When We Believed in Mermaids(94)

“Because they wish to know who that beautiful woman is with Se?or Velez,” Miguel says, giving me a wink.

Then they’re taking the stage, and the crowd goes crazy, whistling and clapping as Javier picks up a guitar. He lifts a hand and settles in a chair before a microphone. The two men begin to play, the guitars weaving in and out of each other, rising and falling, and I think it must be flamenco.

A woman sits down next to me, slim and middle-aged, her perfume spicy in the beery room. She leans in, offering her hand. “You must be Kit. I’m Sylvia, Miguel’s wife.”

I give her a frown. “You know my name?”

She smiles. “We are his family. He talks.”

“Ah.” It makes me uncomfortable, but I take her hand, nod in acknowledgment. A waitress comes around, bringing beer and shots. “Right?” she asks, bending close. “Ale and tequila?”

I’m startled but lean close enough to say, “Yes, thank you.”

“Anything else?”

“No, thank you.”

She settles a glass of wine in front of Sylvia and a glass of water.

“It’s her job to care for the musicians and their parties,” Sylvia says. “And Javier is . . . well, himself.”

Himself. I glance at the stage. At the people leaning toward him so eagerly.

The music shifts, and they dive into another instrumental piece. This one sounds familiar. It’s exhilarating, full of thumping on the guitars and speedy transitions. I’ve never been a musician, but it’s thrilling to watch them.

Thrilling to see Javier in his natural habitat. He and the guitar are both woven of flesh and wood and strings and notes, all coming together to create enchantment. His fingers fly over the strings, up and down, strumming, slapping, strumming some more. His hair falls on his forehead, and his foot taps on the floor, and he looks up at Miguel to see where they are, and the two dive into the next section, and— I feel something in my gut. Wild and deep, in tune with his strumming hands, aching and pulsing. It takes on color, a rich yellow, the color of sunlight, and it begins to spread through my body, every single part of me becoming points of light that pulse in time with his strings. It makes me dizzy and makes me feel alive.

“Wow,” I say aloud.

Sylvia laughs beside me. “Yes. Every time.”

The music rises to a crescendo, and then they fall silent. Javier tosses his hair from his forehead and begins rolling up his sleeves. He looks toward me and raises a brow. I touch my hands to my heart, and he smiles.

And then, as last time, he pulls a microphone close, adjusts his guitar, and leans in. His voice is rich and full of layers, caressing the words one by one, the notes weaving in and out. I don’t understand what he’s saying, but I love the way he sings, earnestly, intently. He never looks at me, but I feel his attention, plucking those points of connection through my body, first yellow, now orange.

Next to me, Sylvia leans over. “Do you speak Spanish?”

I shake my head.

She interprets,

“In the whisper of the waves, I hear your name

In the caress of the sunlight, I feel your lips

In the hands of the wind, I feel your touch

Everywhere, in everything, there you are

I will not forget you, sweet love.”



I close my eyes because it’s almost too much. His face, his hands on the guitar. But even as I shut the visuals out, his voice weaves through me, and I see him bending over me as we kissed the first time, and his hands gliding over my body, and the way he laughs at my jokes.

His song trails off, and he picks up a bottle of water to take a drink. The room erupts in clapping, cheering. Javier waves a hand, looks at me, gives me a nod.

And it’s like that for all the time he sings. Beautiful love songs, songs about loss, all the music plucking my heart, piercing my soul. I allow myself to fall into the flow of it, allow it to carry me away into a world that’s more bearable than the one where I’ve caused my sister’s life to come tumbling down around her, where I might well have deprived two children of a family that was, until my arrival, perfectly whole.

When he finishes, I lean into his neck and say, “We don’t have much time. Would you rather sit here or go back to my bedroom?”

He chooses my bedroom.



At midnight, I’m lying on my stomach. Javier lies next to me, tracing the dip in my spine with light fingers—up, down, up, down. It’s hypnotically soothing. “Tell me about your broken heart,” he says, “this one broken heart that has kept you away from love for the rest of your life.”

“Oh, it’s not that dramatic. I haven’t had a lot of time to fall in love.”

“Psssht. Love does not need time.”

I turn my head to look at him. My carapace of protection has disappeared, and I don’t even know where it is at the moment. “His name was James. I met him when I was very lonely, after the earthquake.” Easily, I trace the round of his shoulder, trail a finger down his biceps. “He had a girlfriend, but we started working together at Orange Julius.” I pause, remembering. “I had the worst crush ever. I could hardly breathe when he was in the room.”

“I am a little jealous.”

I smile. “He broke up with his girlfriend, and for a whole summer, we were inseparable. We taught each other everything, really. No one was ever home at my house, so we just hung out there and explored each other.” On my back, Javier’s touch has shifted to an open palm, moving up and down. “I was so very much in love. It filled every part of me. And really, it was the first time in a really long time that I was happy.”