Dream Things True (34 page)

“I want to marry you, Alma. Your dad already gave me permission.”

Her dad?
Hot with anger, she screeched a reply. “You asked my father's permission? Without even asking
me
what I think about this insane plan?”

“I just want to fix this, Alma. And I don't want you to leave me.”

“And when,” Alma asked, her voice filled with angry sarcasm, “has two teenagers getting married
ever
fixed
anything
? Tell me that.”

Evan looked into Alma's eyes and walked toward her. He reached out with his empty hand—the one without the ring, the one that was scarred and wounded.

“Alma, why are you so angry?”

This was easy. Thanks to his mother, and to those words she couldn't forget, Alma knew exactly why.

“Because, Evan, you seem to think that you and your perfect life can just come in and save me, swooping down like some knight in shining armor or something. This isn't a fairy tale, Evan. You're not my handsome prince, and I'm definitely
not
your charity case.”

“My. Perfect. Life.” He enunciated each word slowly, almost growling. “Who the hell are you kidding, Alma? Have you been paying any attention at all? Have you noticed anything at all about
my perfect life
lately?”

He turned back toward the car and slammed his closed fist onto the hood. She stared at him and realized that she was afraid. She wasn't afraid
of
him, not worried that he would hurt her. She was afraid
for
him. She had never seen him like this, so out of control.

“I haven't slept for weeks because every time I close my eyes, I see Conway on top of you. I got wasted trying to forget and gashed my hand on a broken liquor bottle, and now the damn thing refuses to heal. I completely suck at soccer now, the only thing I love, the only thing I used to love.”

He sank down to the ground, pulling his knees toward his chest.

“My father left us, for real this time, and by the time I get back to Gilberton, I'll probably be disowned by the rest of my family.”

He looked up at her, and her heart broke open.

“Christ, Alma. I'm falling apart. Can't you see that?”

“I didn't know, Evan,” she whispered. “I didn't know any of it.”

“You didn't ask,” he replied coldly.

Alma struggled to find the right thing to say. She refused to ruin another person's life by bringing him permanently into her mess, especially not the person she loved so deeply. He didn't love her that much, though. He couldn't. His mom had it right. He felt sorry for her, and she didn't want his pity.

“Evan,” she said slowly, “what we have—all of this—it can't be love.”

He looked up at her. “What are you saying, Alma?”

“It's not love, Evan. Look at you! Love doesn't destroy people.”

“Are you saying you don't love me?”

How would she bring herself to say it? She couldn't even nod her head.

“Are you?” he demanded, standing up slowly.

“I guess so,” she said quietly.

“Say it! Say you don't love me.”

She couldn't breathe. She needed to take in air, but her body refused to comply. She pushed the words out weakly. They slurred together with the last bit of air in her nearly empty lungs.

“I don't love you.”

He spun around and lurched into his car.

“I'm done,” he said as he slammed the door shut.

He backed the car away and sped out onto the empty road, leaving the black velvet box on the driveway, covered in a fine gray dust and half buried in weeds.

It was still open.

PART THREE

TWENTY-THREE

Flowering Cactus

Evan let the water run cold. Closing his eyes, he splashed it against his cheeks, feeling the shock run through his otherwise numb body. He lifted his face and covered it with a towel. It had been forever since he left Alma standing on the streets of that pathetic town, but he still couldn't look at his own reflection in the mirror.

Five weeks.

Thirty-five days.

Eight hundred and forty-four hours.

How else could he mark the passage of time? He could count the number of minutes between classes—the short stretches of time when he studiously avoided her, ignoring the pain. He had pushed it so deep inside that it was as if, somewhere near the pit of his stomach, he had grown a new organ—one that processed the toxic waste of love not returned.

He could mark time with the forty-five minutes that split each weekday into two equal halves: the slow hours of quiet dread that came before they were in class together, and the quick bursts of anger that came after. Or he could measure those forty-five minutes when he sat so near her that he could smell the clean scent of her shampoo, could see the outline of her bra underneath her shirt, could almost taste her on his lips.

He had wanted to switch seats, to move to a far corner of the room. Maybe from there, their classmates would disperse the energy that pulsed between them. But he didn't move. Was it just part of his struggle to save face—to make it seem that this was easy for him? Or was it because he needed to feel the sweet pain of her presence, the only thing that could remind him he was still alive?

No, not the only thing. He would measure the time in another way:

Seven games.

Six hundred and thirty minutes.

Five goals.

Eleven assists.

Three perfect penalty kicks.

Only on the field could he focus fully and completely on the present. Only there could he forget the past and shield himself from a future without her.

He slowly buttoned his shirt and lifted the collar. He pulled a tie from his top drawer, looped it around, and tightened. For a moment, it felt like a noose, pulling against the thick cords of his neck.

Downstairs, Evan took his mother's keys and pulled her Escalade around the driveway, letting it idle loudly at the front door. His mom never wanted to ride in his hybrid, so he drove her car instead. He used to complain about having to drive it, but he didn't complain anymore. It didn't matter.

Mrs. Roland opened the door and gracefully lifted her small body into the passenger seat, her tall heels tapping quietly against the running boards. She was so thin that she seemed to float in the broad cushions of her SUV's leather seats. Evan told her she looked nice even though he barely noticed what she was wearing.

They arrived at the hotel, and the valet carefully helped his mother down from her perch and then pulled away. Evan watched the car descend into the garage, abandoning him to another night, another party. He took his mother's arm and led her into the hotel.

This was his penance. This was how he apologized to his mother, without ever saying a word.

Three charity auctions.

Eight Sprites.

Two chicken breasts in cream sauce.

One poached salmon with asparagus.

One ugly painting for his mom ($1,100).

