He’d never actually helped me with homework—that task always fell to my sisters, and then I was too old for it, studying instead with Zoe and Christina at Witch’s Brew. But Lourdes, he must have helped her. Celi, too. I imagined them huddled around the kitchen table, puzzling out one of those math problems about train speeds or some word association thing. He was probably really good at it, smart and patient.
Focus on the good memories you have with your loved one. Family members often find comfort in remembering the person how he was, not how the disease has changed him. Hold on to those precious moments. . . .
That’s what one of the brochures said, something I’d repeated to myself in the early days after the diagnosis. It sounded like good advice, and I’m sure for many people, it worked. But what if all your memories of a person belonged to someone else?
God, my sisters had so many. I’d heard them, tried them on, borrowed them as my own. Playing backgammon by candlelight one night when the power went out. Camping at Rocky Mountain National Park, that hike up Twin Sisters with the bighorn sheep. Piling into the car for the Jurassic Park double feature at the Silver Gorge Drive-In. Even the stories of how my sisters had gotten their names were magical: Lourdes, after Mom’s grandmother, who risked her life to fight for women’s rights in Argentina. Mariposa, “butterfly,” for the bright blue-and-orange butterflies that flooded my parents’ garden the week before my sister’s birth. Araceli, “altar of Heaven,” who sent Mom into labor on an airplane and was born in an ambulance on the tarmac after an emergency landing. Their names had their own memories, so different from mine, which my sisters loved to tell me was hastily chosen after the first thing Mom had seen after delivery: the doctor’s medallion.
Saint Jude, patron saint of lost causes.
My sisters got the good stuff first. All I had of their precious moments were imprints, shadows of the real thing cobbled together from the faded scraps of their reminiscing, bits and pieces that changed each time in the telling.
Like so many things in my life, the best memories of my father were a legacy, passed down to me like their hand-me-down clothes and toys and the Vargas oath.
Until I’d discovered the Harley, out in the storage barn under a blue tarp.
The motorcycle project was mine and Papi’s, a real story that only he and I shared. Every time we talked about the bike, helped Emilio disassemble and reassemble parts, Papi told me about his life in Argentina—wild, impossible stories unearthed from places in his mind that had been buried under the landslide of marriage and parenthood and career. Stories that even my sisters and mother hadn’t heard. Every one was like a gemstone I could keep in a box under the bed, something I could take out and hold up to the light whenever I longed again for its specialness.
Was that the reason I’d been so eager to help with the bike? So I could have something of Papi all my own?
Is that why Papi continued to work on it and read the manual and wear his leather jacket? For me?
Tomorrow turns into tomorrow, and before you know it . . .
“Papi?”
He jumped at my voice, eyes hazy from squinting at the manual. It took him a second to process; I could almost see the synapses firing behind his eyes, the slow passage of electricity along the nerves to and from the file cabinet of his central cortex, serving up my picture and my name and all the required information.
“I need to ask you something,” I said. “It’s important.”
He closed the book and stared at the cover, tapped it with his finger. “Are you sure you don’t want to talk to Mom? She’s probably better for this kind of thing. Or your sister. I can get her if you—”
“No! It’s nothing like . . . It’s not a female issue or anything.”
He let out an exaggerated sigh of relief and wiped a hand across his forehead. “In that case, your papi is at your service. But after this, we’re watching Ace High. It has our friend Tuco from The Good, the Bad and the Ugly.”
Papi cleared his throat, prepping for an inevitable Tuco impersonation. “There are two kinds of people in this world, Juju. Those who watch westerns in the middle of the night, and those who are disowned by their father.”
“When you put it that way . . .” I looked him in the eyes, steeled myself for the worst. “Papi, do you like working on the motorcycle? Is it fun for you? It’s not too much or anything?”
“Too much. Now that’s a big question, isn’t it?” Papi tapped the manual again. “What do you think, Panqueque? Do we like working on Valentina?”
At the mention of his Spanish name, the dog trotted over from his blanket on the floor at the end of my bed and nosed Papi’s leg.
