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“Fuck, Pris,” is the only answer I get two hours later. “Fuck.”
“What do I do now? What the hell do I do?” I ask them both, my voice strangled by all the feelings welling up from remembering all this.
Adrián opens his mouth to speak for the first time in two hours, but he’s interrupted by the sound of my bedroom door slamming open.
“Guys, still in bed? There’s a jet ski race on the beach, I just signed up! Are you coming?” Marcos asks us, sticking his head out, excited as a child.
In this town, jet ski races are like beach bar openings: frequent and plentiful. And today is also the first day of the town festival, which begins at noon with an open-air dance on the beach—loudspeakers and loud music. Later, they’ll set up a huge row of tables full of food and drink on the promenade for people to buy whatever they want. Long story short: we’ll go out early and come home early too, and by that I mean early as in the next morning early. It’s going to be a crazy weekend.
Adrián, Jaime, and I exchange a glance. This conversation isn’t over, but I need a break; I accept Marcos’ proposal for the three of us.
We get dressed and head for the beach, but not before I warn Jaime and Adrián they’re not getting out of telling me about the yacht bathroom. I want to know what happened there.
We go straight to the little wooden jet ski rental stand on the beach and meet Hugo and River there, in the middle of the crowd signing up for the race. I glance over each face, looking for my parents, but they haven’t arrived yet; they’re probably organizing everything in the store. I do see Alex, though. His hair is wet. He’s wearing a green life jacket and that yellow swimsuit that shows his package oh-so-clearly. My heart goes bump, bump, bump, of course. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been talking about him for hours, recalling our shared past, or if it’s just something that’s always going to happen whenever I see him.
“Is Alex racing?” I ask Marcos, who’s next to me signing some papers, picking up his vest and whatever else.
“Of course he’s going to race. Alex is the god of the sea. He’s like Poseidon. We can’t have a jet ski race without Poseidon. It’s like putting two and two together, kiddo.”
“Poseidon has a knee injury,” I say sulkily.
I don’t like it. At all. A little over a week ago that knee felt like death, and now he wants to race a jet ski? I turn on my heel, ignoring my brother’s calls, and head straight for Alex. I wonder, on my way there, if our truce is still in effect.
“Are you going to race?” I ask as soon as I reach him.
Alex frowns. “Are you talking to me?”
“Yes, I’m talking to you,” I take him by his bare arm and move him away from the crowd. “You can’t get into such an aggressive competition.”
“I can’t...? What did you just say?” he asks, puzzled. “You and I are nothing, Queen of the Desert, so don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, because I couldn’t care less.”
And there’s the answer to my question: yes, the truce is over. At least on his part.
He turns around, smooth and dismissive, and heads for one of the jet skis resting ready on the water. I follow him with my eyes, counting thirty jet skis, all of them moving slowly to the point where the race moderator is waiting, a few meters from the shore. Among them I see Adrián, Marcos, River, and Hugo.
Jaime comes up to me and starts shouting, “Come on, blondie, show ‘em what you’re worth! Come on, Pris,” my friend says, taking my hand, “let’s get closer, cheer them on. Who are you going with?”
Who am I going with? At the very last minute—second, even—I decide to act crazy. I let go of Jaime’s hand and take off my flip-flops with two taps on the ground. I shed my T-shirt and shorts, pull my cell phone out of the cloth bag on my back and hand it to Jaime. I leave everything there on the sand, except for the bag—that, I carry with me. Then I take a vest from the pile I find on a table, put it on on my way to Alex’s jet ski, and just as the race is about to start I jump on behind him.
“What the fuck are you doing? Get off!” Alex yells the instant he notices my presence.
But at that precise moment the moderator waves the start of the race and, even if Alex still insists I get off the jet ski immediately, he’s out of time. It’s too late, it would disadvantage him too much, so we set off—me with my heart bumping in excitement and Alex growling under his breath.
He accelerates, hard, and the race is on: I feel the waves under our feet and hear the jet ski slapping against the water. I wiggle my butt to get comfortable and hug Alex’s waist under his vest.
But we’re going too slow.
“Faster, Alex,” I shout in his ear.
“I’m going as fast as I can!” he answers, not turning around.
“That’s not true and you know it!”
I hug him tighter with one arm, the other resting on his water-splashed bicep, urging him to pick up the pace. “Hurry the heck up, Alex! You might even manage to throw me off and get rid of me, what a stroke of luck that’d be.”
“Stop talking shit, Queen of the Desert.”
“Then stop being afraid for me and speed up.”
