I came out of the water and picked up my clothes. Damian kept his gaze averted. When I stepped out of the shower, my black-and-blond hair freshly shampooed, he was waiting for me in the bedroom.
“Let me see your finger.” He slipped off the wet, dirty bandage and inspected it. It was healing, although parts of it were still tender. “This will work better.” He’d made me a wooden splint, padded on all sides, but not so bulky as to get in the way.
I sat on the bed and let him slip it on.
“How does that feel?” he asked, securing it with Band-Aids.
“Good.” Really, really good. Look at me like that again. With softness in your eyes. “What about you?” I traced the stitches on his temple. One, two, three, four. Four crisscross latches.
“I’m fine,” he said, but he let my fingers rest on his skin.
He was kneeling on the floor. His other hand hadn’t moved from mine, even though the splint was now secured. Our eyes were level; there was nowhere to hide.
Whenever MaMaLu had sung about the Sierra Morena Mountains, I’d thought of Damian’s eyes. I didn’t know what those mountains looked like, but I always imagined they were just as dark, with ebony forests and caves of coal. Of course, I had no idea back then that the bandits lying in wait would be my own—my feelings, leaping from friendship to this falling, fluttering ambush that came at me from all sides.
Damian had thieving, stealing contraband eyes, and when they fell on my mouth, they robbed me of all breath and thought. I wondered if he was feeling the same undeniable pull, if his heart was racing as fast as mine, if past and present were making out like wild teenagers in the back seat of his mind.
A drop of water trickled from my hair to the shadow between my breasts. There was nothing separating me from Damian, except my towel. My heart was open—my lips, my skin, my eyes—all bare and naked. And in the end, that was my undoing, his undoing, because Damian could take my finger, but not my heart.
So, he let go of my hand and left the room.
I HAD FORGOTTEN THE TASTE of plump, juicy mangoes eaten right off the tree. The mangoes on the island were small, but remarkably sweet. I could fit three in the palm of my hand and when I peeled off the soft, thick skin, the juice dripped down my arms and turned into a sticky mess. I had to watch for ants as I ate them, especially if any got on my legs. Those suckers loved mango nectar and there were times when they went places I did not appreciate. It was a price I was willing to pay, for the pleasure of sitting in the shade of a mango tree, and sinking my teeth into the soft, orange flesh. The best was when I could fit a whole mango in my mouth and suck on it until all that remained was the dry, bearded pit.
The ripest, heaviest fruit fell off the tree on its own, so there was always some on the ground, but it was bruised or picked over by bugs and animals. Damian climbed the tree and shook the branches while I stood beneath, trying to catch them in a wicker basket.
“Ouch,” I said for the fifth time when one bounced off my head. “Not yet! On five, okay?”
It was one of those things that we fell into so automatically that even Damian didn’t notice. And it worked perfectly. I was still admiring our little haul when the sky broke loose. It wasn’t a nice, gentle drizzle; it was like being splashed with a big wave at the end of a water ride. The tropical shower unleashed more mangoes on my head. I turned the wicker basket upside down over me to shield myself. All the mangoes we’d picked ricocheted off my head. I started running for cover, but the ground was quickly turning to mud and I had to dislodge one foot before pulling out the other. Damian jumped from the tree and was a few feet ahead of me, caught in the same predicament, except he was heavier so he sank lower with each step. We looked like two wet zombies, limbs stiff and awkward, making a run from the crypt.
Damian turned around when I started laughing. He took one look at me, with the upside basket perched on my head, ankle-deep in mud and guck, and started laughing too.