I set off down the lane toward the open-air market with one thought in mind: Out of the darkness and into the light. I have to blend in with everyone else here, and they’re all so damn happy.
A squat woman with brown wrinkled skin, wearing a flowery apron over her gauzy dress, smiles at me from where she’s sweeping her front stoop. Her husband sits in a chair at the far end of their porch, his bottom lip jutting out farther as if he’s lost his top teeth. He waves at me then flashes me a partially-toothless grin.
I smile and wave at both of them. “Hola!”
They must be silently wondering who is this strange looking girl who just moved in next door. I’ll introduce myself to them soon, when I have a bit more time. Today, I have to get to the market before all the ensaimadas are gone. Ensaimadas are decadently soft bread rolls filled with sweet pastry cream and dusted with powdered sugar. I’ve only had one since arriving in La Palma, but I’ve already deciphered that they are quite popular here as a breakfast item. If I don’t get to the market soon, they’ll run out.
At the crossing, I turn the corner and I can smell the market from a block away. It always smells like a combination of fresh fish, fruit, and baked goods. A young kid, maybe mid-to-late teens, is standing next to a bicycle outside a convenience store. He stares at my white hair so unabashedly, I’m afraid he’s going to drop the bike at any moment. I force a smile and he flashes me a weak smile in return.
I really should be used to this by now. This is what I’ve been dealing with since the moment I left my apartment four days ago. From the moment I stepped into the taxi that drove me to the airport and the cab driver did a double-take when he saw two different colored eyes, my stomach has been clenched tight as a fist.
I’m trying really hard not to get angry with people for expressing their natural shock and curiosity. After all, millions of years of evolution has taught us to shun undesirable mutations. There’s no use in arguing with a person’s natural instincts. But it still hurts.
I arrive at the bakery stand where a long folding table is covered in an orange and blue striped tablecloth. Half the pastries are already gone, gobbled up by the early risers, but there are still three ensaimadas left. I point at them then hold up two fingers.
“Uno cincuenta,” the merchant woman says as she begins to put them in a white paper bag.
I don’t know what this means, but I know uno means one, so I give her two euros. She hands me back fifty cents. So cincuenta must mean fifty. I’ll have to remember that.
I smile and say thank you in Spanish, then I use hand motions to ask if I can take her picture. She smiles for the camera and I say gracias a few times before I head back toward Dolores Street, the narrow lane I live on. Also the narrow lane that my new friend Nick lives on, which is where I’m headed. A dark flitter of movement in my peripheral vision catches my attention as I pass the convenience store, but when I turn toward it, there’s nothing there. My eyes flit back and forth at both sides of the street, glancing over both shoulders then forward again. Nothing and no one but locals here.
It’s hard to let go of that paranoid sense of being watched. My father had been watching me every night for eight months. I’d grown so accustomed to that feeling. It made me both uneasy and comfortable at once knowing he was keeping an eye on me. I didn’t know I was also being watched for months by Daimon. It’s only natural I’m still on edge.
I turn left onto Dolores and the gravity of the downhill slope is urging me toward the tiny gray stucco cottage on the right side of the lane. The house is set back from the iron gate surrounding the property and the grass is a bit overgrown, but he did mention that he’s only been here a day or so. I’m sure he’ll be outside pushing a lawnmower with no shirt on very soon.
I lift the latch on the waist-high gate and slide it aside. Pushing it open, I step onto the cracked concrete pathway leading toward the small cottage. I close the gate softly behind me and make my way toward the front door.
Something about the fact that he’s not up at nine o’clock in the morning, already working on taming this unruly garden, disconcerts me. I can’t help but think of Daimon. By nine o’clock, Daimon would have this garden tamed with at least three adversaries buried beneath the soil.
