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“KISS ME,” LIKE SIXPENCE NONE THE RICHER.
Priscila had been wondering for some time now how she could possibly spend the whole summer making out with her neighbor and then, come September, know nothing of him for the rest of the year. Yes, it was true that Alex didn’t live across the street anymore, dividing his weeks between trips, swimming competitions and training; she knew that. Her parents and older brothers discussed the young Spanish prodigy in her hearing often enough. But still...
They had kissed six times—not counting that chaste kiss when they were seven. Six times in ten years. But Priscila couldn’t stop thinking about it, and even though during the school year those memories were kind of swallowed up by routine and homework, when summer came... Oh, when summer came something in her stomach stirred.
It’s called anticipation—the waiting in eager expectation of an event. Because if they kept going with their summer routine, they were going to kiss again. And that was, to say the least, odd. Extraordinary.
Her friends explained to her that her strange relationship with her neighbor was trendy these days; dating wasn’t fashionable anymore.
Adrián was sure it was because his neighbor had won the Biggest Asshole Award in the annual Asshole World Cup. He was a swimming champion, yes, but an asshole from start to finish.
It was a recurring topic. They discussed their neighbor’s assholeness while watching the Soccer World Cup on television, or listening to the hits of the moment: “Besos” by El Canto del Loco; September’s “Satellites”; “Let Me Out,” by Dover or Madonna’s “Sorry,” Priscila’s favorite.
Then the summer came. It arrived as it did every year: hot, unfettered and yellow. It came full of new bikinis, ice cream, the beach and the swimming pool, braids in her hair and... Alex. Yes. Alex came too.
The first encounter between Alex and Priscila was actually a collision: Priscila was going into the pool area and Alex was coming out. It was ten in the morning and the swimmer had already trained for more than an hour and a half. A little tension between them might have been expected, after so many months without speaking—but there was none.
Alex lifted his head and gave her one of his most special smiles, the one with the dimples.
“Hello, Queen of the Desert,” he greeted her, fully aware that his neighbor didn’t like that nickname. It was obvious in the way she contorted her features when she was addressed that way. He’d noticed.
“Hello, Alejandro,” she answered, amused and annoyed at once.
“See you around,” Alex said nonchalantly as he passed.
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
Alex turned at that and smiled again. And that smile... Oh, that smile was a promise.
A promise that was fulfilled on Saint John’s Eve once again. They kissed by the bonfire—after all, it was one of their most deeply rooted traditions. The boy didn’t even try to pretend; he didn’t care she was surrounded by people, when he saw Priscila arrive at the beach he took her hand gently and asked her to follow, just by looking in her eyes. They sat face to face near the fire and gazed at each other.
“Are you going to kiss me?” she asked, anticipation getting the better of her.
A burst of laughter preceded Alex’s reply. “Do you want me to?”
Priscila shrugged. “Maybe...”
“Just maybe?”
“I don’t know you.”
“What do you want to know?”
“Everything.”
“Everything? That’s a very high price to pay for your kisses... but since I like them so much, I’m willing—once in a while—to tell you something that nobody else knows about me.”
“Like a secret?”
“Yes, like a secret.”
“Okay.”
But that night, they didn’t kiss until it was almost time to go; they were too busy trying to learn each other. And no secrets were revealed either, although Alex was eager to tell her. He’d felt it in that kiss under the water—that it was okay to share his secrets with her; that he could trust her. The water had whispered tell her, tell her. But baby steps, he’d decided. He wanted to start by telling her that his parents spent all day working and that, as long as he could remember, it had always been his brother who took care of him. John was the one who had taken him to the school bus stop, the one who picked him up, who spent afternoons with him at home, helped him with his homework...
He didn’t think his parents were... bad parents. They really thought he was okay, being with his brother. They didn’t realize how different the St. Claire brothers were. John had been an easy kid, happy to sit in the park and have fun playing alone with his toys. A quiet, conformist sort of kid; the sort who entertained themselves and were kind of detached from their parents. But Alex wasn’t like that. He needed his mom and dad, he wanted to spend time playing with them, or cuddling on the couch watching a movie on a winter afternoon. And how could his brother know—being only twenty and all that—that Alex had trouble at night? That he needed a hug, a kiss?
So Alex began to pretend to be someone else, someone who didn’t need anything. He began to play brave, cool, even if deep down all he wanted was love, for people to want to be with him, to choose to spend time with him. He became remote, cold even. He barely talked to his parents anymore, and never about important things. Just everyday banalities.
