Brain twister, p.7
Amor in the 305, page 7
“Your story is incredible.”
He shrugs. “I no really see it that way. It was what we needed to do.” He starts toying with the ends of the shoelaces again, his brow furrowed, a sullen look across his face. He’s probably lost in thought about his family in Cuba. I shouldn’t have asked so many questions.
“Thank you for sharing,” I say, extending my hand out to let my fingers skim the stubble growing along his jawline. “I can’t imagine what you went through, or how hard it is to be here without your family.”
“Some days are not so bad, other days I feel lonely sin mi familia. The friends from Cuba are like family, pero no es lo mismo.” I reach for his hand, intertwine my fingers with his and squeeze. He reciprocates.
“I had a great time tonight,” I continue. “I’m glad I decided to come out.”
“You no want to come tonight?”
“It’s not that I didn’t want to, I was hesitant.”
“¿Por qué?”
Why? What a loaded question! Our night has been heavy already, no need to burden him with my baggage too. Isn’t there some rule about not talking about exes when you’re on a date? Well, I definitely don’t want to talk about mine, primarily because I try to forget all the harm he caused me, and how I allowed myself to be manipulated. But also because I don’t want Amaury to take pity on me.
I raise my shoulder in uncertainty. “I’m a bit shy.”
“Shy?” He shakes his head. “You are not shy.”
“Maybe shy isn’t the right word,” I say. “Once I know you, I’m not shy. Maybe introverted is a better way to describe myself.”
“Bueno, I hope you open up with me. We can start by doing what I been dreaming about for months.” He leans in, his lips hovering above mine. He hesitates, waiting for me to give him the green light. I lift my hand, rest it at the nape of his neck and pull him to me, letting our lips crash. The stubble along his jaw scratches at my skin, intensifying our make out session.
Our kisses are slow and intense, and I lie back, Amaury following my lead and extending himself to lie down next to me, all while not letting our lips separate. His large hand grips my hip and squeezes, shooting a tingling sensation through my body.
He takes my bottom lip between his teeth and begins softly sucking, savoring as he explores. His hand drops to my leg, his fingers tracing the seam along the side of the pant leg, slowly dragging them up and down.
My heart is thumping in my chest and heat is emanating from my core. I feel like ripping my clothes off but know I can’t. For one, we’re on a public beach. Besides, it’s our first date and I promised myself I’d take it slow—it’s a promise I’m keeping. We hear voices off in the distance and thoughts of Carmine flash through my mind, causing me to put space between us. He lifts his head to search the area before returning his penetrating gaze to mine, stoking the fire deep in my belly.
“Eres única,” he whispers, before dropping kisses along my neck. Suddenly a phone starts vibrating and Amaury stuffs his hand in his pocket and silences it before dropping it onto the old sheet.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Almost eleven,” he responds, in his thick Cuban accent while looking at his watch.
“I think we should call it a night. I have to get up early for work,” I tell him, somewhat reluctantly. It’s my way of separating myself from him and keeping my promise to myself. I’m suddenly not in the same headspace anymore after Carmine creeped his way into my memories.
“Está bien, muñeca.” His lips cover mine and then he grazes my cheek before hopping to his feet.
We walk hand in hand to my car, Amaury’s finger drawing circles on my palm, something he’s done each time our hands are linked. I wonder if it’s something he does without thinking.
“Why do you do that, draw circles on my palm?” I ask.
“Your skin feels so soft in my rough hands,” he says. “Y porque quiero devorarte.”
I’d be lying if I said I don’t want him to devour me, which is exactly why I need to leave.
“That’s me, over there,” I say, changing the subject and pointing to my car, a red MINI Cooper with a white top and sunroof. I’ve had Anja for three years. I love her but have been thinking about buying a new car. It’s one of the last ties to my old life and if I’m starting anew, it makes sense to get rid of the old car as well. I need to do everything possible to ensure Carmine never finds me. Soon, I’ll make it happen.
“Red car. Red scooter. Red sneakers. I imagine que también tienes fuego en el corazón,” he tells me, before pulling me flush to him and crushing our lips together. I wouldn’t say I have fire in my heart, but when I’m near him, my heart feels like it’s on fire.
My hands rest on Amaury’s chest and I put space between us, shifting my eyes up to meet his. His green eyes are dark tonight, I can see the lust burning at their rims. “I had a great time tonight, Amaury. Thank you for dinner, and for sharing so much about yourself.”
“Sí, next time te toca a ti.” He caresses my chin. “You have to tell me about you. You no tell me anything tonight.” He smirks.
“I’ll see what I can do,” I tell him, licking my lips, and wrapping a curl around my fingers. He leans in, brushing his lips to mine softly.
“You say you’re not comfortable riding the scooter, you want me to help you learn more?” The tip of his nose grazes mine as he moves it in a back and forth motion.
My heart is racing. “I’d like that, yes.”
“Perfecto. I’ll call you mañana,” he says, leaning into me.
