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“I didn’t leave my room for hours.”
I can’t help but to roll my eyes. “Well, some of us can’t hide from our problems.” The problem, in this scenario, being my grandmother and her eyes that have seen too much.
“It was mortifying, when your grandma—”
“No shit.” This is not a conversation I want to have, and especially not on the streets of Miami. “Look, just forget about it, okay? I don’t want to talk about it.” I stare at the place where his hand meets my skin, waiting for him to take the hint and peel his fingers off of me. Finally he backs away, and I spin on my espadrilles and continue on my way. Sawyer trails behind me, but he doesn’t try to talk to me or interfere with my day. Generally, he sulks in storefronts while I browse, and he takes out a few crisp bills when I buy churros from a cash-only stand and realize I only brought my credit card. It was nice of him; I share the churros.
Above the traffic noise and the bass beats from the convertibles, Cadillacs, and open Jeeps that cruise the street, the melody of a guitar drifts toward me. I follow the sound, turning down a nearby alley. “Where do you think it’s coming from?” I ask, though I don’t really care if he answers or not. It’s getting louder, so we have to be close.
Two blocks later, when the alley spills out onto another side street, we find the source.
Zamira’s is scrawled in red script over the wide-open front door. Matching awnings shade black-trimmed windows along the crisp white exterior. It’s no wonder the doors are hanging open—there’s a palpable energy from within that can’t be contained by tinted glass.
“Would you like a table?” asks a man with a heavily-gelled pompadour and the brightest smile I’ve ever seen.
“Oh, we just—we weren’t really looking for lunch yet,” I answer, very aware of the churro wrapper in my hands and the dusting of cinnamon sugar that lingers on my index finger.
“Maybe a spot at the bar, then,” he replies, flashing his smile again.
“It’s not even noon—” Sawyer protests, but it falls on deaf ears. The employee has already grabbed two menus and leads the way to a huge wooden bar inside, gesturing toward two empty seats on the side. Past a row of tables is a massive dance floor, and it’s already filled with people.
As if reading my mind, he says, “We host salsa lessons a few days a week. In the evenings, especially on weekends, there are so many people out here you can’t even see the floor.” He slides two glasses of water toward us and leans in, resting his forearms on the bartop. “You should check us out tomorrow night if you’re around. Half-price mojitos and a beginners’ salsa competition. Couples love it.”
Sawyer nearly chokes on his water. “We’re not—” he begins, “—I mean—” He must feel the weight of about half a dozen gazes on him, and his ears redden. “We just met.”
The employee quirks a brow at me, and I shake my head. “We’re on a cruise. Not together, obviously. We just happen to keep bumping into each other.” Okay, it’s really hard to keep the word vomit down when this guy’s smiling, amused by my flustered fumbling.
“Wait! I know you guys!” cries one of the patrons a few stools away. “You’re Knock-Knock Joke Girl from the bar by the pool the other night. Remember? Knock, knock. Banana.” Cargo Shorts Guy has leveled up to Dan Marino Jersey Guy and I wonder if he has any grown-up clothing to his name. He shakes his head, laughing, and returns to his beer.
“That’s me,” I say with a shrug. “I’m Banana, I guess.”
“Well, Banana, I’m Javier. My friends call me Javi.”
I extend an arm. “Gwen. Gwendolyn.”
“Gwendolyn.” Javi says it like he’s sampling it, seeing how it feels. “Beautiful name,” he says at last, but it’s the unsaid words that taint his voice that make my cheeks burn.
Sawyer shifts next to me, and I wonder if he’s uncomfortable because of the stool or because of Javi.
“So, how long have you worked here?” I ask, taking a sip of water.
Javi busies himself with mixing ingredients, and a half-smirk crosses his lips. “We opened last summer,” he says, scooping ice into a metal shaker. “It was my pop’s dream to have a place like this, so when he passed we decided to make it happen.”
“We?” Sawyer inserts himself into the conversation.
Javi nods and smiles. He gestures his head toward the band on stage and raises his voice to be heard over the rattling ice cubes as he shakes the drink. “My sister—she’s the lead singer. We named the place after her. Well,” he says, grabbing two glasses from a rack below the counter. “I named it after her. She thought it was too much, but she’s the star of the show.” He shrugs, then fills the glasses, setting each on a napkin in front of us.
Sawyer raises a brow. “We didn’t order those.”
“On the house, boss,” Javi answers with a smile. His response is much more gracious than mine would’ve been. “Where are you visiting from?”
“Near Philly,” Sawyer answers, examining his glass. I realize we haven’t really talked about where we live. Not that it matters, since I have zero desire to see him again when all of this is over if he keeps going with this cold-shoulder-when-things-get-weird thing.
“What do you do?” Javi’s trying to keep the conversation alive. He can’t be more than twenty-five, but the way he tries to engage gives an air of years of experience. He seems to be made for a job like this, with his easy smile and knack for friendly conversation. But Sawyer doesn’t give him much to work with, so he turns to me for help.
“I’m a writer,” I volunteer.
This seems to interest him—though I’m not sure if he’s more interested in my career or the fact that I’m actually responding to him.