I knock on the dark wooden door with the intricate carvings and wait. My heart pounds as I realize I didn’t prepare a greeting in my head. What am I going to say? Hi, I brought you some bread! Not very clever or sexy, but—
The door opens, interrupting my thoughts as I’m rendered speechless. Nick is standing before me in nothing but black boxer briefs. His hand is rubbing his face, attempting to wipe away the cobwebs of sleep clinging to his drowsy expression. His bare chest is smooth and golden with a light patch of hair trailing from his navel and downward, disappearing underneath the waistband of his boxers. Right above that bulge. I have a strong urge to photograph him right now.
“Alyssa?”
I snap my eyes upward and he looks stupefied by my presence. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you. I just… I brought you something…to thank you for the bottle of wine.”
Don’t look at the bulge. Don’t look at the bulge.
He glances at the white paper bag in my hand and smiles. “You didn’t have to do that. What is it?”
“Um…” I look down at the bag and catch another glimpse of his boxers, then quickly look up. “Bread?”
“Bread?” He chuckles as I nod, then he opens the door wider. “Come inside and we can share this bread.”
I step over the threshold and into his living room. It’s small but more modern than I would have expected considering he’s only been here for a couple of days and it used to belong to his great-aunt. The white sofa and heavy wooden coffee table are anchored by a soft gray area rug. Beneath the rug are light beechwood floors that extend into an open dining area and kitchen.
“Have a seat at the table. I’m going to put on some clothes.”
I smile as he heads toward the hallway on the left, and I head for the dining table. Passing a small black desk set against the wall, I can’t help but notice a passport and two photo identification cards lying on the surface. I pause, tempted to pick them up to see what kind of IDs they are, but the sound of footsteps stops me.
I turn around and his eyebrow is cocked as he approaches. He brushes past me and opens the top drawer of the desk. Then he sweeps all the IDs into the drawer and quickly slides it closed.
He smiles as he gently places his hand on the small of my back. “Come. Sit. I’ll make some coffee.”
I take a seat at the dark wooden dining table in the kitchen, but I don’t bother telling him I don’t drink the stuff. I might as well give coffee a try. I tried the wine last night and it wasn’t so bad. But I’ll have to watch him carefully while he prepares it.
He’s wearing a blue T-shirt that clings a little to his chest and shoulder muscles. The jeans he wears look perfectly distressed, just like his dark hair. From a shelf above the steel kitchen counter, he grabs a glass French press coffee maker and begins spooning some coffee into it from a jar. He seems very at ease and this house feels very lived in. It doesn’t seem like it was empty for years.
He carries the French press and two mugs to the table and sets them down in front of me. “Do you take your coffee with milk and sugar?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
I keep my eye on him as he retrieves a small carton of milk from the stainless steel refrigerator and a small jar from the counter. Grabbing a couple of spoons from a drawer, he sits across from me at the table and pours me a cup. I don’t know the first thing about how much milk and sugar goes into a cup of coffee, so I take a guess and put a splash of milk and three spoons of sugar. When I taste it, it’s very sweet, but I don’t say this.
“Very good.”
He pours himself a cup, but he doesn’t add any milk or sugar. He quietly sips from his mug for a minute or two while watching me. Then his face gets very serious.
“Forgive m
e, but I have to ask about this.”
He reaches forward and I flinch a little when he gently grabs a piece of my white streak of hair. I push his hand away and take a deep breath as I remind myself not to retreat inward. It’s a simple question.
“I’m a chimera. I have two sets of DNA.” He scrunches his eyebrows together in confusion and I sigh. “This is why I’m here. I’ve been hiding all of my life. I just wanted to go somewhere I could be myself.”
My stomach hurts at the painful truth buried in this lie.
He smiles and tilts his head. “It’s quite beautiful. You look like a superhero.” He smiles even wider and leans forward as I let out a bashful laugh. “You also have a beautiful laugh.”
Flattery. He wants something.
I reach for the white bag and push it across the table so it’s between us. “Aren’t you going to eat?”
He reaches into the bag and pulls out an ensaimada. Then he takes a huge bite, getting powdered sugar all over his lips and a bit on the tip of his nose.