I shift to avoid him, unlocking the driver’s side door and climbing in. “Good night.” I buckle my seatbelt and back out. Amaury stands and watches me drive off. When I’m at the red light, I stick my hand into my pockabook and grab my phone. Three missed calls. I punch in the unlock code and the missed calls are from an unknown number, causing a chill to snake its way up my spine.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Amaury
When driving I usually have the music loud, let the guitar riffs course through me as they fill the air around me. But not tonight. Tonight it’s the sounds of the road and my thoughts.
It’s been years since I’ve talked about my journey from Cuba and Sol asking so many questions flooded me with old memories and opened up old wounds. It’s not that I don’t like sharing my story, but it’s also something I don’t talk about too often. Some days I feel better about it than others. It’s heavy and Sol’s reaction was the reaction I’m used to, shock and awe. Unless the person on the receiving end of my story is Cuban or familiar with Cuban history and politics, they’re always stunned to learn I risked my life on the ocean to live free. What shocks them more is I left my family, friends, and entire life, and never said a word of the journey we were about to take.
Don’t get me wrong, Sol asking questions means she’s interested in getting to know me better, which is what I want. Anything to get her talking more. I knew we’d have this conversation eventually, I just didn’t expect it to be on our first date. It shouldn’t surprise me, though. I’m a Cuban rafter and it’s an integral part of the man I am.
When Sol asked about my leaving, I was transported back twelve years, sitting at my mother’s table eating a plate of white rice, black beans, and tostones. I can still see the dull white plate, with several chips along the outer edges, the worn silver fork that was too small to eat with but the only ones my mother had. The faded floral print on the plastic tablecloth that’s adorned the table since I was a child. It had started like every other day, but when my mother mentioned where Roberto was, I knew his plans. I knew the day would end like no other.
Roberto lived next door to me my entire life and we were like brothers, did everything together—walked to school, chased girls, went to rock concerts, did military duty, and even got locked up together for being “anti-social.” My brothers and sisters in Cuba are all younger so having someone my age to cause mischief with was everything to me.
We both listened to all the rock music we could get our hands on from the tourists we’d meet at the beach. We’d often befriend the tourists at the beaches, and when the tourists learned we didn’t have access to a lot of music in Cuba, they’d offer us their cassette tapes—probably because they felt pity for us. The beaches were the only place we’d run into tourists and have an opportunity to talk with them at length, and even that was scarce, as there were few places native Cubans and tourists could be found mingling. This was the only way for us to get the music from the American rock bands we wanted to listen to.
During our military tour, Roberto and I would often talk about coming to the United States to start a new life. Roberto was discharged from the military service months before I was and as soon as he was out, he started building rafts and trying to escape with a few mutual friends. The first few times they tried they were caught, because either they told too many people their plans or they left at the wrong times and were caught by the Cuban Coast Guard. Each time they’d get sent to jail until someone in the family could obtain their release—usually Roberto’s father who was well connected with the Cuban government.
With each raft Roberto built, he improved, each one built sturdier and more reliable. By the time he built the raft we left on, it was solid. It was made with inner tubes from bikes and tires, tarps stolen from local shipping yards, empty rice sacks, and lots of rope. The raft never got damaged over the four-day journey and for that we were all thankful.
When I arrived at Roberto’s, him and the other guys were putting the finishing touches on the raft—tightening knots, fortifying the inner tubes, filling jugs with sugar water, and securing the oars. When we were ready, we drove to another friend’s house who lived by the point of departure. We remained hidden inside the house until darkness fell, seeking the cover of night to protect us from being caught. For a few weeks before leaving, Roberto had surveilled the Cuban Coast Guard and the times they’d patrol in that specific area. We knew we had a window of fifty-seven minutes to put the raft in the water, row away from the shoreline, and out of sight from their next patrol round. It would be tight, but we had no choice but to try.
As we waited for the time to pass, I was nervous, anxious, excited, and jumpy. Every noise around me enhanced by the tight knots in my stomach. That night I didn’t know all the other guys felt the same. We all kept those feelings to ourselves, too afraid to voice how scared we truly were for fear if one backed out, others would follow. It wasn’t until months later while living at the refugee camp in Guantánamo that we all confessed our true feelings. Turns out each one of us was more scared than the next—afraid we would die in the ocean but willing to risk it for freedom, for the chance at living a life free from oppression and hunger.
A honk from the car behind mine startles me back to the here and now. I realize as I’m driving down Alton Road, I’m going twenty miles per hour, the whirring of the engine purring reminding me of where I am. I’ve been lost in a daze and don’t recall driving from where I was parked to my current location. I missed my turn on Forty-seventh Street and need to make a U-turn to head back toward my house.
Once I get home, I kick my shoes off by the door and pull off my socks, dropping them onto the floor. I place my keys and wallet onto the counter and head straight to my backyard to lie by the pool under the moonlight, which illuminates the entire sky. This is my favorite spot at the house, my oasis. It’s where I spend most of my time while home. A backyard surrounded in tall, lush greenery, the privacy from my neighbors something I craved after growing up in a place where everyone was up in your business.