“There’s nothing else I’d rather do than work on that Harley with you and Emilio. In fact . . .” He trailed off, his eyes seeming to focus on something in the distance, something out in the hallway.
“You okay?” I asked.
He squeezed his eyes shut, but when he opened them again, they were as clear as the Animas. “Sí. I want to ride her again, queridita. That’s what I decided. One more time, as soon as she’s ready. What do you think?”
I started to protest, to remind him of the doctors’ warnings about his heart, his head, staying safe. But the words turned to dust as I thought of my ride today, the rumble of the bike, the snap of the wind in my hair.
Don’t settle. . . . You see something, some chance for something great, you take it. You grab your keys and jump on your bike and go, no regrets.
“I think there are two kinds of people in this world, Papi. Those who suck, and those who rock.” I returned his broad smile and deleted my pictures from the Million Dollar Highway. “You rock.”
Chapter 23
Don’t be awkward don’t be awkward don’t be awkward. . . .
By the time Emilio showed up for work the next morning, I’d totally brainwashed myself—if such a thing was possible—to not be a freak show about everything that had happened between us. In fact, his lips were the furthest thing from my mind. Well, second furthest. Third? Fine. They were pretty much the main event, but I wasn’t about to show it. Besides, I couldn’t wait to tell him about Papi’s plans—a safe, nonkissing topic we could agree on.
“So check it out.” I sauntered up to the bike, smoothing out my hair as I went. It was raining today, a rare storm, and my locks were about five times bigger than normal. The moment Emilio saw me, he smiled, all dimples and dares, and my insides got a jolt.
“That an invitation?” he asked.
I tried to hide a grin behind my giant tumbleweed of hair, but Emilio’s eyes were still on me.
Valentina was on the lift again, and Emilio stood up from behind it and stretched. He had on the blue bandanna today, and it made his eyes stand out against his brown skin. “How’d you sleep?”
“I didn’t.” Just, you know, replaying everything that happened twenty-four hours ago and acting like a total spaz, and is it hot in here? I think it’s hot in here. “I had fun yesterday. Thanks for the ride. And the shake. And . . . everything.”
“Everything, huh?” Stubble, dimples, scar. Mischief in his eyes again. And something more, something new. Understanding, maybe. Desire. I saw it, and he saw that I saw it, and when he smiled again, my stomach dropped to my toes.
“What am I checking out?” he asked.
“What?”
“You said—”
“Oh! Papi wants to ride Valentina,” I said. “Later. After it’s all fixed and Mari goes back to Denver.”
“What’d you tell him?”
“Nothing. He already made up his mind.”
Emilio grunted and returned to the bike. I peered through the metal bones, watched him sort through a pile of bolts until he found the right one.
Why doesn’t he try to kiss me again?
“I know it’s not registered yet,” I said. “But maybe he could ride around here or something. You could get it set up for him, make sure the seat is level and everything. Right?”
&nb
sp; He tightened a bolt, loosened it, took it off, scrubbed it with a wire brush, put it back on, tightened it up with a wrench whose name I forgot. Not the Twizzler one.
“I mean, if you’re not on your trip yet,” I said.
The rain picked up, and the sudden metallic clang against the barn roof swallowed up all the sounds, muting the outside world into a dull blur and sharpening everything inside. If I closed my eyes, I was sure I’d taste the grit on the floor, smell the beat of my own heart as it crept into my throat.
I backed up toward the workbench, away from the bike, away from Emilio. Neither of us spoke for a while, just listened to the rain on the roof, to the click and clank of the tools. He didn’t ask for help. He didn’t narrate the repairs. He didn’t ask about Papi.
He was officially being weird.
“What’s up with you today?” I finally asked, forcing a lightness I didn’t feel. “You’re acting all, like, brooding and emo.”
“Bike’s leaking oil. One of the new seals must be busted.” He stood up again, crept out from around Valentina. He walked toward me with slow, deliberate steps, eyes on me the entire time, black hair curling under the bandanna.
