The Saints of the Cross (2 page)

“Sorry, my friend.” I pat the door and ease it closed as if it were made of glass.

A roaring laugh jolts me from behind. Javier had crept up behind me while I was distracted with the gear shift. He’s propped against the rear bumper on the driver’s side, arms crossed, sporting his mirrored aviators and an amused grin. His short, raven hair glistens in the relentless Spanish sunshine. He’s a full head and shoulders above me, and I’m five foot seven. The sharp planes of his face and lean, chiseled frame always take my breath away. Seeing him each day is like seeing him for the first time, and I take in every inch of him, burning his image to memory because I never want to forget him. As a matter of fact, I am resigned in this life to never forget two things: the sensation of my mother’s loving hands skillfully weaving my curls into a braid, and the slightly crooked curve of Javier’s smile.

“Your
friend
is going to have a very short lifespan with that kind of treatment, Eva,” he teases.

“Gee, thanks for pointing that out,” I say, walking up to him and giving his stomach a playful punch. He wraps his arms around my shoulders, pulling me into him. He towers over me; so much so, that he can rest his chin on the top of my head.

“I’ve missed you. Have you missed me?” he whispers, hugging me tighter and burying my face into his chest. I inhale his scent, a mix of salt-water air, sweet sweat, and spicy Polo Black cologne.

“Have I missed you just since
last night
? Seriously?” I tease. He holds me back at arm’s length, looking down at me with an exaggerated, heartbroken expression. “Of course I have!” I stand up on my toes to peck him on the mouth. I suppose that isn’t good enough for him, because he then kisses me back hard and furiously, pulling me in even tighter than before.

“Javier,” I gasp, finally breaking the kiss. After a few beats, I realize that he’s picked me up off the ground completely, holding me up in a bear hug. I look over his shoulder and notice that we’ve collected a group of spectators, mostly female, all watching with their eyes wide and jaws agape. Some, keeping their eyes trained on us, whisper excitedly to each other, but I know my Javi has that effect on women.

“I have to be home by five o’clock for a family meeting. Dad has something important he wants to tell us at dinner. We won’t have as much time together tonight.”

“Corazón,” he whispers, tenderly tracing his thumb across my lips. I smile at his pet name for me,
darling
in Spanish. He lowers me gently to the ground and drapes his arms over my shoulders. “Sneak out again tonight, please. Meet me on the beach behind your house. I must be with you,” he pleads, his eyes dark and intense. I find saying no to him so incredibly difficult, but I try.

“I can’t. If I get caught, my dad will
kill
me or send me to a convent in France, a fate worse than death, I can assure you,” I say with a shudder as memories of a trip to a gothic French convent with my mother shortly before she died flash through my mind. Why my mom and I were checking out French convents is beyond me. “Last night was too close for comfort.”

At two a.m., after meeting Javier on the beach for a little
face
time, I had managed to scramble back up the rose trellis into my room only minutes before Grandma Winnie poked her head in my door. This morning, as I wolfed down a bowl of cereal for breakfast, desperate to avoid eye contact with her, she asked in an accusatory tone if I had heard “that noise” on the roof outside my room last night. I think she suspected that I’d snuck out, but she was too afraid to come straight out and accuse me of anything without proof. She’ll probably have her ancient Polaroid on standby tonight.

“Please try, Corazón.”

“I’ll text you by eight to let you know.”

“I want you to come back to my apartment. I want to talk with you about something.” His eyes hold mine, and I see by the weight of his stare that it has to be serious. I don’t know what he could want to talk about, but he’s making me feel uneasy. He’s never wanted to bring me back to his place before. I assume he’s afraid of what might happen between us if we were ever to find ourselves alone behind closed doors. Javier is nineteen, and I won’t be eighteen until October thirty-first. He is acutely aware of the legality of our relationship and makes sure he reminds me of it almost every single day, especially when I’m trying to take our relationship to the next level.

“Okay,” I say. “I will go to your apartment. Should I be worried about what you want to tell me?”

“No,” he whispers. “I promise you will not be disappointed if you meet me tonight.” He traces his fingertips, calloused from years of guitar playing, down my arms, sending a bolt of white-hot electricity through me.

“Well, that’s all you had to say.” I smile up at him, my mind lost in a cloud of sensations I’m only just beginning to understand. “What do you want to do in the time we have this afternoon?”

“How about a ride down the coast?” He nods over to his shiny, black Ducati. I was deathly afraid of motorcycles until I met Javier. Now I love them. I love wrapping my arms around his waist and resting my cheek on his muscular back. I love the feel of him between my thighs, the powerful machine vibrating beneath us. It’s a sensation I think about often when I’m alone in my room at night.

My smile widens. “What are we waiting for?”

