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“Perdóname Sol, I no mean to upset you.” He extends his hand once more, palm facing up, waiting for me to extend mine as well.
“It’s fine. I’m used to it after all these years.”
“You are? When I mentioned your father on our first date and again now, you change.Te pones seria.” He’s perceptive, nothing gets by him. My demeanor definitely changes when the topic comes up. I can’t hide it.
“I guess what I mean is, I’ve accepted my father doesn’t love me and wants nothing to do with me. He left me at five years old and never once cared enough to call or visit.” I pull from my glass once more. “It will always hurt to think my father is the kind of man that could give up his child when all I wanted was for him to love me. The worst part is I’ll never be able to ask him about it. I don’t even know his name.” A tear escapes and glides down my cheek.
“And your mother, what does she say?” he inquires. He swipes his thumb across my cheek, wiping away the tear.
“My mother doesn’t talk about it either. I haven’t asked her in a long time but before I would try and ask questions and she’d get mad, end up yelling at me to stop asking questions. Eventually I stopped.” Tears begin streaming down my cheeks and my gaze drifts off to the side. “What I haven’t told my mother is that her unwillingness to tell me why he left hurts nearly as much as my father leaving.”
Amaury leaps to his feet and circles the counter to wrap me in his arms. His hands roam my lower back in an effort to console me. I try to hide the whimpers, but I haven’t talked about this with anyone in a long time and it feels good to let it out. Amaury puts some space between us and cups my face in his hands, wiping the tears away with the pads of his thumbs. “No me gusta ver esos ojos tan lindostriste,” he tells me, kissing my cheeks between words. I feel like saying, believe me Amaury, I don’t like having sad eyes either, but I’m done holding it in.
“I’m sorry, I no should’ve asked you about your father. I make you upset.” I shake my head then drape my arms over his shoulders, my fingers tickling the nape of his neck. My lips crush his and I explore his mouth with my tongue. I want to get lost in him, try to forget the melancholy feeling talking about my father brought layered on top of the day I’ve had.
I whisper in his ear, “Make me forget.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Amaury
Tonight I’m taking Soledad to a Carlos Varela concert. Varela is a Cuban artist who sings about the political situation in Cuba, but his songs are hauntingly beautiful metaphors for what’s happening to our country, to our people, and to our freedoms. He rose to popularity when I was still living there, and his music represents a part of my life where I struggled with my identity and how it clashed with the politics we were surrounded by, what I wanted, and learning how to be myself while living under a tyrannical rule. When his first album came out, I was nineteen, in the military, hating my oppressed life yet incapable of making any changes. I felt trapped and his music resonated with me. Resonated with so many Cubans, which is why he became so popular.
With such a big Cuban exile community in Miami, it’s only normal he’s now playing in concert here. It’s the first time I’ll be seeing him live in concert and I’m stoked. I’m even more excited Sol will be experiencing this with me. I hope she enjoys the show. I’ve played some of his songs for her so she can familiarize herself with the music and she’s told me she likes it, has even learned the words to some of my favorite songs.
I pick Sol up at her house and as she walks toward my car, I can’t help but stare. She’s wearing a vibrant red wrap dress with quarter sleeves and a deep v-neck. Her breasts spill over the top and it hugs all of those curves but it’s too long, falling below her knees. I’ve noticed all the dresses she wears are longer in length. Don’t get me wrong, she looks incredible in it no matter what, but I would love to see a little more of those thick thighs.
“Hola,muñeca,” I say as she climbs into the Tahoe.
She closes the door and leans over, her lips gently brushing mine.
“That’s it? That’s my kiss?” I ask, pursing my lips and feigning disbelief.
“I don’t want to mess up my lipstick, so yes. Especially knowing the way you kiss me.” She sticks her tongue out then buckles her seatbelt.
Before heading to the show, we decide to have an early dinner at La Locanda here on the beach. The show starts at eight thirty, which is my usual dinnertime, so dinner at six fifteen is not something I’m used to. I’ll probably be hungry after the show too. Sol chose this place for dinner because she came for lunch with some of the people from the office and said the pasta was delicious. Said it was so good it reminded her of restaurants in Boston.
We have a table inside because it’s too hot to eat outside. We’re sitting along the banquette in the back corner, the wall decorated with art, mirrors, and flowers. It’s early so we’re the only ones in here, which is kind of nice. Seems late dining is a Miami thing. Nearly all the restaurants in the neighborhood have very few diners at this time.
Sol orders a glass of white wine and I’m drinking sparkling water. She enjoys the bubbly water and she got me into drinking it as well. I order chicken marsala and Sol aSpaghetti alla Carbonara. I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who loves pasta as much as she does. Before meeting her I rarely ate pasta, I’m more of a rice and beans with steak kinda guy. It’s growing on me, although I can’t eat it more than once a week.
“So, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Sol says, as she pushes her hair behind her ears.
“You can ask me anything.” I grasp her hand in mine, draw circles on her palm.
“How’d you get that scar on your eyebrow?” She stretches her hand across the table, her fingers gently caressing the scar over my left eye.
“In the orange grove.”
After taking a sip of wine, she asks, “What do you mean?”
“I worked with my father every morning when I no have school. We picked oranges for the owner who sold them. One day I fell from the tree and—” I pause, trying to think of the word in English “—how you say,rama?”
“Tree branch,” she chimes in.
“The tree branch cut my face. We saw a doctor but there was little supplies. That’s why the scares tan feoand why you can see the marks from when they sewed it.”
For years I was self-conscious about the scar and how ugly it looks, the markings prominent in the absence of my eyebrow. The older I got, the more I realized my physical appearance was the last thing I should worry about, especially since I had so many other things to stress about. During my years in the military, I got the nickname, “el Ceja,” because the scar left only a small part of my left eyebrow—a sliver on each end—giving the appearance I only have one eyebrow. My commanding officers called methe eyebrowas an insult. Glad it never stuck outside of my time in the Army.
