Chapter 42
Forty-Two
KIERAN
Rocío and I see it all play out. We’re sitting in the living room, scrolling on our phones, when Isabel bursts into the townhouse, followed by Tita Vanessa.
Suffice to say, the revelation rocks both of us to our cores.
When Isabel emerges from the bathroom, we trail after her into her bedroom, craning our necks over Tita Vanessa’s shoulder as Isabel hastily shoves clothes into a bag.
“Anak,” Tita Vanessa pleads. “Where are you going?”
“I can’t stay here,” she says. “I need to get away.”
“Anak—”
“I’ll take care of her, Tita,” Rocío pipes up. She squeezes in between Tita Vanessa and the doorjamb to help Isabel pack. Tita Vanessa slumps in defeat.
“Isabel, anak, I’m sorry,” she says, her voice hoarse.
Isabel doesn’t respond. I’ve come to learn that when things get tense and emotions are high, she shuts down. Stops speaking. Sometimes even stops moving.
In no time, we’re at Rocío’s, a stone’s throw away from Exeter Park.
Her house is huge but humble in comparison to Natalia’s.
There’s an old charm to it, two-stories high and fenced off from the street by a tall hedge.
There’s a Harley-Davidson parked next to two cars—“My dad’s,” Rocío explains as she leads through the front door and upstairs to where her room is.
I set Isabel’s bag down next to the bed. I park my suitcase right next to it. My paintings are propped against one side of the wall, next to the desk. The windows have a view of the pool and the vast yard.
Isabel climbs into the bed, making herself at home. I sit on the desk chair while Rocío settles on the foot of the mattress.
We’re silent for a good few minutes. Then, “I shouldn’t have gotten involved with you,” Isabel says to me. How can someone break my heart in such a quick instant?
“Don’t say that,” I plead with her.
“It’s true,” she says. “You were hers, and I—”
“I was not hers,” I say. “I was never hers. I belong to you, Isabel. Only you.”
She looks away from me, tips her chin up to keep her tears from spilling.
“She’s right about me,” she says.
“Don’t fucking say that,” Rocío snaps. I almost forgot she was here. “Don’t fucking say that.”
“But it’s true!” Isabel cries out. “She has every right to be mad at me. All of them do. I wrote so many awful things without caring how they might feel if they saw it.”
“They were never supposed to see it,” Rocío says. “It’s not your fault Natalia went snooping. Jesus, Sabs, if we were to be crucified for every misstep in our lives, there would be no one left alive.”
“Still—”
“Did you write the book?” Rocío asks.
“No,” answers Isabel.
“You just took notes? Thoughts, opinions, nothing you claimed to be objective truth?”
“I mean—yeah.”
“And did you publish these anywhere?”
“No, of course not. They were just in my journal. And—and I regretted writing them. I wrote about my regret in that same journal!”
“Exactly,” Rocío says. “Were you a bitch in your notebook? Possibly. But we all get bitchy in private. It’s not your fucking fault Natalia can’t finish reading shit to save her life.”
“Don’t be mean,” Isabel murmurs.
Rocío shrinks, a sheepish look on her face. “Sorry. Just trying to make you laugh now.” Nobody laughs.
In a nervous voice, Rocío says, “I can’t believe she’s your sister.” She starts to laugh then, and it breaks the tension—just a little. “I’ve been trying to make sense of it, but I just can’t see the resemblance. At all.”
I’m relieved when there’s a playful tone in Isabel’s voice as she says, “That’s because she’s had so much work done.”
Rocío tackles her, miming the act of injecting her all over her face. When they calm down from their fits of giggles, Rocío leans back against her headboard and says, “But I mean even before that.”
I’ve only seen pictures of younger Natalia on the walls of her family home, or in throwback pictures she posts online. Still, I agree with Rocío. There’s no resemblance there.
“I thought it was un-feminist to judge women for their choices,” I say, lifting a brow.
“No,” answers Rocío. “The point of feminism is women’s right to choose.
But that doesn’t always mean our choices are inherently feminist. You know?
Women can still make choices that uphold anti-feminist values and patriarchal structures.
Women can act on their internalized misogyny and impose it on other women.
I mean—why is it that women feel the need to get plastic surgery in the first place?
” She turns to Isabel. “Did you not make him read The Beauty Myth yet?”
Isabel shakes her head. “I just got him Ways of Seeing.”
“Good book,” Rocío says with a nod. I can see why they’re such close friends.
“What’s The Beauty Myth?” I ask.
