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December 2012
By December, Priscila was settled in Boston. Not happily settled, but settled. That was something.
Adrián had arrived in Massachusetts’ big city not long after her, just as he’d promised at the airport that September 28th, although—luckily for the family finances—it hadn’t been necessary to charter an entire plane.
Once the two siblings met at the hotel, once they were face to face, feeling and touching each other to make sure they both were okay, Priscila let it all out. They sat cross-legged on the bed, Priscila speaking fast and unable to stop crying; it hurt too much. It hurt like when she fell face first from the swing and scraped her knees; like when that dog pushed her off the road to protect her from a car and she ended up with her face on the asphalt and two missing teeth—the upper front ones; like when they had to fix her back tooth without anesthesia because it was too swollen.
Adrián couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It couldn’t be possible. He’d seen how Alexander St. Claire looked at his sister, how he treated her, how he’d kissed her that summer night at the beach when they were thirteen, how he kissed the ground she walked on... How he loved her. Adrián himself had helped him clean up and fix the house on the mountain he bought in the months before the wedding—all the Cabana brothers had. The neighbor from the house across the street had wanted it to be as perfect as possible when Priscila moved in with him. Something didn’t add up.
“It can’t be, Pris. You must’ve misunderstood. A hug is just that—a hug. It doesn’t have to mean anything, nothing sexual or dirty. That girl is his brother’s girlfriend, they’ve been together for ages; something must have happened, and he was just comforting her... I don’t know. There has to be an explanation.”
“Okay.” Priscila stretched out her arm and grabbed the cell phone her brother had left on the nightstand next to the bed. She logged into her email account and her heart skipped a beat as she saw several messages from Alex in her inbox. She ignored them all, barely saw a few words, and opened the one with the photo. Not wanting to see it again, she handed the phone to Adrián without looking. “Did I also misunderstand this?”
He recognized his brother-in-law’s room in his parents’ house immediately; he’d been there before.
“Tell me, Adrián. Tell me! Tell me I’ve misunderstood.” The crying returned with a vengeance and Priscila got up from the bed; she couldn’t stay still. “Tell me, please. Please,” she whispered, begging.
“Fuck, it can’t be possible.”
For a fraction of a second, Priscila had maintained the hope, the delusion, that everything had an explanation. Those five words brought her back to reality like a punch, and the world came crashing down on her again. Because it was real; there was no room for doubt or misinterpretation. She sat on the floor and cried. She cried a lot.
A few days passed while they tried to assimilate everything. While Priscila cried, Adrián went out to buy some clothes—underwear, a pair of pants, some sweaters, personal hygiene items, a couple of backpacks and a coat—for each of them. Fall in Boston was harsh and cold, and they’d come from a warm climate in just thin long-sleeved shirts, not enough for the wind, humidity, and rain in this city.
Adrián also talked with their family, with every single one of them. Four times with their mother, all to assure her of the same thing: Priscila just needed time to think and she couldn’t do it in their hometown. It was a half-truth that didn’t convince anyone. They all knew something had happened with Alex, that was an established fact. But as soon as any of them mentioned him, Adrián shut down. He didn’t want to know—neither did Priscila. So they stopped insisting, at least for the moment.
Adrián also asked Marcos to access Priscila’s Google Drive account—the four brothers knew her password since their little sister used it for everything—and download her resume, the one she’d been preparing with such care over the months after the wedding. He instructed his brother to proofread it, translate it, and send it to every Boston newspaper and magazine without exception. If he had to send two hundred emails, so be it.
Reluctantly—because he didn’t understand what the hell they were doing in Boston, and even less why his sister needed to “disconnect” and find a job there—Marcos did what Adrián asked, and without delay. Despite not agreeing, despite no one explaining what was really going on, his loyalty to his siblings won the day. Sometimes, there was no room for questions between them. This was one of those times—probably the most prominent of their lives to date.
Two weeks later, Priscila got a call from The Boston Globe. They wanted to know if she’d be interested in an internship the following year. The call was not a fluke: Priscila Cabana had an excellent academic record, as well as fluent English; she loved journalism and had enjoyed every day of her degree. It was a great opportunity, and she couldn’t let it pass by. She got out of bed, cleaned up, and prepared for the interview, which would take place a week later.
The days passed quickly, and the appointment arrived. It went pretty well; she was interviewed by one of the older editors and they had good vibes from the beginning—Priscila was a people person, always had been. She was hopeful.
As she was leaving the offices, she saw a “roommate wanted” on one of the walls. They’d been looking for an apartment—they couldn’t stay in the hotel forever, she’d have to send their parents a year’s salary to pay them back already. If she landed the job. So she tore off one of the ads and, after sharing her thoughts about the interview, she gave it to her brother.
The person looking for a roomie was a guy by the name of Jamie, who worked at the newspaper. Priscila wasn’t too excited about his being a workmate—if she ended up working there—but she hadn’t found anywhere else she liked.
So Priscila contacted this Jamie and met him that same afternoon to see the apartment. They talked over a few things, including the possibility of her becoming part of the newspaper, and Priscila let him know that she could move in right away—that same day even, since she was kind of in a hurry—but the guy said he’d call her back in a couple days.
He did it the next day.
And there they went: the two Cabanas, moving Pris into her new apartment. Well, it wasn’t a move, strictly speaking.
When Jamie opened the door and saw them, each with only a backpack on their shoulders, something didn’t compute. “And the suitcases?” he asked.
“This is all I have.” She pointed to the small duffel bag slung over one shoulder, identical to her brother’s but in a different color.
Jamie thought they were both very cute; homeless, probably, but very cute.
“Fuck, are you an indigent? If the Global hire you, do I have to talk to the accounting department so your payroll goes directly to my account?”
“She’ll pay, don’t worry. Can we come in?” Adrián pushed past without waiting for permission.
“Go ahead... blondie,” Jamie said, not taking his eyes off him. “Is he your boyfriend?” he asked the girl then, once he’d closed the front door. “Because sex is forbidden in this house.”
“He’s my brother.”
“Really? Great, because the sex prohibition was a joke. Fuck all you want in this house.”