“Whatever, Emo Boy. You’re not some kind of vampire, are you?” I attempted a flirtatious smile, but he couldn’t have missed the tremor in my voice, the electric current still sizzling between us.
He leaned in close when he reached the bench, brushed his fingers below my earlobe, just over the pulse. He pressed his lips from ear to collarbone and back up again, and just before I burst into flames, he pulled away to meet my eyes. Something vulnerable seeped in, like when I’d touched his scar yesterday. I blinked and then it was gone and Emilio dropped his hand and took a step backward.
“Think you can stop fantasizing about vampires and find me an oil pan?” he asked. “Not one made of real silver?”
“Silver is werewolves. Totally different.” I shuffled through the stuff beneath the bench until I found the pan. “And I don’t fantasize about vampires. The whole blood-drinking thing . . . ick. My sisters made me watch this eighties vampire movie when I was little. Lost Boys? Totally scarred me.”
Emilio slid the pan under the bike. “Me too. I hate that movie.”
“Afraid of bats?”
“Girls.”
“You. Afraid of girls.” I thought about our overlapping years at Blackfeather High, the cushion of sparkly makeup and tight skirts that had always surrounded him. Rosette, draped over him at the Bowl. Me, up on the Million Dollar Highway. “Yeah, okay.”
“Serious. Remember Star from the movie? I was so in love with her. I wrote her a letter asking her to marry me. After a month, when she didn’t write back, I stopped eating for two days. Rejection hurts, princesa. I was wrecked.” Emilio ran a hand over his bandanna and shook his head. “Shit. I can’t believe I told you that.”
Okay, I totally didn’t mean to laugh. I tried to cough it out, but it was no use.
“Why do you mock my heartbreak?” Emilio held a hand over his heart and frowned, but the dimples were a dead giveaway. “No one else knows that story. Not Samuel, not even my own ma.”
“Now I have to compete with Rosette and Star? Tough crowd.”
I’d meant it as a joke—mostly—but Emilio didn’t laugh or zing me with a comeback. He set down his wrench and met my eyes again. A smudge of oil streaked his chin, and I focused on the blackness, waiting for another wisecrack, hoping I hadn’t said the wrong thing again.
Why is this so hard all of a sudden?
“Hey,” I said. “I was just messing with—”
“Come with me,” he whispered.
It was fast and blurry; I wasn’t sure I’d heard him. I looked out the open barn doors. Outside, the rain pelted the dirt and the aspen leaves shook from its unrelenting attack. When I turned back, Emilio was right in front of me.
“I want you to come with me. See the road. Just . . . say yes.”
“What road?”
“Jude.” He tugged on the bottom of his shirt, smearing it with grease. “Are you serious with this? You know what road.”
“Grand Canyon?” My voice was small and shaky. “The ocean?”
“Everything.”
No smiles, no jokes, no dimples. His gaze didn’t waver, and my heart thudded as I pictured us on his motorcycle again, the warmth of his body as we leaned into the turns, the smell of leather, the taste of summer air on the open highway. I closed my eyes. My skin tingled as if we were already there, standing on the rim of the canyon with the first rays of sun glowing through the mist. The rocks out there were redder, dustier, craggier, I imagined.
I could slip my arms around his waist and forget everything else I’ve ever known, look over my shoulder and watch the long gray ribbon of road disappear as we zoomed at once into the future and the distant past.
I opened my eyes and glanced around the barn, scanned the boxes of dust-covered heirlooms and long-forgotten memories.
I could leave all of this behind. I could be with him.
“Come with me,” Emilio said again. He slid the keys from his pocket, dangled them in front of me like a ticking clock. A promise and a threat. His smile was once again playful and flirtatious, the disarming one that had infiltrated my dreams, but his eyes were serious. Fragile. Hopeful.
I reached for the keys and he grabbed my hand, pulled me close. His lips brushed mine and sent another hot streak up my spine.
“My sister is right inside!” I squirmed out of his grasp, but my protest was half baked.
He looped his fingers through my hair, brought the ends to his lips. “Don’t even try it, princesa.”
