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I stopped in the middle of the row, looking up at the sky, which had barely caught fire. The inky blue-black of night was already fading with the undeniable power of the sun.
Today, I was going to let Isolda arrange my hair. It had gotten much softer with the use of fine soaps and filtered water, but it was still a curly mess. She had asked me last night before I went to bed, and I was nervous enough to cave in to her demands.
Ana Olguín told me a million times that first impressions were crucial, and if I was weaving a relationship with Isaac, I needed his parents to approve. Stolen kisses and fingers grazing swiftly across skin were feather-light pleasures, but I saw everything in this life as a game of moves and countermoves, preventative measures and cures for mistakes.
Isaac was a very handsome, very Élite, preventative measure.
The sun continued to burnish the horizon, and I stood there, watching my breath plume and swirl in soft clouds while my fingertips and toes lost feeling.
“I knew you liked oranges, but this is a little excessive. Where are your shoes?” a resonant male voice said from behind.
I knew it was Antonio before I turned around. There was this potent familiarity that came after I’d saved him on that cliff. He tried to keep it secret, but I knew he trusted me more.
Maybe it was because of the peacefulness of the moment, or simply because I caught sight of his sleepy, soft expression when I looked over my shoulder, but I said, “Flamenco and my time in Las Patrias gave me many things. Rough, thick-skinned soles are merely one of them.” My breath puffed out and clouded my vision slightly.
I smiled at him, and he smiled back briefly before taking another step forward and positioning himself at my side. His hands were clasped behind his back, and the cold ground crunched under his weight.
“I’ve noticed that you brought all of it with you,” he said.
My eyebrows drew together. “Brought what?”
His eyes hung on mine for a second longer than they usually did. “Dance.” He made a show of straightening his back while he looked around the field. “You are going to be very popular in the televised portion of the tournament, and not just for obvious reasons. Watching you in action is like watching one of your performances.”
He started walking again, and I followed as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The cold felt like pins and needles, but I wasn’t worried yet.
My lips parted in reaction to what he said. What did he know of my performances? “But-but you didn’t watch my performance when you came to Las Patrias. You were reading,” I stumbled, still half bewildered by how incredibly rude it was.
It was his turn to look confused and defensive. “I watched.”
I laughed, and his expression grew even more determined.
Holding up a hand, I said, “No.Iwatchedyou. You were reading the whole time. The entire crowd was lost in Flamenco, and you were lost in words on a page. Shame, really. It was an excellent night to come.” I should’ve felt embarrassed about admitting how many times I’d looked at him while I was supposed to be focusing on my craft, but the information was useful evidence for my case.
Antonio started shaking his head. “No, you’re mistaken. I wasn’t reading a book—it was a proposal from your local government. I had to finish reviewing it and sign it before we started auditions the next morning.”
I stared at him for a moment. “Antonio, proposal or not, that’s still reading. How could you watch me with your eyes glued to a piece of paper?”
His expression turned odd. I halted as my hand flew up to my mouth.
I called him Antonio to his face. A chill had already spread across my whole body. “San Volcán. Perdóname. I didn’t mean—”
He took a step closer. “No, stop that. I’ve told you several times, no more apologizing. You’ve worked very hard these past few weeks. Hell, you saved my life. I haven’t forgotten that. I just… I’m not good at being grateful. I think you’ve more than earned the right to call me whatever you’d like.” He paused for a moment, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. “Within reason.”
I watched in shock. He was giving me permission because I had saved his life. We were on solid ground, looking directly at each other’s eyes. He was solid, but moved with the grace of an athlete. Not to mention direct, and often discourteous or impertinent.
Permission to call him by his given name felt equal to winning the tournament.
Suddenly, I was uncomfortably aware of how I’d left the house. Half of my hair was knotted and the other half hung in loose tendrils, dampened by the early morning mist. The only thing shielding his eyes from my nightgown was the woolen shawl.
I thought back to one of the last times Magda and I talked. She had called him beautiful, and I had contested her. But I was wrong. He wasn’t beautiful like Isaac, but he was undeniably handsome to me.
Antonio smiled, really smiled, as he scanned my face.
Then, for a fleeting second, I was wrapped up in the sheer presence of him. All of those feelings I’d had years ago while watching him compete in the tournament rushed back into my chest. For over three years, I’d written it off as an unattainable crush, a need borne from my sad life.
But now… I was a moth drawn to a burning flame.
Isaac’s face took shape in my mind’s eye. Memory of scorching kisses and the slow brush of his firm hands bloomed in uneven patterns across my skin. I couldn’t have feelings for both of them—especially not when Isaac was my way out, and Antonio was a wild card. I would need to take whatever I was feeling and shove it into a box. Then burn the box.