I search for a playlist on my phone, music from the sixties reminiscent of the music I’d listen to with my father in Cuba on the nightly Nocturno show—the Beatles, Rita Pavone, Formula V, and Boney M, among others. Growing up we didn’t have a television, so the radio was always on in our house. At night my father would turn on the Nocturno show, where the music would play for two hours. I would lie in bed listening to my father’s music and dream about a life better than the one I was living. My father’s love for music turned me on to rock music. Similar genre but different eras, different sounds.
My first few years in Miami I rented apartments, but I moved into this house a few years back when Eduardo’s now ex-girlfriend encouraged me to buy a home instead of rent and pay someone else’s mortgage. I was reluctant at first, unsure I’d be able to pay the mortgage and still afford the expenses that accompany homeownership, but the scooter business was doing well, and I wanted a place I could call home.
I miss Cuba terribly, not because I miss living under government oppression or the awful conditions, but because I miss my family. I was close to my parents and siblings but since the day I fled, the distance between us isn’t only physical, but emotional too. The ability to communicate regularly with them is difficult because the calls are exorbitant in costs and my family didn’t, and doesn’t, have a phone at their house. We have to coordinate to speak by calling a neighbor’s house. Although we have mobile phones here, in Cuba they’re scarce and there is very little mobile phone service.
My mother was angry at me for years after leaving.
Angry because I left so suddenly.
Angry because she never knew of my plans.
Angry because I didn’t bring her with me.
My siblings were less upset and understood my desire for a better life. But it was my father who surprised me the most. He was a military man his whole life. He fought alongside Fidel Castro during the Revolution all those years ago. My father truly believed the Revolution was for a better Cuba. But it wasn’t until my early teen years when my father finally accepted he’d been deceived—him and an entire country.
When I first spoke to my father a year after leaving Cuba, I heard relief in his voice. He told me while the entire family was worried something had happened to me because no one knew of my whereabouts, he knew I had fled on a raft. He said he’d always known I wouldn’t last long in Cuba because I was too wild to live under the watchful eye of the Cuban government. With the departure of tens of thousands of Cubans by way of raft, my father was certain I’d risked my life on the open ocean.
During our call we cried—for all the division that was forced between us because of ideological beliefs. I hadn’t spoken to my father, or any family, for over a year, but they knew I was safe. At some point during my stay at Guantánamo, the Miami Herald had released a comprehensive list of names of all the refugees housed at Guantánamo. That list somehow made its way back to Cuba and my father learned I was safe. His biggest fear had not come to fruition.
My phone dings, signaling an incoming text message and it brings me back to the calm night before me. It’s not as windy now as it was earlier when we were sitting on the beach. I extend my hand to grab the phone next to my feet and slide the unlock feature. A smile spreads across my face when I see Sol’s name on my screen.
Sol: Gracias for tonight. I had a great time.
My heartbeat quickens at the words in the text message. She’s coming around and I’m ecstatic thinking about it. I’ve been here for twelve years and although I barely know her, Sol is the first woman to make me feel I want more. The first night I met her I was drawn to her, as if she had a rope tied around me and was pulling me toward her. After she left, I thought I’d never see her but couldn’t stop thinking about her. I drove Eduardo crazy with all my talk of the mystery woman, as he started calling her.
Her texting me tonight is a big step for her considering she’s been so reserved and reluctant to let me in. I know I can be imposing and have no filter when I speak, which could frighten her. I need to be cautious on how I approach her and how I get her to open up with me, to feel like she can trust me.
Our date tonight went too quickly, but I’m so happy she said yes. Turns out the Argentinian restaurant was a good choice. She was relaxed as soon as we sat and took the liberty to insist I eat my steak a certain way. Turns out I liked the steak as recommended. Who knew?
I thoroughly enjoyed watching Sol eat her meal. She truly savored her food as she consumed it. I like that she ate and wasn’t shy about it. I’ve not been on a lot of dates but most of the time the girls I dated didn’t eat much. I’m not sure if it’s because they weren’t hungry or if they didn’t want to eat on a date, but either way, it was weird to me, especially since I love to eat.
There are so many things I want to text back to Sol but instead I keep it simple to let her know I hope we have a second date soon.
Amaury: Gracias a ti. Que se repita pronto. =)
CHAPTER NINE
Soledad
Melida answers on the third ring, which I’m thankful for. I want to tell her about my date with Amaury last night. I’m terrified of what I’m feeling and know she’ll have sound advice for me.
“What’s up Sol, I was just thinking about you. Your ears must’ve been ringing.”
“Yeah, whatcha thinking about?” I ask, as I pour some water into the gourd.
“How much I miss you. Definitely not the same with you gone. The other day I wanted to go to your house to chill and couldn’t. It felt so weird.”
“I miss you too, especially since I have no friends here yet. I mean, the office manager at work has invited me out and she seems nice. I’ll probably finally have lunch with her this week once things have settled in at work and I’ve finished unpacking.”
“How do you like Miami so far?”
“I’m liking it a lot, and it’s always hot outside, which I love!”
“I like the warmth too but love my four seasons—even if I bitch about it half the winter.” She huffs before laughing.
“How’s the girls? I haven’t talked to them.” It’s been a couple weeks since leaving and I’ve only spoke to Jestine once, and only texted with Krissa. I just left Boston and already communications are dwindling.