“Or else what?” I whispered.
His mouth twitched. A raised eyebrow. Flash of dimples. I closed my eyes and his lips were on mine, muting the downpour outside to a low, distant rumble.
He moved from my lips to my neck, then up to my ear. His tongue traced my earlobe, his teeth tugged it gently. His breath was hot, raising goose bumps on my scalp when he spoke again, deep and raspy. “You know you love riding that bike with me.”
I pulled away so I could see his eyes.
“Say yes.” Emilio ran his thumb across my lower lip.
“Finally!” Mari startled us both as she ducked through the doorway with Papi. The rain hadn’t let up, and she pulled her fingers through her short hair to shake out the water. “I’m going stir-crazy in there.”
“How’s the game? Who won?” I shoved my hands in my pockets, hoping the evidence of my tangled hair and red mouth wasn’t too damning. From the corner of my eye, I sensed Emilio at the workbench, pretending to look for tools while he willed his breathing back to normal.
Mari looped her arm through Papi’s. “Me. Remind me never to play Scrabble with him again—what a cheater.”
“Perro is a word,” he said.
“Yeah, in Español.”
Papi shrugged it off, but there was something sad in his eyes, something defeated.
She should’ve let him have perro.
“We’re going for ice cream,” Mari said. “Want us to bring anything back?”
“Black raspberry in a waffle cone,” Emilio said.
“Wait.” I stumbled awkwardly toward Mari. “I’m going with you guys.”
Chapter 24
The rain finally stopped, but the streets of Old Town were slick and gray, and most of the tourists ducked into restaurants to wait for the sun. The line at Uncle Fuzzy’s snaked around three times, and at each step I wanted to grab Mari and confess, tell her everything about the Million Dollar Highway, about all the things Emilio had said in the barn. He wanted me to ride with him, to see the Southwest, to see the ocean. To be with him.
Five times I opened my mouth. Five times I shut it. And then we were at the counter ordering our usuals—mint chocolate chip and hot fudge for Papi, Mari’s strawberry shake, chocolate peanut butter cup sundae for me.
Papi watched the counter girl mix fresh berries and ice cream for Mari’s dr
ink. Over the whir of the blender, Mari told me about a witch and warlock series she’d recently sold, how she had to go to New York in a couple of days to meet with the author and publisher. Her face lit up as she talked. Mari was so passionate about her work—about everything in her life, really—and for all our disagreements, I admired her.
“Your authors are lucky to have you.” I had a hard time meeting her eyes, so I focused on a giant brownie poster tacked to the wall behind her. “Me too.”
Of course, that was the moment the blender stopped, so it came out really loud, and Mari’s smile turned into a giggle, and I laughed too, and Papi kept watching the counter girl as if the assembly of our ice creams was the most amazing feat anyone had ever accomplished.
Mari steered the conversation toward college, rehashing the plans we’d discussed months ago about helping me get set up at the dorms and showing me around the city. Honestly, I’d been so busy with the motorcycle and Papi, and then everything with Emilio . . . the University of Denver was a faraway voice at the end of a long tunnel. When I tried to picture myself walking around campus, meeting my roommate, ordering Thai food at the dorm, it seemed like someone else’s life.
She asked about my major, asked whether I’d thought about getting into publishing, taking an internship with her agency. Of course I had, but what I really wanted to talk about was Emilio.
How I’d ignored all the warnings, stepped around the caution tape, fell right over the edge.
Never get involved with a Vargas? Please. I’d blown by “involved” weeks ago. Wrapped up, enamored, entangled. Those were better words now, and my wrapped up, enamored, entangled heart thudded in my chest.
I just had to say it out loud.
Now or never.
“Mari, I think I might be—”
“What’s this?” Papi’s voice jackhammered into our conversation, and we snapped to attention. He’d taken his sundae from the counter—mint chocolate chip, the one he’d ordered ten minutes ago—and now he poked at it with his finger, scowling as if he’d discovered a cricket in the hot fudge sauce.