***

I arrive back to our family’s rented, white-washed cottage by four thirty. I want to shower off the layer of salt that has accumulated on my skin and hair from the ride down the coastline on the back of Javier’s motorcycle. The house seems quiet, which is rare, so I take advantage of the alone time to get first dibs on the only bathroom in the place. I run up the narrow staircase, slam the bathroom door closed, and throw open the small window above the toilet. Immediately the thick, humid salt air fills the tiny bathroom, and beads up on the blue-tiled wall that mimics the deep-azure color of the Atlantic Ocean stretching out beyond the shore.

As soon as I start the water in the shower, there are three loud
bangs!
at the door.

“Evie, hurry up! I gotta go before the meeting!” Emma screeches from the other side, punctuating her statement with three kicks to the bottom of the door. Emma is my twelve-year-old sister and twin to our brother Ethan. We’re just over five years apart in age, so I’ve been more of an aunt than a sister, especially after our mother died. As we grew older, I had to take on a caregiver role to the twins. But still, we fight like cats and dogs.

“Jesus, Emma. Give me five minutes!” I holler over my shoulder as I step into the shower.

“I’m telling Dad you said a swear word!” she counters.

“Whatever,” I mumble to myself as I feel the tension in my muscles relaxing under the steamy water.

In ten minutes, I’m out of the shower and robed. I unlock and open the bathroom door to find Emma leaning against the wall in the narrow hallway, iPod ear buds in, and scowl firmly affixed to her face.

“Have you been standing there the whole time?” I ask, annoyed with her as always.

“Yeah, I told you I had to go. And Dad said not to be late,” she huffs, pushing past me and slamming the door in my face.

“Okay, tell him I’ll be right down,” I say, even though I know she can’t hear me. Sometimes I wish we had a better relationship. Getting along at least half the time would be nice.

I hurry to my room because I know enough not to keep Nash Sweeney (Navy captain and Annapolis graduate) waiting. The old cliché of “he runs a tight ship” is quite the understatement regarding Captain Sweeney. He does not tolerate insubordination from anyone, let alone his own children. The last thing I want is to do is get grounded for the weekend. I’d much rather spend it with Javier.

I yank on a pair of black, velour track pants and a pink tank top that I find crumpled on the closet floor. I finger-comb my obnoxiously curly hair, slip on my favorite fuzzy house slippers, and head back down the stairs into the kitchen.

“Dad, this house is so claustrophobic. Having only one bathroom should be against the law,” I complain as I slide into my usual chair at the four-seater dinette table. The tiny cottage we rent is in a perfect, picturesque location overlooking the ocean, but it’s severely lacking in space to accommodate a family of five. Emma and Ethan are already parked in their spots, and Dad’s standing propped against the counter where he usually eats due to lack of space at the table. “Where’s Grandma?”

“She went to the market to pick up a few things,” Dad replies, looking pensive. “Listen, kids, I have some very important news—”

“Dad, what is it?” Ethan interrupts, chomping on his dinner. Partially chewed bits of meatloaf spew on the table as he speaks.

“Eww,
Dad
, Ethan’s talking with his mouth full again!” Emma wails in disgust, clenching her fists over her eyes.

“Shut up!” Ethan fires back, green eyes blazing. His face is crimson up to his platinum-blond hairline.

“Ethan, stop it,” I sigh, sick of their non-stop bickering. My God, they find any reason to fight.

“Kids, please. I’m trying to tell you something,” Dad says, exasperated, pinching the bridge of his nose. It suddenly occurs to me that he must be utterly exhausted after all these years of raising us. We don’t exactly make it easy for him, either.

“Sorry, Dad,” the twins say in unison, for once recognizing the effect that their fighting is having on him.

It’s creepy the way they say the same things at the same time or finish each other’s sentences. Although the twins are fraternal, they could easily pass for identical; their physical features are so similar. Plus Emma’s a little tom-boyish, and Ethan’s a little girly. I’ve always been fascinated by the fact that I’m the only member of the family with blue eyes and curly, red hair. The twins are both blond and green-eyed, as are Dad and Grandma Winnie. Well, she
was
. . . before time and the stress of taking care of her three young grandchildren turned her hair silver. Our mother was part Native American; she had the blackest hair and eyes I’ve ever seen. I’ve never met Mom’s family, but I remember her telling me that her mother lived in Indiana, which pretty much sums up all I know about them.

“Kids, I’ve got orders for Washington, DC,” Dad says, nervously glancing around the table.

“How long will you be gone?” I ask dismissively, but in my heart I already know the answer.

“I’m being transferred, Evie. We leave in a month.”

My heart drops, and my jaw follows suit. I make a conscious effort to close my mouth as tears begin to sting my eyes.

“What? Why?” is the only response I can manage; the shock of the moment has left me near speechless. It’s as if he has slapped me across the face with that statement. He might as well have; it would’ve hurt much less.

