He and I are shirtless in the muggy swamp night, and even his smooth tan muscles seem to accentuate our differences. He with his virgin, perfect skin, and pale, skinny me with scars and tattoos. At least he can roll a damn fine blunt. He's been fairly quiet for fear of offending Abuela, who seems to have taken a liking to him.
Maria is across the table from me, in a little black tank top that just begs me to look her way. Yet I can't seem to look at her without thinking of our bathroom romp earlier in the day. She washed away the sugar skull paint several hours ago, but I can still see her in my mind's eye, naked save for that messed-up paint and sheen of sweat.
It's still hard for me to accept that I broke to her so easily, and a vague sense of guilt still stirs in me when I think about it. But who could honestly have resisted her. Guilt is not the only thing that stirs within me. I check myself, realize I'm watching her laugh at something her grandmother said – something I missed entirely in my introspection.
“You look like you have seen a ghost, Frederick,” says Abuela, and I feel what little color that's there drain from my face. I can hear traces of tequila in her accent, which gets thicker the more she drinks, but she has called me out yet again.
“They follow me sometimes,” I answer, and her eyebrows hitch the slightest bit. My words are entirely too somber for the setting, which I realize as soon as they leave my mouth. They're also, perhaps, a little too poetic for my bad reputation.
She studies me for a moment longer, then says, “Drink up, you've hardly touched your beer.”
Somehow I know this is not actually what she wants to say to me. I wonder what it'd be like to talk to her one-on-one, even if I have doubts that my tattered resolve could withstand the weight of her wisdom.
Izzy is to my left. He stabs out a cigarette as he says, “Freddy doesn't drink much. He's kind of a lightweight.”
It sounds like a jeer, but it feels like he's taking up for me somehow, like he too can sense the serious and urgent restlessness that's mounting in me. How strange. Maybe it's the booze, making him soft.
Or maybe it’s just a jab.
Abuela lays a hand on his forearm, says, “Sobriety is a virtue,” and winks at me.
Her action draws a small smile from me, so I lightly elbow Izzy in the ribs and say, “Yeah.”
How can I say I don't like to be drunk because it enhances my paranoia that at any moment, I'll be fighting for my life? And how can I explain that I've been the victim of habitual drunken physical abuse? I don't, not here in front of everyone. So I fake a little grin.
Everyone chuckles, and I notice that Abuela doesn't remove her hand from Izzy's arm. The more tequila she drinks, the more she seems to like touching him, and I can't stop from wondering if this night will end with him in her bed. The thought just adds to the weirdness of the situation, like we've traveled to some alternate reality.
“Behold!” Josh blurts and holds up the damn near perfectly rolled blunt.
His eyes are bright blue as he inspects his work, and he looks like a little kid with a picture he colored. His hair is a mass of curls, which only adds to the illusion. Attention scatters as he lights it up, and I'm thankful for the distraction. I hate being in the center of group discussions. The weed smells so good as it begins to burn. The scent of it calms my nerves and my unease.
I'm up next, and as I lift the thing to my lips, I notice through the smoke that Maria's watching me intently. I recognize the simmering heat in her eyes, like she wants very much to devour my pleasure just as she did mere hours ago, like the same memories are hot on her mind.
I pause under the intensity, hold the eye contact for as long as I dare, which I know instantly is too long. Joshua has taken a keen interest in our moment of closed connection. I know damn well that I'm sharing the table with her boy toy, but I wonder if he knows it for sure. Does he know that she fucked me first before he ever came around? I have to look away, so I pretend to be interested in my paltry winnings. I take a hard hit. Am I being jealous?
Because that's not my style.
It's my deal, so I pass the blunt to Izzy and scoop up the deck. I can still feel eyes on me, but it's Josh, not Maria. I'd love to pretend that he's too stupid to pick up on the tension that's strung across the table, but I know that he's not that stupid. Not stupid at all. Naïve, maybe. Soft for sure, but he's not an idiot. The weed blunts the edges on my nerves, but I still feel the anxiety shaking in my gut. The thought of another drink of beer makes me want to puke.
I flick the cards to each player with seasoned quickness. Poker is a game that's good to me – usually better than this. I've got the next biggest pot to Abuela, even if it's pathetic compared to hers. I set the deck down and am reaching for my hand, when the loud eruption of punk music breaks the moment. It's Maria's phone, thrashing against the night and my agitation.
She frowns and says, “It's Jack.” Attention inevitably redirects to her side of the conversation as she answers.
Her expression twists from that frown into shock, tinged with anger that narrows her eyes and makes her suck in a breath.
“What!”
