When We Believed in Mermaids(37)

I take a breath, think of those days, and again find myself telling him the truth. Maybe it’s him, or maybe it’s just time to tell someone. “We were wild children, all of us, even Dylan. He must have run away, because he showed up like a ghost one night when he was thirteen or so and just stayed. My mother took him under her wing.” I shake my head. It’s still a mystery that she did that, but she loved him as much as we did, right from the start. “My sister and I adored him.” I look out at the water. Even my dad, who was kind of a hard man in some ways, loved him. “It was probably the best thing that ever happened to Dylan.”

“Why?”

I remember his scars, some small and pale; others long, thin lines; others fat and red. “I didn’t realize it then, you know, but knowing what I know now, he must have been abused physically.” It makes my skin hurt to think of it, of his small gentle self, so heartbreakingly beautiful, being punched or cut or burned. His body bore the evidence of all those and more. For a moment, a wave of loss and longing threatens to swamp me, a longing for that time, for Dylan himself, for the terrible things he suffered. “He took care of us, Josie and me.”

“Why didn’t your parents care for you?”

The answer is so complicated and so intimate after everything else that I’m relieved when the waiter brings a basket of bread and Javier releases my hand. Offering me the basket first, holding it with courtly manners while I select a round brown roll, he selects a seeded one and lifts it to his nose. “Mm. Alcaravea,” he says.

I gesture for it, and he offers the roll so I can look at it. “Caraway.”

“Delicious.”

Every gesture he makes, every expression, is as smooth and graceful as every other. Nothing is hurried or overly considered. He flows moment to moment in a way I don’t remember ever noticing in a human before. I smile and butter my bread.

And as if he senses I’ve reached a wall, he turns the conversation. “Tell me, Kit—is it Katherine or something else? Were you like a fox kit, and your father gave you the nickname?” As he speaks, his gaze is focused intently on my face, as if whatever words drop from my mouth will be endlessly fascinating. I had a professor once who looked at me this way. She was a nun, and I knew her in my third year of undergrad. I bloomed in her presence. I’m blooming now.

“It was my father’s doing,” I admit. “He thought I looked like a kitten when I was born, and he nicknamed me. My mother still calls me Kitten sometimes, and Dylan used to as well. But everyone else calls me Kit. I was quite a tomboy.”

“Tomboy? I do not think I know this word.”

“Not very girlie. I didn’t like dolls or dresses.”

His hands are stacked, just the fingers, quiet. “What did you like?”

“Surfing. Swimming.” Something in my spine loosens, and I lean forward, smiling as I remember. “Searching for pirate treasure and mermaids.”

“Did you find them?” His voice is lower, his dark eyes very direct.

I look at his generous mouth, then back up. “Sometimes. Not very often.”

He nods very faintly. It’s his turn to look at my mouth. My shoulders, the square of skin showing in my dress. “So was it Katherine to start or Kitten?”

“Katherine. It was my father’s mother. And I, sadly, look just like her.”

“Sadly? Why do you say such a thing?”

I shrug, easing backward, away from that swirling thing growing in the air between us. “I don’t mind. But I was not my sister or my mother.”

He tsks. “I saw that photo of your sister. She looks small. Wispy.”

“Yes. Never mind this conversation. I didn’t mean—”

“I know.” He grins almost mischievously.

I laugh lightly. “You’re teasing me.”

“Perhaps just a little.”

“Now you. Tell me something. Why do you have your name?”

“The whole name is Javier Matias Gutierrez Velez de Santos.”

“Impressive.”

“I know.” He inclines his head, easing the arrogance. “My father is Matias, and my mother’s brother was Javier. He was killed by a jealous husband before I was born.”

I narrow my eyes. “Is that true?”

He raises his hands, palm out. “Swear. But I was never the boy who would be killed that way. I had big glasses, you know, thick.” His hands went to his eyes to illustrate the shape. “And I was a bit fat, and they called me cerdito ciego, little blind pig.”

Before he even finishes the sentence, I’m laughing, the pleasure coming from somewhere in my body that I’d forgotten. “I don’t know that I believe you.”

“I swear, it’s true. Every word.” He glances over his shoulder, leans closer. “Do you want to know the secret of my transformation?”

“Yes, please,” I whisper.

“I learned to play guitar.”

“And sing.”

He nods. “And sing. And then, it was like a magic spell. I could sing and play, and nobody called me the little blind pig anymore.”

“I believe that story. Your voice is beautiful.”

“Thank you.” His eyes glitter. “Usually it doesn’t send women running away.”