“I was awarded the intelligence position I applied for at the Pentagon.”

“Dad, you said you wouldn’t apply for a transfer until I graduated from high school.” My cheeks grow hot as my anger augments by the second. The tears border on spilling, but I furiously fight them back because I’m reluctant to appear weak or childish to my father. I have to reason with him as an adult, if I’m going to stand a chance of winning this argument.

“I know, Evangeline, but this is a once in a lifetime opportunity,” he explains, and his right hand goes to his temple.

“Really, Dad? Because it’s the Navy, and I’m pretty sure nothing is once in a lifetime concerning the Navy!” I know I’m pushing my luck, but I stand my ground. He can’t do this to me! I have a life here. There are people here I love and care about, and who love and care about me. I can’t leave Spain. I just can’t.

Grandma Winnie floats into the kitchen as if on a cloud, carrying a brown-paper grocery bag. “Evie,” she says, “calm down. I can hear you all the way outside. Your father is only doing what’s best for the family.”

She’s probably ecstatic that we’re moving back to the States. She’s never liked living here, especially considering that she can’t and won’t speak a word of Spanish. Assimilating here has never been a goal for her. I wouldn’t be surprised if this whole thing about going back was her idea. I can feel the anger simmering in my gut beginning to boil over.

“Well, I’m not going. I’m staying here. With Coralea’s family, if I have to.”

“Evie, don’t be ridiculous,” Grandma Winnie snorts from her crouched position in front of the fridge as she sorts the groceries.

“You will do no such thing!” Dad booms. I jump a little, but I’m unwilling to back down from this fight. There’s too much hanging in the balance: my relationship with Javier, for starters.

“Nash . . .” Grandma Winnie scolds my dad, shaking her head.

“Dad, you’ve
got
to be kidding. If I left, I’d have to start my senior year in a brand new school. It’s not
fair
!” My voice trembles, and I angrily wipe away a single tear that dares to spill over.

“Guess what, Evie? Life isn’t fair. That’s a fact.” Dad is angry; I know this because his ears are bright red. I feel a twinge of guilt, knowing that my father has been through more than his fair share of pain with the loss of my mother—his soul mate, his beloved Mia.

“But Dad, you promised,” I whisper, knowing I’m defeated, but not wanting to accept it. I slump down in the rickety kitchen chair.

“Evie, you really need to go back to the States for your senior year anyway, to apply to colleges. Besides, your aunt and uncle got you into the Holy Cross—”

“Great, I’ll really fit in there with all the rich politico-kids. Yeah, that makes a lot of sense.” I remember the Holy Cross Preparatory Academy as being
the
school for the wealthy, political-power families in DC. My uncle, Calvin Sweeney, is a senator and a retired Army general. He and his wife, Matilda, have no children, so they’re constantly doing things for us—as if we’re their substitute kids. It gets a little annoying after a while. I don’t need their charity, and I especially don’t need their pity.

“This discussion is over, Evangeline. As long as I am responsible for your education, and you are a minor, you will do as I say. Understood?”

I merely nod and stand up from the table. I’m sulking. I’m being selfish. I know this, but why do I always have to sacrifice my happiness for this family? Why can’t I ever have what I want, just once in my life?

“I’m going to my room. I’m suddenly not hungry anymore,” I say, not daring to meet anyone’s eyes for fear that the full waterworks will start.

“Fine,” my father says. “But I’m telling you, Evie, sulking around the house over the next month will do you no good.”

“Yes, sir,” I mumble and run up the stairs, slamming my bedroom door behind me.

Right now, I know only two things for certain. First, I’m going to have to start my life all over again, for the umpteenth time, in my
last
year of high school. Second, I’ll be leaving the love of my life behind in Spain. I never before had trouble leaving a comfortable life to start over; after all, I’ve inherited my mother’s wanderlust. Being the daughter of a naval officer has its perks for those who consider themselves modern-day gypsies, what with the frequent reassignments and promotions sending our small family to exotic locales. Most normal, middle-class American families do not get the chance to live in so many interesting places in one lifetime. My little family and I have been lucky to call home Japan, Italy, Guam, and Australia. And I’ve always been grateful for these unique experiences.

However, Javier changes everything about my acceptance of this particular move. My heart aches when I think about how I’m going to break the news to him. Will he feel half as destroyed as I do at this very moment? I know that Javi’s heartbreak will somehow validate my own.

In the short time we’ve known each other, we have connected on so many levels. Because of my family’s frequent relocating, I rarely develop close friendships. My only true friend is Coralea, another Navy brat I met years ago in Japan when we were just babies. We were reunited when our families were assigned to Rota. I’ve never had a real boyfriend, at least no one I would consider a boyfriend. I’ve been on dates, and I’ve gone to dances with boys before. But those infrequent occurrences have never developed into something more—like a second date.