“It’s a book. Its thesis is basically that the more politically empowered women get, the heavier the weight of the beauty myth pressed upon them. Basically: if we’re too busy caring about how we look, we won’t have the energy to fight back against our oppression,” Rocío says.
I see that. I should read it. I know so little about being a woman for someone raised surrounded by them. I take my phone out and order the audiobook online. I’ll listen to it while I paint. I pocket my phone when I finish.
“How are you feeling?” I ask Isabel, wheeling myself closer to the edge of the bed. Isabel wiggles her feet under the covers. I catch it.
“Like my whole life is a lie,” she answers.
“It kinda is,” Rocío says. I shoot her a look. Not helping.
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
Isabel wriggles her ankle away from my grip and folds her legs, feet digging into the mattress. “I don’t know. I mean, I don’t even know how I’m going to tell my mom that Luz is obviously backing out of the investment.”
“I’m pretty sure Tita already knows that,” Rocío says.
“My nude is probably circulating in group chats.”
I grimace. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault,” she says.
“It’s a sexy painting. Sorry. I looked. It’s very tasteful. But you know what I think?” Rocío says. “You should go back there. Claim your rightful place on the Aranaz throne. That’s worth at least a couple hundred million pesos.”
Isabel snorts. “I might as well make a deal with the devil. Same thing.” I beckon her over, moving to sit on the edge of the bed. With a sigh, she crawls into my arms. I brush her hair from her face and kiss her temple.
“You don’t have to do anything. Not right now,” I tell her.
“I don’t want anything to do with that family. Ever.”
“I still think you should get your cut. Reparations for all the trauma,” Rocío insists. Whether she’s joking or not, I can’t tell.
I press a kiss to Isabel’s temple. “I’m yours,” I whisper, not caring that Rocío is miming the act of puking in front of us. “You know that, right?”
Isabel looks at me with those sad brown eyes. I’d do anything to take away her pain. Anything.
“I love you,” she murmurs. “I’m sorry.”
I hold her tight against me. “Don’t be sorry. I love you,” I say back. “More than anything.”
* * *
Tired from the past few days, we all elect to take a well-deserved afternoon nap. Rocío sets me up in the guest room, and Isabel follows her back to her room.
I can’t sleep, though. The bed is comfy and the duvet is thick and warm, but there is a restlessness in me that only action can ease, not rest.
I hear the door click. It opens, and in comes Isabel, a timid look on her face.
“She’s asleep,” she whispers.
I can tell by the look of her that Isabel can’t sleep either. I open my arms out to her.
Locking the door, she climbs into bed with me and lays in my arms. I would have been happy to just lay here like this, but Isabel has other plans.
“I need you,” she murmurs. She rolls over to straddle me, her sweet mouth trailing my cheek down my jaw and up my chin in search of my lips.
Oh.
“I’m right here, baby,” I whisper back. “I’ve got you. I’m never letting you go.”
My shirt comes off, then hers. We speak without words; we race each other down a familiar path.
“I love you,” she whispers into my mouth, her hand reaching between her legs to position me at her entrance. “I love you, I love you, I love you. I never want to lose you.”
If there was ever a doubt that she and I were made for each other, there can be none now. She’s taken the words straight out of me, as if we share one mind, one soul.
“You’ll never lose me, baby,” I promise. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Rocío’s doctor can prescribe me the morning-after pill,” she says. “I have an appointment booked for this weekend so I can get on the pill. And a prescription for the morning-after tonight.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Is that okay?” she asks.
“Will you be safe?”
She nods. “Not as safe as I could be. But—”
I bite my lip. It’s a risk we’re willing to take.
I guide Isabel down onto my lap. She gasps softly. She’s wet, sticky, drenching my lap in her arousal. The heat of her sends me into overdrive. My fingers flex against her hips. She starts with a slow grind before beginning to bounce, and I’m dizzy with the pleasure of it all.
We quench our thirst with generous sips from each other’s bodies, hips rocking in sync with the beat of our hearts. Each time feels like the first time. Her touch brings me places that are beyond words.
I tuck her face into the crook of my neck, my hand splayed on the back of her head. Her short, little pants egg on the rising heat in me, until we’re coming, coming, coming in each other’s arms.
Isabel slows to a stop, her chest heaving with her labored breaths. It slows, evens out, and for a second I think she’s fallen asleep until she lifts her head to kiss the edge of my chin.
“I have to go back,” she whispers.
“Don’t go,” I plead. “Stay with me.”
But she’s already climbing off me, rooting through the sheets in search of her clothes.
“Are you hitting and quitting?” I ask.
She grins. “I’m hitting and quitting.”
I boo her. She waves me off.