“These are my favorite,” he says through a mouthful of bread. “How did you know?”
I smile at his goofiness as a strange warmth grows inside my belly. But I can’t help but feel as if something is off. I don’t know how to talk to him. He’s not like Daimon. He’s not like me. He’s normal.
“I should get going.”
I rise from the table and he tosses his bread back into the bag. “I’ll walk you home.”
I chuckle and immediately wonder if I’m doing it just because he complimented my laugh. “That’s not necessary,” I say when I reach the front door. “I’m just two houses down on the other side of the street.”
“I know. You’re closer to the ocean than I am. I’m jealous.” He stands with his hand on the door handle, making no attempt to open the door so I can leave. “Would you like to come with me to a dinner party tomorrow night? A friend of the family would like to welcome me to the island. Any excuse to get drunk.”
“Yes,” I reply before I can overthink my way out of it.
“Beautiful!”
I’m tempted to reach up and wipe away the powdered sugar on his nose. Instead, I tap the tip of my nose and smile. “You have some sugar on your nose…and a little right there…on your lip,.”
He squints at me. “I put it there for you.”
“What?”
Without warning, he leans forward and plants a soft kiss on my lips. I can smell the coffee and sugar on his breath as his mouth hovers over mine, waiting for me to respond. My heart is pounding so hard it hurts. Daimon’s voice sounds in my mind: When you scream, you scream my name. When you come, you come for me. When you dream, you dream of me.
I reach up and clasp my hand around the back of Nick’s solid neck to pull his lips hard against mine. I need to exorcise Daimon and his haunting voice from my mind.
His lips taste sugary and his tongue is a bit bitter from the coffee. I can only compare him to Daimon, so I must admit to myself that he doesn’t kiss better than Daimon did. But that’s probably because he is the one who taught me how to kiss, so naturally I’m going to believe his way is the right way. Didn’t Daimon also teach me that different is good? Nick doesn’t kiss bad. Just different.
A loud bang startles us both, and we quickly turn toward the sound. The outside of the window overlooking the front garden is streaked with something dark.
“What was that?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”
He opens the door and I follow him outside to the front yard. We step off the concrete path into the overgrown grass. He squats down in front of the window and sweeps aside a tangle of weeds to expose a dead crow lying on the dry earth.
“It must have flown into the window,” he says, standing up. “Maybe I shouldn’t keep the windows so clean.”
“Or maybe he saw us kissing and he got jealous.”
He laughs, but as soon as I speak these words aloud, I realize this may not be too far from the truth.
Chapter Three
Nick arrives at my cottage to take me to the dinner party just after eight in the evening. One thing I really like about this island is that everyone eats dinner late at night. It’s not uncommon to see the lights on and a family sitting at the table for dinner at ten or eleven p.m. Sometimes later. Though I’m trying to break my habit of existing only in the darkness, I can’t deny the comfort it brings me. The darkness is like my security blanket and, after nineteen years of clinging to it, it’s very difficult to let it go.
I step outside, not bothering to lock the door. This is not Los Angeles. No one here locks their front door.
Turning around to face Nick, I’m not surprised to see him eyeballing my dress. I got the dress last night at a tiny boutique near the housewares store. It’s not a high-end boutique. The dresses were displayed just a few feet away from a rack of football (soccer) jerseys. But it’s white and gauzy with skinny spaghetti straps, which will allow me to tan.
A tan will make my white skin discolorations more pronounced, but that’s okay. I’m not just going to accept my condition. I’m going to flaunt it.
Fake it till you make it, right?
“You look like a Greek goddess,” Nick remarks, extending his arm for me to latch on.
I smile, but I don’t lock my arm in his. “Thank you. I’m feeling a little bloated today, so I guess it’s a good thing the dress covers that up.”
He looks a little confused, but I can’t decide if it’s surprise over me feeling bloated or because I didn’t accept his arm. I want to say, Hello! I have a skin condition. I’m not blind. I don’t need a guide.
