It was as if some alarm inside of me was going off, blaring, “You’re running out of time, you’re running out of time!” and I kept hitting snooze, over and over and over again. I started fidgeting in my seat, running the napkin through my hands, playing with my hair, trying to keep my thoughts distracted and my digits occupied.
It was a losing game. Eventually, after the dessert was finished and everyone was just drinking and talking, Mateo noticed.
He had been deep in a conversation with Jorge about something or other when he leaned in close and whispered in my ear, hot breath on my neck, “Are you okay?”
I swallowed the brick in my throat and nodded.
The next thing came out of nowhere.
“Are you afraid to be with me?” he asked softly, his lips now brushing my earlobes. Perhaps by accident. Perhaps not.
I stiffened. I knew what to say. I would say, “No” and leave it at that. But there was so much in his voice, so much want, sincerity, and emotion that I knew I couldn’t lie to him.
“Right now I am,” I admitted just loud enough for him to hear. But we were in a room full of people, their laughter and words bouncing off the stone grey walls, and that’s all I was going to say.
I had to get some air.
I quickly got to my feet and pushed my chair back and went for the staircase. I breathed a giant sigh of relief when I pushed the door open at the top and saw that the patio was completely empty. It was also totally beautiful.
It was a brick courtyard with a tall wall around it lit up by fairy lights and covered in flowering vines. A small fountain with a cherub was in the center while in the corners there were giant terra-cotta pots filled with purple and blue flowers. There were a few tables and ashtrays, empty beer bottles stacked on the end of one, as if someone was going to bring them all downstairs but just forgot.
I closed my eyes and breathed in the air. Though we were in the town, the air was pure and wonderful, balmy compared to the cellar. After all those days of rain, the warmth invigorated me, brought some clarity into my alcohol-infused, heart-frazzled, hormone-frenzied veins.
The clarity didn’t last for long. I heard the patio screen door close and I immediately knew who was behind me.
“Vera,” Mateo said hoarsely.
I slowly turned my head to glance at him over my shoulder. “Yeah?”
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
What was I supposed to say to that? He knew how I felt; he had to. Everyone else knew how I felt, why couldn’t he?
I sat down at the nearest picnic table and wished I had brought something with me to drink.
At that thought, the patio door opened again. I looked up to see Jorge holding Mateo’s half-finished beer.
“Jerry is going to start giving out awards for the program soon,” he said cautiously, knowing he wasn’t wanted. “He wants everyone to be present.”
I thought Mateo would have said something to that, but he didn’t. He was still staring at me, waiting for an answer to his question. He ignored Jorge, and instead pulled up a chair, sitting his large frame down across from me.
The silence crackled above our heads like a live wire. I could feel Jorge’s eyes on us as he reluctantly placed Mateo’s drink on the table and walked away. Part of me wished for him to come back, to break up the tension and the startling intensity in Mateo’s eyes. The other part was selfishly glad Jorge was leaving us in peace. Alone.
I broke away from Mateo, focusing instead on his bottle of Aguila and the condensation that ran down the sides, looking blissfully cool in the sticky night air. Through all the weeks of joking, talking, the innocent physical contact, now I was astutely nervous about being alone with him. It wasn’t so much that I was afraid of him—I was afraid of me. Especially since that remark at dinner, I’d been afraid of what I’d do to him, how I’d break that moral code I promised for myself.
He’s married, he’s married, he’s married, I told myself, watching a drop of water race down the beer to the table. His wife is beautiful and lovely, his daughter is sweet, and you aren’t either of those things.
But I could only tell myself that so many times.
“Vera,” he said thickly. “Vera, look at me.” His voice was commanding, reaching a depth I hadn’t heard before.
My eyes slowly slid over to him. I tried to speak but could only suck in my lip, probably taking all my lipstick off.
“Show me the stars again,” he said. His eyes speared me like nothing else, his face becoming dangerously handsome.
I looked up to the clear sky to see the stars, but he came over to me, reached out, and grabbed my hand. His touch was hot, like his fingers were searing into my skin, that feeling of entering a hot tub on a cold night. I couldn’t help the shiver that ran gently down my spine.
“Not those stars,” he said huskily, leaning forward. His lips were wet and slightly open. “Your stars. Why I call you Estrella.”
I swallowed hard, my pulse burning. I turned around in my chair so my back was to him and lifted up my hair, gathering it on top of my head.
His chair scraped loudly on the ground as he got up, a sound that struck a new kind of fear in me.
No. Not fear.
Anticipation.
I heard him stop right behind me. I held my breath, wondering what he was going to do.
One rough finger pressed down against the back of my neck, right on the spine where the tattoo began. I closed my eyes to the feeling, the currents it caused, traveling all the way down, making me wet. Jesus, I needed to get a hold of myself.
“What star is this?” he asked, sounding like silk. I could wrap myself in his voice.
“Alpheratz,” I whispered, as if I was letting him in on a secret. Maybe I was.
His finger slid diagonally down, a trail of fire across the Pegasus line. “And this one?”
“Markab.”
“Why Pegasus?”
I paused, the truth on my lips. Fuck it. We’d been nothing but honest with each other. “Because I want to fly free. And there’s no place higher than the stars.”
He didn’t say anything for a few beats. I was tempted to turn around, to look at him, but I didn’t want him to take his finger off my neck. I was leaving in three days. He was going back to his family. This was all I had, his skin on my stars.
He leaned in, his hot breath at my neck. “Are you afraid that love will clip your wings?”
His words sank into me, making my blood buzz. Love. This was too hazardous a subject to discuss with him. Not now. Not ever. With my breath shaking, I inched my neck away from his mouth and turned to face him.
“No,” I said, looking him straight in the eye. “I’m afraid that losing love will.”
His expression softened. He looked at my lips, his beautifully long eyelashes casting shadows on his tawny skin.
“Then that makes two of us,” he whispered softly, and for a long second I thought he was going to get it over with and finally kiss me, to put an end to this strain between us, the yearning that made me ache inside. But he straightened up, his gaze avoiding mine, and went to retrieve his beer from the table.
I watched him take a long sip and put the bottle back down. He started for the restaurant.
“You know, I can’t pretend any longer,” I blurted out, surprising myself.
I had reached my limit.
He had stopped, standing absolutely still, his back to me. He was either going to start walking again or he was going to turn around. I held in my breath.