Chapter 32
My hands are coated in sand and my plastic cup is half full of seashells.
The waves crash against the shore, and together they meet with the force of two people who miss each other terribly.
The sand welcomes the blow, crumbling little by little as the sea draws itself back.
The moon hangs lonely from the cloudy sky.
Somewhere in the distance, thunder roars.
There are no stars visible tonight, but the moon is big and bright.
If we were in the middle of the woods, I’d say it was a werewolf moon.
But we’re on an island, so it’s more my finding-seashells luminary.
I walk along the shoreline, careful not to stray too far from the hotel.
I can still hear the live band playing salsa at the restaurant and can still see the lights reflecting on the water, so I’m okay.
A couple of young parents walk with their maybe four-year-old, one on each side of the boy, holding his hands and lifting him whenever there’s a wave.
The boy giggles and the parents look at each other and smile.
I can’t help but smile too, despite the pang of longing that comes with it.
I’m not sure if it’s because I want to be the mom or because I want to be the kid. Maybe both. Maybe I’ve been chasing not what I want, but what I lack. And I know it sounds like those are the same, but they’re not.
Another seashell catches my eye (thank you, Luna), and I kneel to pick it up.
It’s shaped exactly like a guitar pick, almost as flat but a little dented.
It’s a blueish gray; maybe under good light it’ll look different.
I immediately know I’m going to give it to Simón.
I doubt it’ll work as a guitar pick, but it will work as a memento, a souvenir that reminds him of that one time he helped a fan try to get back together with her ex, only to end up…
I sigh, rubbing my arms against the cold, and decide it’s time to head back.
Sunday is our last day on the island. We’ll leave in the afternoon. I’ll land in Caracas and quit. Simón will land in Bogotá, and we’ll never talk again. Life will go on as planned.
I’m almost at the base of the stairs leading up to the pool when I halt.
A few feet away, Simón stands on the bottom step, in his signature outfit.
His hands are hidden in his hoodie’s front pocket.
His chin is tilted up, looking at the starless sky.
It gives his jaw a sharp edge, but his shoulders are relaxed.
He sighs with his entire body, almost as if he’s trying to drink the ocean air in, fill himself with it.
And then he sees me. The sound of my racing heartbeat fills my ears, drowning out all other noise—waves, laughter, music—as I stand frozen by his gaze. The world seems to hold its breath, waiting for what will happen next.
Simón’s gaze is open and inviting, expectant even. I move closer. His eyes stay on me the whole time. They only shift to the waves crashing on the shore when I’m safely standing beside him.
“Couldn’t sleep?” His voice is low and raspy, the way I know it gets when he’s tired.
I shake my head. “Too much on my mind. I can’t sleep when I’m overthinking.”
Simón inches closer, warmth oozing from his body. I immediately need him to step away. I’m cold and I want him to hug me. I’m cold and I want him to kiss me in front of another body of water. I want to pull that sweater off of him and keep it for myself.
I lean away.
“If it makes you feel any better, I also can’t sleep when I’m overthinking,” he says.
“Is that why you’re down here?”
He sits on the steps. “No, I’m down here because someone in that band is off-key and I was on my way to tell them.”
“I’m sure they’ll appreciate your honesty.” I dust the wooden step before I take a seat next to him. “You judge singers for a living, after all.”
“Don’t remind me.” He leans back on his elbows. “I didn’t have ‘Becoming Colombia’s Adam Levine’ on my list of life aspirations.”
“I think that’s Sebastián Yatra,” I say.
Simón laughs next to me, and I feel it in every cell. His body loosens, a leg stretched out to rest on the sand, a hand draped across his middle, his neck stretched back so he’s looking at the sky again.
His eyes find mine as his laughter dissolves. “Marianto, I’m so sorry.”
I shake my head. “It’s okay.” The words come out automatically.
“It’s not okay,” he says, shifting so we’re face-to-face, our knees touching.
“I had to go back home to record a new song we’re releasing with another artist. It’s a big deal and they couldn’t reschedule.
I completely forgot about it. I almost missed my flight because I slept in.
I was swept up with work as soon as I arrived because it was only meant to be a day, but then I had a family emergency, and I was focused on that, and I figured at that point it was better to just wait until I saw you, because I was seeing you today. But it’s clearly not better and—”
“Is everything okay with your family?” I ask, my voice small, as I trace the shape of a seashell with my index finger.