But that would be supremely rude. Though, I’m sure Daimon would get a good chuckle out of it.
We climb the incline toward the village and away from the harbor below. The streets are quiet and the sun is just barely beginning to set on our right, lighting up the periwinkle sky with an amber glow. I sneak glances to my left every once in a while.
Nick is wearing a light-blue Real Madrid T-shirt that hugs his bulging pecs. He’s quiet as we cross the street and continue up the steep road. I don’t know if he was turned off by my comment about feeling bloated or he’s just thinking, but it’s making me a bit nervous.
A black man in a black hoodie passes by on the opposite side of the narrow road. It’s the same man who passed by the first night Nick came to my door. My stomach flutters with anxiety. Immediately, I begin to have paranoid thoughts that Nick and this guy are working together for some type of law enforcement agency.
But if that were true, I’d already be arrested, wouldn’t I?
I take a deep breath to calm my nerves and make a conscious decision to not worry. Turning to Nick, I see he’s already casting a devious sideways smile in my direction.
“What are you smiling at?”
He shakes his head. “Nothing.”
“You don’t have to be shy,” I say, nudging him with my shoulder. “Speak your mind.”
He looks me up and down a few times as we continue climbing the incline, then he stops walking and grabs my hand to stop me. “Can I ask you a favor?”
I stare into his green eyes for a moment before I nod.
“Can you pretend to be my girlfriend tonight?”
“What?”
He scrunches his nose in a shameful expression. “I know it sounds weird, but my family has been very concerned about me since I got divorced last year. That’s why I’m here. I grew tired of them trying to set me up on dates and giving me pep talks. I was just hoping you could…you know, pretend to be my special friend, so they’ll stop driving me crazy.”
“Your special friend?”
His eyes plead with me not to make this so difficult for him, and I begin to feel a little bad for questioning him.
I sigh. “I’m sorry. This is just very strange for me. I’ve never…had a boyfriend. I wouldn’t know how to behave.”
I stare at the Real Madrid logo on the front of his shirt to keep from
seeing the look on his face now that he knows I’ve never had a boyfriend. I’m not sure what Daimon was, but he definitely wasn’t a boy and he was much more than a friend. He was my lover and my enemy wrapped in one deceivingly tasty package.
“Alyssa?” He’s grinning as I look up into his eyes. “You drifted off for a moment. Is everything okay? You don’t have to do this. I just thought there was no harm in asking. I’ll understand if you don’t feel comfortable pretending.”
I smile as I realize I have nothing to be ashamed of. He’s the one asking me to pretend to be his girlfriend.
I let out a relieved sigh. “Sure. I’ll pretend to be your special friend.”
“Are you making fun of me?” he says, continuing up the hill.
“Yes, I’m making fun of you for saying the words special friend.”
“How should I introduce you? I can call you my novia, which means girlfriend in Spanish. Is that okay?”
I look straight ahead so I don’t have to see the hopeful expression on his face as I contemplate this. I don’t know how long I’m going to be on this island. Is it wise for people to think I have a boyfriend? It might work to my advantage in keeping creepy men away—for their own good—but there’s always the possibility I’m being watched. By whom, I don’t know.
Part of me believes there’s no way Daimon could have survived what I did to him. Another part of me knows I made a mistake that night. A mistake that could have everlasting consequences if Daimon isn’t dead.
I shouldn’t care what Daimon would think of me moving on with Nick so soon. But I can’t help but feel an inkling of hope that I may have misunderstood. Maybe he did kill my father in self-defense that night on Hope Street. Maybe my parents did kidnap me.
“Alyssa?”
I look up and realize we’re standing in front of a small white stucco house with bright blue trim and teak shutters. The sun has set a bit more and half the sky is a dusky midnight-blue while the other half is a brilliant pinkish-gold. Why would anyone ever leave a place this beautiful?