Lessons in Pure Life Read online

  “Hmm. Responsibility bit you in the ass, right?”

  “Ha, right.”

  “So you’re saying Pacifica made you care, about what, about life?

  “I think it’s been a bit of everything. I got to know my students better and see them progress. I realized I had favorites, even though I didn’t want to. Elsa, Erland. I didn’t expect to be so fascinated by their abilities. And another big thing was, my boss became a friend. Genesis happened to me.”

  “She liked you right away,” he says softly. “I think we pick up on some of the same things. But I see a lot more.”

  He bites his lip, the best move in his repertoire. Hold on, Noble. Deep breath.

  “So,” he sits up a little straighter, “what about your colleagues?”

  “My colleagues are amazing. Very charming.”

  He smiles arrogantly, flipping so easily from sweet and genuine to sharp and cocky that he must be all of those at once, all the time. So wonderfully strange.

  I imagine when else his lips might open like that, tongue pressed against teeth, breathing rough. Alone in bed, thinking of me?

  “How about your male colleagues?”

  “Jose is incredible,” I tease.

  “Fuck Jose,” he sneers with a smile in the background.

  “Hey, that’s my friend you’re talking about.”

  “What about your other colleagues?”

  “Oh. You mean the big guy?”

  “Yeah, the big guy.”

  Deep shadows of night favor him, the tight grin on his lips. All the lightbulbs should burst when he looks at me that way, sprinkling glass in pops and smoke and darkness.

  “He makes my job difficult.”

  He pauses, pretty sure I’m joking but on his guard.

  “Difficult?”

  “I can’t concentrate with you around, climbing ladders in your ripped t-shirts, all moody and brooding.”

  He raises his eyebrows, amused but genuinely taken aback.

  “That’s how you see me, huh?”

  “I know you better now. But yes, you can be very intimidating.”

  “Like my father,” he says with his eyes downcast.

  Oops, wrong button.

  “Well, we’re all like our fathers. But that’s not what I’m talking about. I mean, like a bittersweet kind of intimidation. Bitter because you challenged me, and sweet because you attracted me. It’s hard to focus on educating the world’s youth with your ass in those jeans all the time.”

  He’s tickled by this, can’t-believe-it eyes and mouth in an O.

  “The queen has dirty thoughts.”

  “And there you go ruining it with that smug smile.” I’m lying. It’s the smug that makes the dirty fun.

  I swat at him and he dodges it, grabbing my wrist loosely without needing to look.

  “I could say the same for you, gringa.”

  “Maybe you’ll start teaching one day, and I’ll do the heavy lifting.”

  He sniffs like it’s absurd and looks at me sideways.

  “I dunno, Diego, you surprise me all the time. You’re a role model whether you want to be or not. The students, the community, everyone knows Diego. Maybe not for being a clown, but for being strong and capable. You’re smart and responsible.”

  “A pillar of society,” he says, rolling his eyes and dodging my words of encouragement.

  “Literally,” I respond, punching him lightly in his gladiator arm. He clutches the muscle above the elbow, pretending to be in pain.

  “Hey, you were telling me your story, gringa. About school.”

  “Oh, right. Thanks for remembering. But I mean it.”

  “Ya veremos. You were in university,” he prods.

  “Yeah. So, in my last year of university, I took only classes I needed to graduate, except for one. I had to pick one final course, and there were only a few options that fit into my schedule. After a few weeks, it was my favorite class, a discussion group with a teacher I admired. And… then he began to admire me.”

  “Oh.” He reflects, and I see the gears in motion behind his eyes.

  “Yeah. To make a long story short, we started dating. For the first month it was really exciting for me. I got this glimpse at what I thought the adult world was.”

  “What was it like?”

  “We traveled a lot. Never too far or anything, but he was very into wines and microbrews and microroasts. Took me to boring, expensive places with lots of rules. El snob.”

  “Ciego tonto.”

  “Who’s blind?”

  “I called him a blind fool.”

