As if there would ever be a question that I would. C’mon, Ms. Santos. I hope you know me well enough to expect common decency as the baseline. “Of course.”
Before we get to the door, she turns and rests the palm of her hand on my stomach. “I’ve been acting weird, haven’t I? You felt it, right?”
My mouth’s going rogue, trying to curve into a smile, but I’m fighting it, not wanting to do anything to make her skittish. “Tell me what’s going on.”
She sighs. “I just . . . I think I was going off adrenaline and pheromones and spring-in-the-air-itis this weekend. And everything was fine until you took me to the flower fields and it felt like too much. And then once I was in the car, and all the adrenaline and pheromones and spring-in-the-air-itis was gone, the enormity of what we did hit me.”
Only a person with his head up his ass would be surprised by her explanation. Glad to know that isn’t me. “Honestly? I figured. But it doesn’t have to be a big deal, remember? We’ll play this how you want to play it. Eyes open. Zero promises. No need to make it more than it is.”
“Yeah,” she says, her lips pressed together as she looks off to an area behind me. Then she shakes out her arms, as though she’s exorcising whatever’s troubling her. “You’re right. Well, I’m going to go. And maybe we’ll see each other later in the week?”
I nod. “Was hoping you’d say something like that.”
“Okay,” she says, patting my stomach. “Good, good.” She turns back toward the door, hesitates, then faces me again, her expression soft and her voice unsure. “May I kiss you goodbye?”
That fucking question. It has a pulse and fingers and is currently digging into my chest as though it wants to pull my heart out and hand it to her. What. The. Hell. I puff out my cheeks, trying to pretend I’m considering her request because I don’t know what else to do with myself. “I’m thinking about it.”
She pokes me in the stomach. “Yes or no?”
I gently take hold of her wrists and pull her toward me. “Definitely yes.”
She leans into my side and places her right hand in my left one. It’s a pose I’ve seen on dozens of special occasions, when the newly married couple dances for the first time. I wonder if she’s seen it so often she’s taken to mimicking it.
“Are we dancing?” I ask.
“No,” she says, threading her fingers with mine. “I just like being tucked against you.”
I bend and sweep my lips across her forehead. She seizes the opportunity to place her index finger against my chin and rotate it so our mouths meet. Her tongue leads, and mine follows. That single digit is now a five-finger caress against my cheek and jaw, and despite the many points of contact between us, it’s that hand that makes me shudder. We slowly draw apart, both of us a little dazed, and now I’m the one rocked by the enormity of what we just did—because of all the things we’ve shared this weekend, this moment is the one I’ll remember the most.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Lina
Rey lifts his palms in the air excitedly. “Turn it up. Turn it up.”
My older brother’s demanding when the remote control isn’t in his hands. Knowing this, Natalia and I instinctively toss the device between us to keep it out of his reach.
“Y’all are such brats,” Rey says as he tries to snatch it in midair. Eventually, Natalia and I stop horsing around and I increase the volume.
We’re in the living room of the small home my mother and her sisters share in Silver Spring. Everyone except Jaslene and me is wearing their Easter Sunday best, and lest I forget it, my mother’s periodically sucking her teeth to remind me that my outfit—a cream blouse and taupe slacks—is underwhelming. Jaslene, who sometimes spends special occasions with us because she lives alone and her family’s in New York, is exempt from my mother’s ire—for now.
Paolo’s managed to get YouTube through the TV, and we’re watching videos of this year’s Carnaval celebration in Rio’s Sambadrome. It’s the culmination of an intensive and seemingly all-consuming effort on the part of dozens of samba schools to throw one of the most elaborately staged parades in the world.
“So which samba school is this?” Jaslene asks, a pastel de carne in her hand. It’s essentially a Brazilian-style beef empanada but because Brazilians tend to do everything on a grand scale, this version is the size of a pizza slice.
“Estação Primeira de Mangueira,” Natalia says from her spot on the armchair Paolo’s sitting in. She throws her hands in the air. “Their theme this year was perfect, and now they’re champions once again.”
Tia Izabel groans. “I wanted Unidos da Tijuca to win.”
Everyone except Jaslene boos at her.
“Wait,” Jaslene says, her brows furrowed. “What’s wrong with what she said?”
“Brazilian samba schools are really clubs tied to different parts of the city,” I explain. “To many, a school is on the same level as a favorite professional sports team. So loyalties and rivalries are inevitable.” I give my aunt a playful evil eye. “It’s like saying you’re a Phillies fan in a bar filled with Mets fans. It’s not wise. And anyone in this house who isn’t a Mangueira fan is suspect.”
Tia Izabel huffs and joins my mother and Tia Viviane in the kitchen, while Natalia grins and high-fives me.
“Look at the flag,” Rey says. “That must have caused an uproar.”
He’s referring to the fact that Mangueira reimagined the Brazilian flag, even changing its colors from green and yellow to pink, green, and white, to represent the forgotten ones in Brazilian society: Indigenous peoples, persons of African descent, and the poor.
“Look at that woman’s costume,” Jaslene says, cringing. “I think I’m having sympathetic butt-crack pains. There’s no way that material should be up there.”
To some, the outfits are outrageous, but to me, they’re a whimsical symbol of our culture, and I’m in awe of the colorful and thought-provoking display they make. No matter how many times I see Carnaval, whether in person or on television, the samba school competition never fails to amaze me. They prepare for it for months, building elaborate floats, designing jaw-dropping costumes, and perfecting the songs and dances that will hopefully win over their fans and the competition judges alike. “I wish we’d been there this year.”
“Talvez no próximo ano, filha,” my mother says, sticking her head out of the kitchen’s pass-through window.
“But next year’s so far away,” I say. “And it’s hard to get time off in March since I’m always preparing for the onslaught of wedding season.”
Natalia reaches over and smacks my thigh. “That reminds me. Mom said you were stuck in Virginia for work. What happened?”
My face is blank, but my brain is on high alert, and my stomach’s churning. “Car conked out on me.” I give her a dismissive wave. “It wasn’t a big deal. The wedding venue I was touring was only two miles away. Stayed at the inn there.” Not bad, Lina. Informative yet succinct. With any luck, she’ll be satisfied with that answer and move on.