19. Amalia
Two weeks. Two weeks of turning the same memory over and over in my head. I’m fairly certain my neurons have hanged themselves from sheer boredom at how obsessed I’ve become with the library incident.
And now, when I close my eyes, I see the look on his face when I said his name. I see the surprise and the wonder in it, and a shiver moves through me before I can stop it.
I’ve seen him every week in class, but I could count on one hand the words we’ve exchanged in these fourteen days.
And that’s for the best. Because Silas is exactly the kind of headache I don’t need if I want to finish this degree.
I can only imagine the scandal and the gossip that would take off if anything between me and my math professor got out.
“That’s why she has perfect grades.” “She definitely gets the exam topics in advance.” “He put in a good word with Professor X so she’d finish with a better average than everyone else.” And I wouldn’t be able to shake any of it until graduation.
Clouds are gathering outside and I can smell rain in the air, so I decide to spend the next few hours studying.
On days like this the library is almost completely empty.
The moment I walk in I head straight to my corner, tucked between the economics reading shelf and the international policy section.
I’m working through my second set of course notes when a shadow appears behind me, and without meaning to, I flinch.
My eyes land on a pair of brown eyes I don’t recognize, and without thinking, I pull my notebook to my chest.
“Sorry,” the guy says, “I didn’t mean to scare you like that.”
He’s probably in my year. Now that I look more carefully, his face seems vaguely familiar from somewhere.
“It’s fine, I startle too easily.”
I slowly set my notebook back on the table and try to force my heart to settle.
“Hugo. My name’s Hugo,” he says, extending his hand.
“Amalia.”
I shake it briefly and try to signal that I’m not looking for conversation, but something tells me Hugo hasn’t picked up that I come here for the silence.
A few minutes pass without interaction, me reading through the course I’d been working on before the interruption, him shifting restlessly in the chair across from me. When I hear the chair creak under him for the eighth time, I close my notebook with more force than necessary and look at him.
“Is there something I can help you with, Hugo?”
His eyes go wide for a second, but once he registers the question he straightens up in his seat.
“Since you asked, Amalia — yes, actually. I’d like you to tutor me in mathematics. I need at least a B+ on this exam, otherwise I’m going to fail the course.”
“I don’t tutor.”
He looks me over from head to toe, and I don’t know exactly why, but the gesture bothers me.
Sure, I don’t wear designer clothes, I don’t have the latest phone, and I don’t have a private driver dropping me at the college gate every morning, but for people like Hugo, who wear cashmere sweaters and shoes that cost a month’s rent, status lives entirely in the image you project.
“Not even for the right amount?” he says with a faint edge of arrogance.
At this point I lock the old Amalia in a room and let the other one out.
“What kind of amount are we talking about?” I ask, crossing my arms, smiling.
“Fifty dollars for four sessions,” he answers.
I laugh before I can think better of it and then immediately clap a hand over my mouth, eyes darting around the library.
I’d bet fifty dollars is what he spends on lunch on any given day, and he thinks I’m going to hand over eight hours of my life trying to make vectors make sense to him for that.
I look up at the ceiling, slightly squinting, calculating how much fun I want to have with this. Finally I look back at him, and in the sweetest voice I own, I say, “Five hundred, and we can start tomorrow.”
His eyes go wide and that cocky smile disappears the moment the number lands. I’d bet he hasn’t done a calculation on paper since he was counting his nannies and the gifts he received from every relative on Christmas morning.
“Are you out of your mind? That’s a full average salary, and for what, a few explanations?”
His irritation is so palpable in the air that I’m almost tempted to drop the act and tell him he’s wasting his time, but I want to enjoy this a little longer.
“Six hundred now. We both know that getting a B+ from Professor Vaughn is going to take a small miracle, and that’s what miracles cost in my book, Hugo.”
His eyes narrow on me because he knows I’m right, but what surprises me is watching him actually weigh the decision. Is he seriously going to agree to six hundred dollars for a few tutoring sessions? No, he’s not that idiotic.
“Fine. Six hundred. But I want that B, Amalia.”
Oh, I guess I was wrong.
Now I’m the one without words because I genuinely didn’t expect him to agree to that number for a handful of study sessions.
I could still turn him down, but I remind myself that the money wouldn’t hurt.
And for what, a few formulas and worked examples?
I do far more questionable things for se?or Gustav, and for less money.
“Tomorrow, same time, same spot,” I tell him as he stands up with the look of someone who thinks he won.
I’m fairly sure for him this is two days’ allowance, while for me it’s a small fortune, but I can’t afford to turn it down. I don’t have much in savings, and it’s always good to have something set aside for emergencies.
As he walks by my chair, he pauses. Not wanting to be rude, I look up at him.
With a smile on his face, he reaches out and touches one of the hair clips holding a stray strand back from my glasses and says, “Looking forward to starting tomorrow. I can see you like hot chocolate. I’ll bring it.”
His footsteps fade into the distance, and only after twenty seconds do I turn back to my notebook.
I don’t even get through the first two lines before I hear a voice behind me. I find myself wondering how I didn’t feel him arrive earlier.
“When did you develop that talent for negotiation?” Silas’s voice makes me sit up straight.
I feel his breath at the base of my neck, and he braces his hands on the arms of my chair, framing me in.
