He gives me a shrewd look. “Doubting yourself. You read the stars right.”
Timid laughter bubbles to the surface. I never know how to handle his trust, his encouragement. It’s hard for me to see myself the way he sees me.
“You look handsome,” I say, hastily changing the subject. His tunic is ebony with mint green and gold stitching. His long wavy hair has a few braids in it, the ends tucked into a bar of hammered gold.
“Where did you get gold accessories?”
He laughs. “Some of the men I’ve been training with lent them to me.”
“Remind me to thank them.”
Manuel flushes and looks away, but not before I catch the small smile bending his perfect mouth. “The flower is a nice touch.”
“Gracias,” I say. We shouldn’t say such things to each other, but the words slip out easily. I fidget, lowering my eyes, trying to think of something safe to talk about. The weather or the food or maybe we can chat about how sloths are incredibly cute. We could have an entire conversation about his hair—no,nothis perfect hair. Damn it.
“You look lovely.”
This is the first time he’s ever complimented my looks. I can’t bear to hear another nice word from him. “Have you eaten?”
He shakes his head. “Was waiting for you.”
“That’s sweet.”
Manuel grimaces. “I’ve never been called ‘sweet’ a day in my life.”
“Come on,” I say, hooking my arm through his. “You can berate my word choices while we eat everything in sight.”
There are clay platters filled with every kind of fruit available in the jungle—guava and sliced oranges, mangoes already peeled and quartered, grapefruit and papaya. The main dishes are crispy stingray fins, grilled catfish, oven-baked tail of caimán, and roasted armadillo. Manuel says the taste of it is different for everyone.
“It’s fishy to me, but to you, armadillo might taste like steak. It’s a running joke around here.”
I take a small nibble from his plate and confirm it tastes like steak. We stand off to the side, enjoying bites of food. I enjoy spoonfuls of rice paired with runny eggs and sun-dried beef—and it’s all so good, it practically melts in my mouth. He grabs the fried yuca from my dish.
“So, Manuel …” I say in between bites. “How would you—”
He lowers his spoon. “I’m not dancing with you.”
“You’re not? Why?”
“Don’t you think we’ve done enough things together?” he demands. “We’ve slept in the same bed, eaten off of each other’s plates, andbathedat the same time. We’ve kissed—three times—and now we’re going to dance? This is already too hard.”
I want to dance precisely because I might not have another opportunity. But he’s right. We keep walking right up to the edge, as if daring fate. But she’s spoken and the way forward is clear—and it doesn’t include Manuel.
And then something shifts in his face. The control over his features loosens, giving way to a stark, vulnerable look that robs me of my breath. As if he’d been thinking the same thing, realizing that we’re at the end of the road, he and I. All that’s left is to go our own ways.
“Let’s dance,” he whispers. “Just once.”
We stack our used plates at the end of the table and turn toward the dancing area. He becomes quiet as we approach, but the music is a powerful master, issuing commands and demanding us to follow its loud beat. Manuel moves with the rest of the men in the outer circle, and I follow the women in the inner circle. Every time he passes me, our gazes collide. It’s enough to almost make me forget the steps. I twirl and spin as Manuel leaps and jumps.
When the music slows, we’re facing each other again, half laughing and half panting.
“You lied to me,” I accuse. “You said you couldn’t dance.”
Manuel shrugs, a sheepish smile on his face.
I laugh, wanting to capture the moment in a bottle and relive it every chance I get. I’m still chuckling when Sonco walks up to us. “Good evening, Catalina,” he says. “You look beautiful. The sandals look good too.”
Manuel’s face rearranges into a polite veneer.