  “Oh, yeah. Carter – that was his name – and his friends were fools. So pretentious. Like, they would go to fancy Scotch bars where men in three-piece suits smoke pipes while they ruminate on Great Male Thinkers.”

  This makes his head tip back with laughter. “So far above the common man.” He spits the words bitterly.

  “Exactly. Am I talking too fast?”

  “No,” he replies dismissively, proud again.

  “Just checking. Anyway, I should have trusted my instincts when I noticed Carter’s friends weren’t capable of looking me in the eye. The only time I got their attention was when I was up and walking. It drove me nuts, how they could act so arrogant and then descend so deeply to being a primitive, I don’t know, vagina drone.”

  “Ouch. You’re tough. I like hearing your real voice.”

  “I’m glad you do.”

  “Vagina drone is a new one for me.”

  “Yeah,” I giggle. “I just got this wave of anger and out it came.”

  “Ride the wave, then.”

  “Uh, okay. I— I just don’t want to spend too much time talking about someone else.”

  “Will it help me know you better?”

  “Yes,” I admit.

  “Then tell me once and you never have to do it again.”

  “All right. Carter loved the whole charade, and I was caught up in the thrill of popping my head into this ivory-tower world. And I liked being on the arm of a powerful man. To the other students he was a figure at arm’s length, the one who hands back the papers and decides the final grade. To me, he was the most glamorous boyfriend, the kind who would whisper well-crafted compliments to me in the back of the cab on the way home, flattering me into indulgence. I kept indulging in him, I couldn’t resist the excitement. He was much more interesting than the boys in my classes. But it was like diving into whipped cream. There was no substance to his frothiness.

  “After two months I understood that I was an ornament for him to show off. He imagined himself so grand, checking himself in the mirror all the time. In private he lost the manners he was so careful to use in public, insisted I bus home late at night rather than let me stay over, that kind of thing. Didn’t seem to give a shit about my safety. And when he drank too much he would insult me, I think to draw attention away from his own flaws.”

  “Shit,” he drawls before the glass hits his puckered mouth.

  “A real winner, right?”

  His tongue slides into the glass as he swallows the last sip. “So what happened?”

  Just say it. Then it’s done.

  “He attacked me one night, really drunk. The police had to help me.”

  “Qué?” Amusement fades out of his face, leaving only hard edges.

  “He pinned me down with his body, squeezed my wrists over my head so they bruised. Insulted me, threatened me, told me I wouldn’t graduate. Cried like a child having a tantrum.”

  He leans forward, hand hovering over his mouth absently. Shakes his head. “No.”

  “Si. The whole thing blew up and swallowed him. He wound up in the hospital with alcohol poisoning and had his stomach pumped. It was humiliating for him. He probably blames me.”

  “Cobarde. Hijo de puta cobarde.” His eyes are mean. “He isn’t a man.”

  I sniff, nodding. “That’s true.”

  “Lia, are you okay?”

  “Now?”

&n
bsp; “Yeah. I guess it’s a stupid question.”

  “It’s a past life, almost. I feel so different here with you.”

  He smiles sadly. “Now I understand it, at least. I understand, more, what you came from. And now my English is getting shitty,” he laughs hoarsely, raising his glass and swirling the liquid around.

  Diego’s right, though. We both have wounds still healing. There’s no denying the imperfections, the raw flesh and the fresh pain.

  The bartender sidles up, whips away Diego’s empty, and places a fresh cold one down with a quick smile. He’s gone as soon as he arrives.

  Diego leans back in his seat, watching me, takes a big swig of his drink, and wipes his mouth. Bends across the table. My periphery is all broad shoulders.

  “I can’t wait,” he says, and steals a kiss.

  His lips are pillowy and warm, salty and strong. Chillwave major chords vibrate in my head.

  I know my heart’s in my eyes, but I’m speechless. The only thing I can do to kill the awkwardness is grab his collar and take control. It makes him grin. I feel his teeth against my lips for a second before he slides his tongue against mine. I’m just pulsing light, strobing faster as he kisses me deeper. When we pull apart I’m dizzy and elated.