One signed Chipper Jones jersey for him ($400).

One ski trip to Jackson Hole for his parents, who no longer spoke to each other ($3,500).

 

 

The room still looked like Ra
ú
l's. She'd been living in it for months, but the baseball caps still hung in neat rows across the far wall, the soccer jerseys and ticket stubs stayed tacked above Ra
ú
l's bed. Not even the books on his desk, reminders of the community college courses he never would complete, were out of place. Moving anything seemed like a betrayal.

But in a few short minutes, he would call and she would have to beg him not to return. How would she do it? What could she say to make him stay in Mexico?

Alma took the phone from her bedside table to check the time. Evan gazed at her from the screen, lips curved into a sly grin, as he did from that photo each time she touched her phone. Why hadn't she erased it? Every day she allowed herself to study this image only once. She had so many opportunities to speak to Evan, but she didn't know what to say. Would she tell him she still had the ring buried deep inside a drawer? If only she could bury her regret there, too. But there was no space.

Evan had forgiven her so much, but she felt certain he would not forgive her this betrayal. She had revealed so many of her bruises and scars, and she thought he had loved them, too. But maybe he had only wanted to blot them out, to make her right, so that she would be able to live in his world.

But she didn't want to live there, and neither did he. She knew that much.

 

 

It was the only luxury hotel in town, and he rarely came here. Usually the benefit parties were held at the club. The venue was different, but everything else was the same: same people, same silent auction items, same music, same arrangement of tables.

He looked around the room, trying to avoid eye contact. He knew almost every person here, and had no desire to talk to anyone. He walked over to the bar and ordered a Sprite for himself and a chardonnay for his mother. The bartender looked him up and down and questioned whether he was old enough to order wine. This was a difference, he guessed, between coming here and going to the club. At the club, all the bartenders knew that he was BeBe's regular date, that it was his responsibility to supply her with a steady stream of chardonnays since his father couldn't, or wouldn't.

His mom approached and spoke discreetly with the bartender, who handed him the glass of wine. Did the bartender seriously think that if he were trying to order himself a drink, he would order a
chardonnay
?

He led his mother to their table and sat down. She placed her purse on the linen-covered chair and wandered off to find Aunt Maggie.

A waitress came to the next table and filled the water glasses. She wore combat boots, and he wondered if that was against the employee dress code. She looked him over and delivered the kind of smile that meant she intended to pay him special attention. Evan had seen it before. He knew the drill.

Besides the combat boots, she wore the required uniform of the waitstaff, but her black skirt was noticeably shorter than the others' and her T-shirt was snug. She had a plain face, but her body more than made up for it; she carried herself like she knew it. Her auburn hair was piled on top of her head, exposing the back of her long neck and, curving around its side, the tip of what appeared to be a very large tattoo.

“It's a flowering cactus,” she said, tugging down her shirt to reveal a bright red bud. “It's soft and beautiful but protected by thorns. It thrives in the desert because it can store up water, you know?”

Obviously she wasn't from around here.

“I didn't mean to stare,” he said.

“Tattoos are meant to be stared at,” she replied, smiling again.

She reached across him, holding the pitcher out to his glass.

“Thirsty?” she asked.

“Yeah, thanks.”

Filling his glass slowly, the girl whispered in his ear, “Just find me if you need something stronger. I'll take care of you.”

She turned and walked away before Evan could reply.

He stared into his glass, relieved that he was thinking about someone besides Alma, and wondering where on this girl's body the fragile tips of the cactus roots might begin.

 

 

Alma had spoken with Ra
ú
l many times, first when he arrived in Ciudad Ju
á
rez and later when he reached the little town in Oaxaca. It was strange, but he seemed so close. Ricocheting across the satellite feeds, his voice came through clear and strong. He could have been calling from a work site in Lakeshore Heights, or from the dining hall at the community college. He could have been calling to tell her what time he would pick her up after class, or asking her to get some SunnyD at the Bi-Lo. But he wasn't.

He was telling her things she didn't want to hear.

At first, Ra
ú
l was amused by the “return” to San Juan. He described its beauty, the way that the green mountains unfolded around it. He said it was even prettier than the photos they had seen over the years. He told her about the cool, deep river where he would swim, and about the return of the
pochos
, all the guys like him, who—according to the locals—spoke Spanish with a funny accent and acted like gringos. He made her laugh with stories of eccentric relatives: their great-grandfather Berto, who'd been a farmworker in California when he was Ra
ú
l's age, regaled him with stories of his bachelor days; their great-grandmother Mama Carmela concocted healing teas and pomades from the herbs in her garden. He had been entertained, at first, trying exotic new foods like crickets spiced with hot pepper.

But when the newness wore off, things changed. He explained how Mama Carmela ground herbs to cure his melancholy, and how
T
í
a
Pera lit candles for him every day, adding to the black soot that covered the feet of the Virgin Mary in the church on the town square.

Alma assured him that things would be better when she and their father arrived. They would have their own place, and Dad would be able to help him find work. He explained that the house had only concrete walls and no roof, and that they wouldn't be able to come up with the money to finish it since every day new people returned from
el norte
. Even before the return of the
pochos
, no one had work here.

And then he had told her about a nineteen-year-old who came back from Washington, DC, with two tears tattooed on his face. Alma had read about those tears and what they meant, but she didn't believe this kid showing up in their hometown was a real gangbanger. She assured Ra
ú
l that the boy was probably just a poser, like their cousin Manny and all the wannabe gangsters in Gilberton. But Ra
ú
l said she was wrong. He was a permanent legal resident of the United States, with all his papers in order. He had lived in Washington practically his entire life. He didn't even speak Spanish. But he was busted for gang activity and deported.