“I liked that idiot.”
He caught me off guard. I fought a smile.
“Well”—my tone softened a bit—“that idiot no longer exists.”
He took a step toward me. I tried to take a step back, but there was a tree behind me. Please, don’t touch me.
He removed a strand from my face and placed it behind my ear. I shivered.
“Are you sure she’s not somewhere inside there?” he said.
What was it about Juan that always made my knees weaken? I’d already rationalized this. He had no future—other than living off a salary. He was unsophisticated. Next to Laurent, he looked like a Neanderthal. The idea of Juan at one of Silvia’s famous gatherings was unthinkable. I’d die of shame before bringing him over. And to top it all off, his family was nonexistent, the only family member we’d ever known was his father, and he’d been an eccentric at best.
And yet, there was something about Juan that I found irresistible. Particularly when he looked at me with the intensity he did at this moment, as if I were the only person who could hold his interest.
He didn’t remove his hand. He continued to caress my hair.
“I’ve always loved your hair. You’re the only blonde I’ve ever known,” he said this last part, almost to himself.
I wondered, the same way I’d done so many times during his years of absence, if he’d met other girls, if he’d loved someone else. The thought of Juan kissing another girl infuriated me.
“So tell me, my dear Angelique,” he said, mocking my father’s accent. “Are you going to marry that French parasite?”
Parasite? The insult took me away, for a few seconds, from the trance his fingers were putting me in as he rubbed the nape of my neck.
“You don’t even know him,” I said weakly.
“I don’t need to. I know the type.”
He was standing close to me now, and I could smell him—a mixture of man with the woodsy cologne he used since he turned thirteen. The smell brought back so many memories.
I leaned my back against the tree trunk, grasping the basket handle as if my life depended on it. He must have noticed this because he glanced down for an instant and his lips curved into a tiny smile.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
My mouth went dry. “I may.”
“Well, if you must marry him,” he said nonchalantly, “then we must say goodbye forever.”
He drew back. I didn’t know what came over me, but I grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him toward me.
Smirking, he looked down at me. My chest was heaving though I didn’t know why or what had changed, only that I didn’t want him to leave. The smile disappeared from his face.
“Give me one last kiss before you belong to someone else,” he said staring at my mouth.
It was as if he’d hypnotized me. He must have because I couldn’t remember what my grievances with him were anymore, or what I was doing here in the first place.
Juan removed the basket from my hand and he must have dropped it next to us—I couldn’t tell. I couldn’t stop looking at his eyes as he lowered his face and kissed me.
My God, how could I have forgotten what it felt like to be in Juan’s arms? It made me realize that when other boys had kissed me in the past, it had felt as if I’d been kissing my own hand. There hadn’t been this tingling all over my body, this heat growing inside my core, this lightheadedness, this desire to be closer to him. I’d thought it was because he’d been the first man to ever kiss me, but now I knew it wasn’t that. There was something carnal, almost primitive between us that I would never be able to stop. No matter how much he embarrassed me in front of my friends. No matter how many husbands I might have. I could never stay away from him.
He pulled back abruptly, unexpectedly, and to my chagrin, he took a step back.
There was a triumphant smile on his face.
“See? You haven’t forgotten me.”
Wait, was this a game to him? If I hadn’t wanted to continue kissing him, I would’ve collected my pride and left, but I was still weakened by the effect his mouth had on mine.
“Wait, Juan, don’t leave.”
“I don’t go by Juan anymore,” he said. “There were too many Juanes at my school in Colombia. I go by my middle name now, Martin.”
CHAPTER 29
Puri April 1920
When I arrived in my father’s house, my sisters were in the sewing room, the door slightly opened.
“You will never guess who I saw at church this morning,” Catalina was telling Angélica.