  It’s too soon to start touching or we’ll never get through the meal. Besides, a belly full of alcohol isn’t doing me any favors and I’m fucking famished. The only reason I’m not epically cranky is Diego Diego Diego.

  I take a minute to peacock, leaning back and pulling my hair off my shoulders, letting it fall loosely across my back. I’ve never had so much volume in my life. Feel like Diana Ross. Yes: channel powerful women.

  My favorite is how he’s watching me the way local boys watch futbol. Nothing can tear their eyes away from the screen, rapture and terror see-sawing on their faces. Diego’s giving outward with a masculine sensuality I haven’t encountered before. I don’t have a map for boys borne from magic healing pools. There is no path because it’s new territory. Uncharted but longing to be found.

  A bell dings and his eyes light up. Hungry boy. He gets up slowly; adjusts his pants unapologetically with a defiant glance in my direction. Have mercy.

  As he walks away, I conclude that pants have never fit anyone better, ever. I shiver to think of time alone with him, my challenge in the shape of a man. He’s like Arenal, burning inside.

  I lay back in my chair, one leg bent with the heel resting on the seat. I can see right up under the skirt of a lantern. Someone can probably see up my skirt right now; don’t care. I feel the silky strap of my dress slip down my arm; don’t care.

  I’m holding my glass cool against the chocolate powder of my calf and everything feels all right. Calypso in the speakers. What a fucking life. To think I could have not come here. Madness.

  18

  A square foot of flat rock is placed on the table in front of me, covered in our feast. Diego scrapes his chair forward, his hands already hovering over dinner.

  He tells me about each of the items served together, describing with his tongue and his hands, using sensual words. Mejillones con crema de cilantro, langosta con salsa de mantequilla, algas salpicadas de limón.

  Smells so good I want to mash it all in my face. Instead, we spoon portions onto small plates.

  We feast joyously, exchanging rapturous looks as we indulge ourselves. We slurp and chew and gulp like teenage boys. Fresh flavor explodes in my mouth and paints colors in my mind. Reminds me of Diego sitting outside the roller rink with disco lights turning his face pink, green, purple.

  “Qué piensias?”

  “It’s the best meal I’ve had in Costa Rica so far. Easily.”

  I’m bubbly, a little drunk, and hyped up on stimuli. Spilling orangey cream sauce on my dress and knee, I don’t even mind. Food this sumptuous deserves to be messy.

  Diego’s in a similar frame of mind, cracking open claws and pulling the soft, pale meat out and dunking it in butter. Catches me watching him as he sucks sauce from his fingers and grins. Picks up a napkin and swipes it over his lips and then crumples it up.

  He clears his throat and takes a drink of water thoughtfully. “You have a bedtime?”

  “Tonight?”

  He nods and takes another sip.

  “I hadn’t thought about it. But no.”

  “Good.”

  The waiter pauses expectantly on his way past us with a handful of empty glasses. We compliment the kitchen like nice patrons, and he convinces us to get a pitcher of mojitos instead of ordering them one at a time. Looks like we’re not going anywhere for a while.

  We talk about the food when we’re not sighing over it like it’s a sexy lover. I admire the size of Diego’s body, arms resting loosely on the back of the empty chair beside him. His legs open comfortably. He’s never been told to close them, probably.

  The night pours out. We take our time; no one minds. The food disappears slowly until there are only scraps left. Lush sprigs of mottled mint stick to the inside of the glass pitcher mostly empty of drink. Throughout the hours his chair has worked its way over – his body can’t keep away any longer. I know the feeling. I’m finding reasons to touch him on the wrist, on the upper arm where it’s firm and reliable. Guaranteed to make me ding like Super Mario coins.

  Diego’s exterior softens with mojito swirling around inside him. He isn’t as careful with his words, speaking more Spanish than I’m used to. I understand about half of it, but it all works like motor oil in a fine engine, gets me whirring. I’m so grateful to have dropped my inhibitions like an old, frumpy shawl.

  “It seems the chairs are being put to bed,” I observe, squinting to focus on our server, who’s keeping a polite distance but closing up swiftly.

