Furia(42)

He knew my secret now: I was a futbolera. Having someone see all of me—besides Roxana—was liberating. No more wearing different faces at home, school, the pitch, with Diego.

I felt naked.

Maluma played softly on the radio, promising a night of fun without contracts or promises. Guys say they want that, but they don’t. They want all of us, girls, women. All, without leaving us any space to enjoy ourselves. What kind of guy was Diego when he wasn’t playing the roles of best friend, superstar, or son?

For once, neither logical Camila nor rash Furia could take the helm. In my mind, there was silence, but it wasn’t the calm before the storm; it was the stunning quiet before the unknown.

The car zipped by Ovidio Lagos, all the way downtown to Distinción Bakery. “I’ll be right back,” he said, and hopped out.

I leaned back into the seat and locked the doors. I closed my eyes for a second that became a minute that became more.

A knock on my window startled me awake. It was Diego.

“Let’s go,” he said once I’d unlocked the door for him. The smell of fresh bread and powdered sugar made my mouth water. My eyelids fluttered in exhaustion, and when I smiled at him, Diego brushed my hair off my face. “Hey, Furia. If you want to go home, I won’t be offended. I’ve been thinking, and—”

“Call me Camila.”

“Camila,” he said. “You don’t have to come anywhere with me—you know that, right? If you—”

I put a finger on his lips, and he sighed against it. The thrill of knowing what I could do to him with the simplest touch filled my head with bubbles. Maybe it was the magic of the newborn night and the full moon in the sky. Maybe it was the vulnerability of his unmasked face. Maybe I just was tired of fighting against myself. “I want to be here. With you, Diego. What did you have in mind?”

He took my hand and squeezed it softly.

“Take me on one last adventure, Diego, before you go back to Turín.”

He looked at me for a second too long. I thought he was going to say something, but if he was, he held it in. Before the moment became unbearable, he turned the engine on and headed toward the river.

The public bathing areas were closed this time of the year. La Florida wouldn’t open its beaches until November, but Diego parked in an empty lot that overlooked the water.

“Here,” he said.

The river’s soft waves caressed the outline of Rosario, and the bridge to Victoria glittered on the horizon. Round, low, dark clouds embraced the full moon like a cloak.

We got out of the car, and Diego took the paper bag from the back seat, then his backpack from the trunk. He handed me the bakery bag and put a package wrapped in shiny blue-and-yellow paper under his arm.

“What’s that?” I asked, trying not to put too much weight on my foot. It throbbed.

He’d taken off his hat, and a curl fell in his eyes. When he brushed it away, I saw an impish sparkle. “You’ll see.”

He held my hand and slowly led me down to the riverbank. My feet slipped in the sandals, so I stopped to take them off. The coarse sand was cold and pleasant. Diego led me to the middle of the little beach. It was deserted, as if we’d walked through a tear into a magical place where it was just the two of us, no strings to reality—past or future—attached.

Diego took a blanket out of his backpack and spread it on the ground; then he set a green Stanley thermos on top and took out a plastic container of yerba and another of sugar.

“You’re prepared.” I sat on the blanket. My left leg immediately seized up in a cramp so intense that I groaned.

Diego knelt in front of me and held my foot. “Point and flex. Point and flex.” I wanted to shake him off. I was sweaty and stinky, and his hands on my naked skin made it harder to concentrate on relaxing my muscles. But then the pain eased, and soon the cramp was gone. He rotated my ankle a few more times and finally placed my foot gently on the ground. “Now,” he said, “when that happens to me, Massimo massages my thigh to loosen the muscle. He makes me drink at least a liter of mineral water, too.”

“Massimo?”

“The team’s physiotherapist.” He rummaged in his bag and grabbed a glass water bottle. “Drink.”

“Fancy,” I said, studying my reflection in the bottle before I drank. The water was slightly salty, but I was too thirsty to let it bother me.

Diego shrugged. “I get sick now when I drink from the tap. So mineral water it is for me.”

“It’s all the sugar you’re eating, nene.”

He smiled sheepishly, and I could see the tip of his tongue between his teeth. He prepared the mate and took a sip. The first sip is always the strongest; it leaves a bitter green aftertaste. He didn’t even flinch. All the leftover tension that knotted my muscles drained away as I watched him do this ordinary thing.

“You bought all this for just the two of us?” I asked, looking at the assortment of facturas in the bag. Tortitas negras, vigilantes, cream and marmalade. He’d brought two of each at least. I took out a croissant. It melted on my tongue.

“They had an after six p.m. half-off sale. Happy hour.” He shrugged. “I couldn’t resist.”

We ate and drank mate and water from the same bottle and the same straw. He pulled out his phone, and at first I thought he was checking his texts, but before I could complain, music started playing softly. A man’s voice sang in Italian. Diego sang along softly, slightly off-key. He put the phone back on the blanket.