Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1)(17)

“Listen to me. Please! Feign will come up with some excuse about the location and, at most, we’ll end up in the gallery as always. And in the end, I’ll give you all the money. I’m done here but you can go on. Maybe put it toward a college fund?”

Javier drops my hands. “A college fund for what?” he spits out. “You of all people should know better.” He shakes his head and stomps to the other side of the room.

“Why did you agree at all, Isa? Why even take this risk?”

“I’m so sorry, I was afraid he’d dig deeper and I was—” I stop immediately because he shoots me a look of pure fury. His ebony eyes are so deep I have a vision of falling. His nostrils flare. I have never seen this look on Javier before. When he speaks, his voice is quiet.

“Don’t give me that bullshit, Isa. You didn’t do this for me.”

“What? What do you mean?” My eyes start to prickle. Javier has never been mad at me before. Not once in four years. He stalks toward me and lowers his mouth to my ear.

“You like the American billionaire fantasizing about you, don’t you? You like the idea of his eyes looking on you even after you’re gone.”

I start to shake my head but stop. He has spoken the truth although it has nothing to do with Hale’s money. It has everything to do with Hale himself.

“As I thought,” Javier says.

“Javier, no. I didn’t do this for his money or because he is American. I guess I—”

He puts one paint-stained finger on my lips. “Don’t finish that sentence. I think I know. But this isn’t the time to get more attached, Isa. If we have thirty-two days left as a family, we shouldn’t waste them with strangers. There are lots of those, sweetheart, but you only have one family here.” His voice loses the anger and becomes soft.

Tears roll down my cheeks. He wipes them away with his index finger and pulls me into his arms. The homey smell of paint and peppermint surrounds me. He presses his lips on the center of my forehead where my dad used to kiss me. Silent sobs crash against my rib cage so violently that I can’t make a sound.

When the sobs turn to tears, I perch on his painting stool, wiping my eyes with my sleeve.

“Did you decide what you’re going to do?” Javier says, folding cross-legged on the floor.

It takes me a moment to remember what he is asking. “Oh, yeah. I can’t face it, Javier. I can’t walk on that stage, with all those parents around.”

“Maria and I would be there.”

“No, you both need to work. I’m not messing up your lives too.”

His eyebrows furrow until they become a paintbrush. “All right, we’ll just throw you a little party here next Sunday.”

I start to protest but my phone rings in my pocket. Reagan.

The moment I answer, she squeals. After several falsettos, I surmise that she has a job offer as a research assistant at Oregon Health & Science University, testing models for behavioral therapy. Finally! Something right for one of us.

“So, we’re going to Andina for drinks. Dad’s treat,” Reagan announces with finality. “Bring Javier too. It’s the last thing Dad’s paying for. And we can all use a drink. Or six.”

*

Andina—Portland’s crème de la crème Peruvian restaurant—has a din loud enough for conversation to blend in with the crowd, but not so loud that we develop laryngitis from screaming. Reagan has saved us a spot in the downstairs lobby. We order sangria, mojitos and ceviche. One mojito in, Reagan peers at me with narrowed eyes. I gulp my sangria. Every time she has that look, it involves an idea like bungee jumping.

“Isa, I’ve been thinking,” she starts with an ominous tone. “Why don’t you just stay illegally? It’s better than an empty home. You’d give up science but…” She trails off with a shrug.

Truth be told, I’ve thought about it. Maria could find me a cleaning job at the hotel. But my science dream would die.

“I’m thinking about it,” I mumble and down the rest of my sangria, filling up the goblet again.

A sultry tango tune starts—“Sentimientos”—and Javier leans in. “Let’s dance. Before you get completely plastered.”

Javier has something that most American men don’t—rhythm. He can dance, and he’s good at it. I never understood the aversion American boys have to dancing. I love Argentine tango.

After four years of doing this, we dance close-embrace. Javier’s T-shirt is level with my eyes, and I notice some small paint stains. On him, they look distinguished, not dirty. After two more songs, we head back to the table—Javier walking, me waddling.

“Javier, you need to teach me how to tango,” Reagan demands as soon as we sit down. She looks blurry around the edges. “Isa is a horrible teacher. I end up leading her.”

Javier laughs, and they’re off planning while I tackle a mojito. I chug it, almost inhaling the crushed ice at the bottom.

A clearing of the throat distracts me from my assault on ice. Bloody hell, I know that sound. I blink through the haze and there he is in all his glory. My Mr. Hale. Tall, absurdly beautiful and pinning me with his sapphire gaze. I think my mouth is closed but I could be wrong.

“Elisa.” He nods—a quizzical note in his voice.

“Hello, Mr. Hale.” Ugh! My words sounded like a garbled sigh, whether from the sight of him or the drinks I’ve quaffed, I don’t know.