But no. He was doing what he always did, shutting me out before I could shut him out, because that’s what he expected from the world—hurt, betrayal, callousness. He wasn’t even going to give us a chance.
“You’re a fucking coward.” I picked up a strawberry and flung it at him. It smacked him in the face, leaving a pink stain.
I chucked another one at him. And another and another and another, until he was covered in splotches—his face, his shirt, his arms, his neck.
“I hate you!”
I did. I hated that he could just stand there, unflinching, uncaring, unyielding, and watch me fall apart.
“You hear me?” I took a handful of strawberries and smashed them into his chest. “Ihateyou!”
When all the strawberries were gone, I started pounding him with my fists. I wanted to pulverize every single memory I had of him. I wanted him to hurt the way I was hurting. I wanted him to sob the way I was sobbing. I wante—
Damian grabbed my hands and pinned them behind my back. His lips found mine and he latched on with a hunger that left me breathless. He was an ocean of want and need. All the raging, submerged currents that he’d kept at bay unleashed themselves on me. I tried to keep afloat, clutching at him, but I didn’t stand a chance. My hurt, my anger, my tears were tossed aside by something deeper, something vast and true and powerful and endless.
It was a kiss that had sneaked in through an open window, a kiss that lay folded in a paper giraffe, in the silences between5, 4, 3, 2,1,in the pits of mini mangoes and here, now, at last, it was set free. And therightnessof it, the feeling of longing and belonging, made me want to hold on to it forever. I wanted Damian to keep kissing me, keep kissing, keep kissing, until every other kiss had been erased, untilthiswas the only kiss.
My top was soaked, my pants were soaked, my hair was soaked, but Damian’s mouth was like strawberry wildfire—hot and sweet, and completely out of control. All the intensity with which he’d pushed me away was pulling me right back, fusing my lips to his. It was almost painful when he let go.
“Don’t cry,güerita.” Damian’s thumb swiped my cheek. “Hit me, slap me, punch me, but don’t fucking cry.”
“Don’t fucking leave me then,” I said. Was he really looking at me like that? Was he really breathing so hard? “And I’m notgüeritaanymore.” I tugged at a strand of dark hair. “I’m not blondie anymore.”
“Oh, but you are.” Damian smiled.
I punched him because he’d seen me naked and I knew exactly what he was thinking. When he wrapped his arms around me, I hid my face in his chest and felt like I had come home.
When we got back to the island, Damian maderealceviche while I showered and changed.
“Show off,” I said. He really was a good cook. And a great kisser. I couldn’t stop staring at his lips. Those lips had blown orange seeds through a straw at Gideon Benedict St. John, but now there was an eroticism to them—every time he spoke, every time he took a bite. They were all I could see. And I wanted them on me.
“What happened to your face?” he asked.
“Your beard.” I snapped out of it long enough to answer his question. The hot shower had turned my chin and upper lip red from where his beard had chafed my skin.
Damian grinned. Leaving his mark on me seemed to appease some Paleolithic, cave-dwelling part of him.
His grin did things to me too. I wished he would lean over and kiss me again.
He did lean over. To pick up my plate. And then he proceeded to wash the dishes while I put things away. I wished he’d hurry up so I could throw my arms around him again, but he was taking so darn long, scratching an imaginary speck, then washing the damn spot again, thendrying,all the while keeping his eyes on the task.
He was avoiding me, and when I finally clued in to why, I wanted to kiss him even more. Damian wasn’t doing the dishes. He was wrestling with something he’d never felt before. He was feelingshyand it was something completely foreign to him. He had never allowed himself to like a girl, never been on a date, never felt butterflies in his stomach.
I felt a stab of tenderness that was quickly overcome by the urge to jump him. I cleared my throat in an attempt to dislodge the treacherous minx that was quickly taking over.
“Why don’t you go change? I’ll finish here,” I offered. He was still wearing his strawberry splattered shirt.
He jumped on it, like I had just thrown him a life raft. Anything to get away from me. I finished up the rest of the dishes and turned off the lights.
We bumped into each other in the hallway. He was coming out of the bathroom and I was going in. The first thing that struck me was his clean-shaven face. Bye, bye beard. The stitches were gone too. No baseball cap. It was like he was showing me his face for the first time—the ridges where the boy I once knew had hardened to a man, the places he’d stayed the same. The second thing I noticed was his skin, still warm and wet, bare except for the sweatpants that didn’t look so ugly when they hugged his hip like that.
“I—”
“You—”
We stepped away from each other, aware of all the places our bodies had just touched.
I don’t know who moved first, maybe him, maybe me, but we were zigzagging through the hallway, our lips locked, my back against the wall, then his, banging and colliding in the narrow space until we got to the bedroom.