His sleeves are pushed up to the elbow, and ay Diosito, why would you put a man with hands like that anywhere near hormonal women? It should be illegal. It should be classified as a public hazard. My brain peels itself off the floor to form a response when I hear him continue.
“You’re not tutoring him, Amalia.”
Yep, that gets my brain working.
I turn sharply toward him, cross my arms, and answer.
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
His dark eyes promise a fight, but he has absolutely no right to be bothered by me helping another student.
Granted, I’m being paid for it, but what I do with my free time isn’t his concern.
“Watch me. I’ll make sure he fails regardless of whatever he does on that exam.”
My mind is too stunned by this side of him to respond immediately, but what he doesn’t understand is that I need that money.
Most of our bills are handled online, and even though my uncle doesn’t know it, I never tell him the real cost of things.
He spent years fighting to give Lupe and me the best he could, so if I can contribute to the household, I will.
Not to mention that I’ve been trying to replace my laptop for a year now, but between tuition and all the books and software subscriptions, I’ve run dry.
“What is your problem, Silas? I need that money. Not all of us have a full-time job, not all of us are mathematical geniuses who get sought out for external projects.”
His eyebrows lift in surprise. I don’t know if it’s because his name left my lips so easily, or because I made it clear that it’s obvious from the way he lives that a university salary isn’t his only income, but I can see the exact moment his mind goes blank.
“I told you not to let me get this close,” he murmurs, and my cheeks go instantly warm.
“You’re the one who got close, not me,” I whisper back, unable to pull my eyes from his mouth.
Because I want to kiss him. Just once. Just enough to know what it feels like to be consumed by someone like him before I die without ever finding out.
“What do you put in the air around you that not a single ounce of reason survives it?” he asks, and he sounds genuinely shocked by his own admission.
Maybe because I’m not the only one intoxicated by whatever is drifting between us right now, or maybe it’s the fact that I, Amalia, manage to chip away at that composed, serious presence he always carries, but I lean forward.
Too afraid to watch him take a step back and turn me down, I close my eyes and wait. I’m a millimeter from his lips, breathing in the scent of the books around us, the clean and fresh scent of him, but when I realize he’s not going to close the remaining distance, I start to pull back.
I don’t know if he reads the tension in my body or if my thoughts are somehow too loud, because in the next second his hands settle at the base of my neck and draw me toward him.
He tastes like tea and mint. Before I’ve registered it, my hands have moved over his.
I’ve never kissed anyone before, which leaves me slightly frozen.
His lips are careful at first, almost questioning, like he’s giving me time to pull away.
I don’t. There’s no formula anywhere for a first kiss, for the perfect kiss, but the moment he bites my lower lip gently and his tongue meets mine slowly, it’s as if he’s trying to figure out the secret too.
He makes a sound low in his throat, barely a grunt, but I feel it everywhere.
My entire body is on fire, and I pull him closer, only to find we’re already as close as we can get.
My brain goes completely silent. All I hear is my own heartbeat.
All I feel is the warmth of his mouth, the lazy, thorough way his tongue plays with mine, his hands flexing at the sides of my neck like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he lets go.
It’s not a kiss like the ones in the telenovelas I used to watch with tío Felipe — loud, sweeping, dramatic. It’s slow and exploratory, and unhurried in a way that makes it worse because I know this man ruined all other kisses for me.
When he breaks the kiss, his forehead dropping to mine, I watch his eyes clear slowly, and with it, the reality of what he just did sinks in.
“Silas,” I whisper, as my hands close over his.
Because he wants to run, I can see it. I can see the panic beginning to consume him, and I wish his reaction didn’t hurt as much as it does.
I want the Silas who looked at me with wonder and something like reverence, as though I’m the only one of my kind on this earth. Not the man standing in front of me now, full of doubt and regret.
“Say my name again,” he whispers, drawing a slow breath.
I listen, and I say his name once more, then twice, like a small prayer, hoping to make him understand that it’s okay not to know what is happening, but begging him not to run.
Not to leave me again with this avalanche of feelings that is just as unfamiliar to me as it is to him.
“My brain is telling me to walk out of this library, call Rodolfo to move you out of my class, and pretend you never existed, Amalia.”
I swallow, and I can’t look away from the pained expression on his face.
“And this,” I tap his chest three times with my finger, “what does this say?”
I watch him look at me again with that warm look that makes me feel like I’m floating.
“That this is the first time it’s beaten this fast for someone who isn’t my family.
That this is the first time I don’t care that it isn’t moral or ethical.
I want you, Amalia. I want all your attention, every smile, and every bit of that sarcasm that no one else on this campus would even know what to do with.
I want every scrawl on every page, this scent,” he draws a slow breath, “of flowers and chocolate, but most of all, I want this.” His fingers come to rest at my temples.
And the problem with this confession? My heart dissolved completely because I want him too. Somewhere, in one small corner of my mind, I can hear my brain trying to inject a little reason into this moment.
But it’s not loud enough, and I shut it out, because now I understand Lupe and that feeling of walking on air. That no one can touch you, that you matter to someone like him. And it feels damn good.
I hold his gaze for a second, my heart going crazy inside my chest. The corner of my lips curves up before I can stop it. “Well,” I say, and I’m surprised by how steady my voice comes out, “you’re in for a hell of a ride.”
The corner of his lips lifts, with infuriating control, into something that looks dangerously close to a smirk. “I’d be disappointed if I wasn’t.”