  Diego folds his arms on the table and leans his head on them like in kindergarten, a buzz in his smile. Palms his phone on the tabletop, raising his eyebrows to check the time like they’re going to fall into his face.

  “It’s two, somehow,” he announces, rubbing his forehead.

  “Shit.”

  “Do you have to be home?”

  “No, I guess I don’t. I don’t have to be anywhere.”

  “Good. I can’t drive you anywhere for a while.”

  “Oh, no. We’re not operating heavy machinery tonight.”

  “We better go before he kicks us out.”

  We grab our phones and stand up, wobblier than I expect. I hold his hand loosely, feeling what it’s like to touch the tips of his fingers, grasp him as I lean down to pick up a shell from the dark, grainy sand.

  “Let’s walk along the shore,” I suggest, pulling him to the lapping water. He follows. I toss the shell underhand as far as I can and it disappears into the night, a drop in the ocean.

  We take the long way back to our beachside spot so we don’t have to crawl in the dirt. The lazy palms reach out to sea in the dark.

  “Tengo hacer pis,” Diego announces and dissolves into the foliage.

  “Hey wait! We forgot to pay.” I’m pointing uselessly in the direction of the restaurant. With perfect timing, the neon lights in the distance shut off.

  “It’s all good, querida. Don’t worry about it.”

  He wanders back in sight, zipping up unapologetically. The primary convenience of having a penis must be peeing outside without taking off your pants.

  We find our spot as it was, towels draped over the limboing trunk of a coconut tree. They’ve dried to a crisp, so we shake them out and smooth them onto the sand side by side to make a comfortable blanket. Diego hands me his backpack to use as a pillow. He’s old-fashioned like that, and it’s very becoming. The man pays attention to details.

  I grab my phone and choose a playlist with Caribou, Pink Floyd, and Lykke Li.

  We lie on our backs and search our surroundings with quiet eyes. The drink makes us giggly and stumbly when we speak. His face looks different in the moonlight, the way your best girlfriend’s does when you have a sleepover and stay up all night talking. />
  We name as many stars as we can and agree that the big yellow one has to be Venus. What else can it be? Maybe Mars. Maybe a red dwarf. Maybe a UFO with little aliens watching our very conversation unfold.

  There’s no question that the sun’s light reflected on the moon’s silvery surface is romance-inducing. It fills the space between solid, visible matter. It lets us in on a universal secret that you can’t buy or keep, only revealing itself on nights like this, when your heart is soft and open. That’s true love, and it’s always there.

  The only thing sweeter than kissing Diego is the moment just before it’s going to happen. When there’s no doubt, and I realize I’m in control and have much more power than I thought.

  Mojito nudges me forward, lending me a confident, empowering grace. Risk has been mitigated. All signs are go; the only thing left to do is swan dive. Neatly, I tilt my head and press my lips against his with soft intention. Feels like the first kiss all over again, a sweet fantasy that makes me forget my body altogether because I’m lost in the big, vibrating hum of life flowing all around us.

  He closes his arms around me and I do the same. All the things that aren’t meant to be communicated with language are pressed and sizzling between us. For so many years I took public transit to school squished up against other people, and I felt nothing but their impatience to get home, their weary expressions fading into an unsettling purgatory of not really living. So how can one man’s touch feel like Pop Rocks crackling all over me? There’s a radiant pressure in the way he devours me with his hands like it’s searing hot tracks on my skin.

  “Good music,” he murmurs.

  “Good everything,” I say dumbly. He doesn’t think I’m dumb, though. I’m pulled tighter into his arms.

  We don’t talk for a while. We’ve forged into an attached being that undulates. Like we’re on the sea floor, we move forward and back slowly, the towels wrinkling beneath our all-out teenage make-out. When we touch and move together, he pushes only as far as I’ll push back. There’s no need to rush. How far do I want to go tonight?

  He only hints at taking off my underwear, teasing to warm me up. Big hands smooth over and over in an unintentional massage. It’s the world’s most effective physiotherapy session.