Furia(13)

“What?” I asked, blushing. His eyebrows were perfectly shaped, way better than mine, and when he moved, the diamond studs in his ears cast sparkles of light all around us.

The kettle sang. I turned off the stove and picked it up. “What?” I asked again.

“So . . .” He swallowed. “I was walking up the stairs, and I looked up at your window, and . . . nena! You were wearing just your bra!”’

I had to put the kettle down so I wouldn’t drop it. My face felt hotter than the water, and I feared steam was coming out of my ears.

“I didn’t notice the shutters were open,” I whisper-shouted.

I wanted to die.

“Be more careful next time, then.” There was concern in his voice. “Don’t encourage the creeps. What if someone other than me saw you? If your dad finds out, he’ll lock you up in the tallest tower, and you’ll have to wait for me to come rescue you.”

“I’ll rescue myself,” I said, a couple of seconds too late. “And don’t worry. No one will ever lock me up in a tower.”

“I’d like to see someone try.” He was standing so close I felt the heat of his body. Or maybe it was just me burning up. “I heard about Gimena.” His face was unreadable, but his voice was so sad. “She was in my class in elementary school. She dropped out in seventh grade, and Pablo was devastated. He had a crush on her, remember? Back when he liked brunettes.”

If she hadn’t been hanging out with the wrong crowd, she’d still be alive . . .

“Every day there’s a new girl.”

“If anyone ever bothers you, you tell me, and I’ll kick his ass. I’ll make him swallow his teeth. Just say the word.”

But what could Diego really do? He didn’t even live here anymore.

I patted his hand and then pulled away so quickly I almost knocked the mate over. “Ay,” I muttered, pushing back the swear words I would’ve said if he hadn’t been here. “Like I said, I can take care of myself. Don’t worry.” Then, trying to change the subject, I added, “Do you want some pizza to go with el mate, or crackers? Or my mom made pastafrola yesterday. Maybe there’s still some left.” I looked inside the fridge, and yes, the quince pie was still there.

Diego’s eyes flared with desire. For the cake. He had a sweet tooth. “Just a little.”

“Come sit here.” I led him to the table, taking my regular spot in front of the window, and he sat across from me, as he’d done a million times before.

“I . . . I see you on TV. I mean, we watch the games.” I poured water in the mate. “My mom and me. She says the black and white looks good on you, bianconero.”

My eyes wandered over him, caressing his bashful face, which was so closely shaved I could almost feel the softness of his skin against my fingertips. I took a sip of mate and almost scalded my tongue.

“You watch the games?”

I swallowed quickly so I could reply. “Whenever we can. Sometimes we listen on the radio, and when we watch, it’s online. Because the pay-per-view costs an egg and a half.”

He laughed. “Always so delicate.”

He swallowed a bite of pie. Crumbs clung to his lips, and ay, Dios mío, my insides twisted, but I went back to the mate and pretended to be cool.

“Oh, you meant chicken eggs,” he said.

“Of course! What kind of impure thoughts are you having, Ferrari?”

He licked his lower lip and bit it before he said dramatically, “All of them, Hassan.”

My mind exploded with indecent images. I laughed, lowering my eyes to my napkin. I had shredded it.

Another uncomfortable silence enveloped us. Smothered us. Frantically looking for a way to shatter the awkwardness, I remembered I still had his book. “I have something for you.” I sprang out of my seat to get The Shadow of the Wind from my room. When I returned to the kitchen, he was still nursing el mate in his hands. “I’m sorry I kept it for so long.” I laughed. “Your house is too far to return it.”

The lamp in the corner cast a feeble light that didn’t reach me, and I hoped he couldn’t see that I was blushing again. Avoiding his eyes, I handed him the book. When he took it, our fingers brushed. I balled my hands into tight fists and crossed my arms so he couldn’t see I was shaking.

“What did you think?” he asked. When I didn’t answer, he went on, “I mean, if you still remember the story. It’s been so long.”

“I read it more than once. I just don’t know where to start.”

His face glowed with surprise. “Oh, you liked it, then.”

“Yes, I loved it. The translation is great. It reads just like in Castellano.” He looked at me with a small smile, and I continued, “Barcelona! What else can I say?” I picked my words carefully to avoid mentioning the romance at the heart of the story. “I loved the bit about leaving a part of ourselves in every book we read. How we collect the fragmented souls of those who found the story first. That’s beautiful.” Put like this, reading a borrowed book sounded like an extremely intimate experience. “And you? What’s your favorite part?”

Diego blinked and stared into the darkness of the kitchen. “That sometimes we’re cursed, and we can’t break free without the help of those who love us.” He took my hand in his, and this time I didn’t snatch it away. “I’ve been to Els Quatre Gats and all the other places Daniel and Fermín go. In the old city, I even thought I saw Julián and Penélope once or twice.”