Furia(20)

“But you’re going back to Turín next week.”

“Renting a car each time I come back would be more expensive than owning one, to be honest.” I wasn’t going to ask when he’d be coming back. Not after the scene with Pablo and my dad. But if he’d bought a car, maybe he’d buy a house or an apartment in one of the brand-new buildings in Puerto Norte.

“Where are you parking it?” I asked. “When you return, you won’t find even a thread of the leather seats.”

“I’m driving it to Buenos Aires. This guy has a parking garage for players’ cars.”

“Genius,” I said. The guy who owned that garage must have been raking it in with shovels.

The BMW barely rocked on the narrow streets of el barrio, pockmarked by too much rain and too little maintenance. The seat automatically adjusted around my body and cushioned me from the minimal jostling.

“Cool, huh?” Diego asked, noting my surprise.

“Just like the 142,” I said, and looked out the window. From the safety of the car, I didn’t mind the wild dogs sprawled on the sidewalks, sleeping off the adventures of the previous night.

Once we were outside el barrio, Diego rolled down his window. The wind that tangled his hair carried the scent of burning leaves. The sound of the popcorn seller’s handcart bell just barely reached my ears—a whisper, and then it was gone.

“You look beautiful,” Diego said softly.

I turned to see if he was joking, but he was looking at the road ahead, his hands clenching the steering wheel.

He was beautiful.

“I need to call Roxana. Can I borrow your phone?”

“Now?”

“Now. It’s urgent, and mine’s dead.”

The corner of his mouth twitched, but he took a slick phone from his jacket pocket and handed it to me. Pablo had a much older iPhone, and I hesitated because I didn’t know how to unlock this one.

“Here,” he said, taking the phone back, lifting the screen to his face for just a second, and then passing it back to me in a swift movement.

He rolled the window back up, and I dialed Roxana’s number, once, twice, three times. She didn’t pick up. She probably didn’t recognize the number. Finally, I texted her.



Answer the phone. It’s Camila.





Diego drove on, and I held the phone in my sweaty hand, praying for Roxana to call and rescue me. No matter how long I stared at the screen, she didn’t reply. Carefully, I put the phone on the center console. Diego glanced at me and then at it but didn’t say a word.

The tension between us was oppressive.

This wasn’t a normal first date. It wasn’t like I could ask him basic questions to break the ice. I already knew all his trivia. He was an Aquarius. His favorite colors were blue and yellow, but he preferred pink candy. His favorite number was ten—duh—and his favorite superhero was Spider-Man, the same as mine.

Still, even if his favorite colors and superheroes hadn’t changed, he had changed. I’d known the pre-Juventus Diego. Who was he now?

“Last night we didn’t get to talk about Turín,” I finally said. “What is it like to play on that kind of team? How is it being back home?” I sounded like the reporter who’d pelted me with questions after the championship.

He sighed with relief, the awkwardness gone. “Sometimes it feels like I never left Rosario.” He gave me that crooked smile. “Everything’s the same. The kids play in the parking lot, and the popcorn seller stands on the corner; there’s pasta on holidays, and wild dogs scratch their flea bites on the sidewalk. But this morning, it took me a second to remember where I was. I miss my apartment and my own bed.”

“Everything must be beautiful in Turín.”

Diego shrugged. “Yes, but the price of living there is too steep, and I’m not talking about euros.”

“You miss Rosario?”

“So much it hurts.” He rubbed his chest. “I’m doing what I love, but I miss Rosario in a way I never expected. Luís Felipe calls it saudade.”

The Portuguese word filled me with longing for something I hadn’t lost yet. My saudade had more to do with not getting to experience what he had: a life playing fútbol without having to hide.

“Tell me about Luís Felipe?” I’d seen Diego’s roommate in some of the Snapchats Roxana had shown me. Luís Felipe was gorgeous. His face looked chiseled by Michelangelo. Judging by how much Diego laughed when he was with him, he seemed like a great friend to live with. His girlfriend, Flávia, a model, was his childhood sweetheart, and they were trying the long-distance thing.

Diego laughed. “That guy is Carnaval personified! ‘Tudo bem, tudo bem,’ he says, and then he scores like a beast after partying all night with girls. He . . . he’s a character, that’s for sure.”

My mouth went dry as I pictured Flávia at home, thinking her long-distance relationship was working while her boyfriend was out partying all night with other women. Did she know? Did she care? And what about Diego? Did he party all night long with them?

I turned toward the window. We were driving past the municipal cemetery, La Piedad. A legion of stone angels watched over its expanse. Abuelo Ahmed was there. I’d never visited his grave, not even to help Pablo and my mom repaint it yellow and blue last spring. I looked away when we drove past the marble entrance, but I still felt its chill through the car window like icy fingers.