the power of imagination. Even in his absence, Esteban was keeping the bad guys and bad thoughts at bay.
I heard the scrape of something on the deck.
Damian was unfolding a deck chair. He propped it up beside his, with a small table separating the two.
“Eat.” He motioned to the plate on the table, before digging into his own. One hand held a bag of ice over his jaw, where I’d hit him.
I got up warily, not knowing what to expect. Food? Punishment? Retaliation? But he said nothing as I took the seat next to him. Maybe he was just as tired and wrung out as me. I was suddenly aware of being pant-less, and wrapped the blanket tighter around myself.
Dinner was the same as always. Fish and rice. Maybe a different kind of fish, but always the same rice. I guess it was convenient—it didn’t spoil and it did the job. Simple, uncomplicated rice.
We ate in silence, watching the half-moon that rose in the sky. It was bright and warm, like a slice of powdered lemon candy. Without any lights to obscure them, the stars were dazzling and diamond clear. Big bands of light glowed in the water as swirls of fish streaked phosphorescent trails below the surface. Larger, darker forms chased after them and they danced like whirling dervishes around the boat.
It was better than any fashion show—the shine and sparkle and music of the night. The water was miles and miles of midnight velvet, and we were bobbing up and down on it like a piece of lint, small and insignificant in the face of its majesty.
I thought of all the nights I’d spent in temperature controlled clubs and restaurants, under artificial lights, drinking artificial cocktails with artificial friends. Artificial problems. Artificial drama. How many real, glorious nights had I missed? Nights like this, when the universe dances for you, and you become a tiny but beautiful note of the magical song it sings.
“Skye,” said Damian, but I couldn’t stop the tears.
It was like a great, big cleansing. All the good and bad and sad and glad broke loose.
I hated being weak in front of him. I hated when he picked me up and I clung to him. I hated when he carried me downstairs and put me in the shower. I hated when he wiped me dry and helped me dress. I hated when he put medicine and a fresh bandage on my finger. I hated when he tucked me in and turned off the lights. I hated that I wanted him to stay and hold me and stroke my hair, because that Stockholm syndrome shit? I hated that it was happening to me.
I AWOKE THE NEXT MORNING to what sounded like dozens of canons being hurled into the sea. We were under attack—someone had caught up to us. I ran up the stairs, expecting to be surrounded by a fleet of boats, with my father holding a loudspeaker:
Come out with your hands in the air.
He’d see me and I was alive! And three kisses would turn into six, and nine, and twelve.
Thank God you got here, Dad, because it was just me and Damian, and he cut my finger, and I was surrounded by sharks, and he left me, but it was just dolphins, you see, and then I saw a real night, and something was starting to happen, and my head wasn’t right and—
There were no boats. No loudspeaker. No Dad.