“There is no Esteban. Esteban died a long time ago.” He pulled me up and trapped me against the counter. “There is only Damian. And you don’t defy or escape or seduce Damian. And you sure as hell don’t fantasize about him,” he spit out.
I blinked, trying to come to terms with the fact that the boy I’d worshiped and the man I abhorred were one and the same, but I couldn’t bridge the bleak, black chasm in-between. It started stretching, opening, swallowing me up. The ground was disappearing from under my feet.
“Skye.” Damian shook me, but it only made the crack inside me worse. I felt myself falling into it, welcoming the nothingness that enveloped me.
WHEN I CAME AROUND, DAMIAN was sleeping next to me.
Yes, Dah-me-yahn.
Because that’s who he was now. I tried to look for the boy I’d known, but there was no place for him to hide in the harsh planes of Damian’s face. He had been twelve years old the last time I’d seen him. Fifteen years had changed him into the man before me now, taken away the softness, the expressions, deepened his voice, hardened his heart. The moon turned his skin a silvery-blue and accentuated the shadow of his brows and nose. He was sleeping shirtless for the first time, as if he was done with all the masks and layers and pretenses. For all I knew, he wasn’t wearing a stitch under the covers.
I inched away from him, towards the edge of the bed. Something wet and lumpy shifted under me. A thawed out bag of frozen veggies for my cheek.
That’s right, Damian. Slap me and ice me better.
Can’t kill me, but can’t let me go either.
I finally understood what I had seen in his eyes. Black battling Black. Damian keeping Esteban at bay. Cruelty with glimpses of mercy. Friendship holding vengeance back by a thread.
I couldn’t understand his actions, but there was obviously bad blood between my father and Damian, and I needed to figure it out. As far as I knew, the last time the two had been together was the day of my ninth birthday, when my father had asked Victor to enroll him in Miss Edmond’s class.
Esteban had never showed. I had woken up and waited for MaMaLu, but she never came—not that day, or the next, or the day after that. When one of the maids came in and started packing my clothes in a large trunk, I threw a tantrum.
“Why is Abella putting my things away?” I asked when my father arrived. “Where is MaMaLu?”
“We’re going to San Diego, Skye.” My father folded the papers he was holding and rubbed his temples. “We’ll be away for a while. MaMaLu took another job.”
“You never said anything about going away! When? MaMaLu and Esteban would never leave without saying goodbye.”
“Skye, I know you’ve always thought of them as family, but they go where MaMaLu’s work takes her. I’m sure they just wanted to make this easy for you.”
“I don’t believe you.” I pushed him away. “I’m not going anywhere until I see them.”
“Those can stay,” my father said to Abella, who was tucking away the paper creations that Esteban had made for me.
“I’m not leaving those behind!” I grabbed the box from her.
“We only have room for important stuff, Skye, and we have to be quick about it. We leave for the airport soon. I need you to help Abella, and get ready. Can you do that, Skye?”
“No! I won’t! I’m not going anywhere. I’m not packing anything. You go.”
“Skye—”
“You’re always gone anyways. I’m staying here, and when MaMaLu finds out, she’ll come back and we’ll—”
“Skye!”
I don’t know which of us was more surprised when he slapped me. It was hard and sharp, and it stung. The box fell out of my hands and we both stared at the paper animals lying at our feet.
“When are you going to understand that they’re just the help?” said my father. “They’re not blood, they’re not family. The only person you can count on is me. And the only person I can count on is you. Everything else and everyone else will come and go. If MaMaLu and Esteban want to see you, they will find a way. And you can write to them. As often as you like. But we have to leave now, Skye. We don’t have a choice.”
And so I’d gone, even though I kept turning back as we left Casa Paloma. I thought I heard Esteban calling my name, but all I saw through the rear window were plumes of dust as we drove down the dirt road. I turned back when we left Mexico. I turned back when we landed in the States. I turned back every time I saw a boy with skin like Esteban, and I turned back every time I caught a glimpse of long, dark hair adorned with flowers.
After a while, I stopped turning back because MaMaLu and Esteban never replied to the strawberry scented letters I sent, or the carefully glued photo collages I made: This is my new school. This is my new room. This is my new address. This is my new hair cut because my hair grew too long and there’s no one to brush it for me, now. I miss you, MaMaLu. Write back, Esteban. On five, okay?