Before Santiago could speak again, a man working the festival told him he had to remove Waldo from the premises.
“My apologies!” Santiago said, dragging the muscular dog in the direction of the exit. Waldo seemed to grunt and yank in the opposite direction every time Santiago pulled on the leash. “I will be back without Waldo!”
Brando directed us back into the thickness of the crowd. I munched on my meat pie while we strolled around to all of the different booths. I was saving room for Eunice’s famous fried chicken. She and Burgess were in town. We had invited them to share our tarp, and she had invited us to share her chicken. I rubbed my hands together. I hoped she’d made honey biscuits, too.
“You’re thinking about Eunice’s fried chicken,” Brando said.
I nodded. “And her honey biscuits. You?”
He had been quiet as we walked. Not totally consumed by whatever was on his mind, but enough to make him reflective.
“I heard him asking about you at Paul’s practice.”
“Who?” I had turned to a booth filled with hand-painted scenes on tiles from all over Louisiana. A bayou scene caught my eye. An alligator skimmed the water, cypresses bowed down around it, and a dragonfly hovered. It reminded me of our ride in the pirogue.
“That one,” I heard Brando say.
I turned to look and found him pointing at the bayou scene. The booth’s owner nodded and started to wrap it up.
“How did you know I wanted that one?”
“Apart from the fact that you keep staring at it?” He shrugged. “I can tell.”
I rose on my toes and kissed him. He tasted delicious in the cold air. He tasted delicious all of the time. “Thank you,” I said. Then said, “Who asked about me?”
Brando thanked the owner, and we continued forward, the small bag in his hand. “Santiago.” He pronounced his name with a real Spanish accent. “He asks about you at the end of each practice. I didn’t miss how his face fell when you didn’t show up.”
Ah, and the mystery had been solved—no wonder Brando wasn’t interested in talking soccer with him. “I’m an athlete. He’s an athlete.” I balled up the meat pie’s wrapper and threw it into a trash bin. “This is a small town.”
“You have a lot in common.”
“No.” I shook my head. “I wouldn’t say that.”
He stopped me with a hand to my arm, and people had to navigate around us to continue along their journey. “Tell me what you’re saying then, Scarlett.”
His eyes searched mine, specks of light brightening the darkness of his stare.
“Brando—” I looked around for a second, bringing him to a more private spot. People still passed, but it wasn’t as congested as the area with all of the booths. I was going to ask him what was going on, but I didn’t need to. The blood in my veins seemed to poke at me, a hundred different needles sticking skin at once. “You’re jealous.”
This time he took my arm and moved us closer to the sectioned off area, an area that required an armband to enter, so we could claim our tarp. It was better than sitting on the grass or standing to watch the firework display. Romeo and Juliette had offered to bring blankets.
We moved along the riverbank, merry scenes along our route reflecting off the water in shimmering replicas, pops of bokeh floating like colorful bubbles over the moonless water.
“Tell me if I should be.” He almost seemed like he was talking to himself. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, head braced against the cold. “He’s not dangerous, not the usual kind that falls for you. Still.”
I had a sudden vision of him from years ago, standing out in the snow, the night we had connected—when that fierce humming had come alive in my bloodstream.
He had offered me his leather jacket, and after, he stuck his hands into its pockets. I couldn’t see his face—he had been a shadow in the night, could’ve been a ravening beast for all I knew. Yet I remembered his strong lines, his perfect shape, and how much I had fallen for him, without even seeing his face.
I stopped walking, allowing the rush of thoughts to warm me.
“I love you, Brando,” I said, not able to stop myself. The feeling of the memory had overflowed, and the literal translation spilled from my mouth. I couldn’t contain it.
He put his hand to the side of my face. His fingers still smelled of cotton candy. “I know you do, Ballerina Girl.”
“That’s all that matters,mio angelo. Us.Noi.”
“No cracks.” The breath left his mouth in a fog.