Simón nods. He’s almost panting from speaking so fast.
“I’m glad,” I say.
“Marianto, about that night—”
“Simón.” I close my eyes. I don’t want to hear it. It doesn’t change anything. Of course he had a legitimate reason; legitimate reasons abound in this industry. That’s not the point. There is no point. “It was just a kiss. It’s okay. Who cares if we kissed once?”
He pushes to his feet, and when I open my eyes again, I see hurt reflected on his face.
“I do,” he says. “And I think you do too. Do you know why I almost missed my flight?”
My chest feels heavy, like a weight I can’t shake off. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does matter.” He pushes his hair back, looking away. “I understand you’re angry—”
I shake my head. “I’m not angry.”
“You are.” He nods. “And you’re disappointed. And you have every right to be. But you can’t tell me what I’ve been feeling is all in my head.”
“It doesn’t matter,” I repeat.
Simón throws his hands up, taking a step back. “Why do you keep saying that?”
Because I’m trying to convince myself. Maybe if I say it enough, it’ll come true. Maybe if I say it enough, my heart will catch up to what my mind already understood.
“Because we’re never going to see each other again after this anyway,” I say. “I’m not coming back for the live shows.”
“Great!” Simón says. “Get that job you interviewed for, live your dreams, don’t come back to the show. What does that have to do with anything?”
“You’re leaving,” I remind him.
“I’m coming back,” he says. “I can come back as many times as necessary.”
The live band playing at the restaurant seems to have finished for the night, replaced by old-fashioned speakers.
The family walking the shoreline is gone.
Somewhere on the hotel premises, people talk over the music, their voices carried by the wind.
I wonder if it carries our voices too. If anyone is interested enough in the couple by the mouth of the beach to pick up bits and pieces of our conversation.
“Listen,” Simón continues. “I want to see you. I want to spend more time with you. I want to get to know you better. I like you. A lot. And forgive my boldness but I suspect you like me too.”
My heart skips a beat, I feel my cheeks flush. God, I do. I really do. But even if I wanted to shout it out from the rooftops, what good will it do to admit it?
“Simón—”
“I told you what I want,” he cuts me off. “What do you want?”
I stand, intent on running. I can’t do this right now. I have feelings for him, that much is true. But everything else I’ve said is also true. He’s leaving. He will always be leaving. And I will always be left behind, waiting.
He takes a step toward me. My brain screams leave, but my feet don’t move an inch.
“What do you want?” he repeats, his voice low, little more than a whisper against the sound of the waves crashing on the shore.
The question feels like an accusation, even though I know it’s not.
Doing something because I want to and not because it fits the plan isn’t how I’m wired.
People make plans to stay on track, to have structure, to know what to expect.
When you just let life happen to you, when you don’t plan ahead, when you do what you want at every whim, then you end up with a string of broken relationships, leaving people behind, alone and heartbroken.
If I can plan ahead and base my decisions on those plans, the pain risk is minimum.
“Ask me, then.” He almost begs when I don’t speak. “I’ll say it again. I’ll say it as many times as you need to hear it.”
He’s so close I could count his eyelashes, play connect the dots with his freckles.
Simón is a work of art in so many senses.
Beautiful inside and out, but also out of reach, forbidden.
Okay to admire, maybe even touch, but not to take home.
It occurs to me that that’s what I want.
If my mind wasn’t my mind, if my life wasn’t my life, if I wasn’t the way I am, I would grab this particular work of art and run away with it.
And here he is, in front of me, offering it.
My hands ache with the need to reach out, to touch him.
The sound of the waves crashing on the shore is a distant memory.
I’m only aware of Simón, his pleading eyes, his challenging stance.
I lean closer, just an inch, maybe less.
An imperceptible sigh escapes his lips, almost in relief, but he’s waiting.
When was the last time I did something because I wanted to?
When was the last time my life wasn’t dictated by a formula, a step-by-step? I can’t even remember.
“What do you want, Simón?” I whisper.
His gaze flickers from my eyes to my lips, then back up. He swallows, inching closer. “A ti.”
I want him too.
He doesn’t close the space between us. I can hear the silent condition. The choice is yours. So, I don’t think. I just do.
Before I have a chance to regret it, I take his jaw in my hands and kiss him. Because I want to.