“Nothing. Just work stuff.”
“Soooooo . . . Miguel. He’s a great guy, isn’t he?”
Hot water stings my hands as I scrub the pot. “He seems okay, I guess.”
She swats the back of my head. “He thinks you're great and wants to get to know you.”
“He’s dating you. Not me.” I glance over my shoulder. “Why the fuck is he so interested in getting to know your brother?”
Gabriela rolls her eyes. “Because he knows how close we are. He understands that without Dante Valez’s approval, he doesn’t stand a fighting chance with me.”
“Seems like it’s too late for that, Gabs.” Plates clatter as she scrapes leftovers into the trash. “I can tell you like him too much already.”
“I do like him, but I love you. Your opinion matters to me. I could never settle with a guy you didn’t approve of. That wouldn’t work. I need you to like him, for me . . . because . . .”
I turn into her, eyeing serious set brows and flushed cheeks. “Is there something else going on?” A chill spikes over my scalp. The last time I found the same worried look on her face, she thought she’d poisoned a stray cat after feeding it bread. The scrawny thing was on its way out long before she offered it supper. “Gabriela?”
She takes a deep breath. “I’m four weeks pregnant with Miguel’s baby.”
17
During the return journey to the oasis, Sal and I sit in silence. He checks his watch every so often while I stew. My hands fist, digging sharp nails into my palms. It's the only way to revive me from the daze.
El Fantasma admitted the funeral wasn’t a ploy or a mind trick. It was naturally the decent thing to do for Bruce––and me, apparently. If I should endure anything, it would be stupidity. Only for the ridiculous reaction I had to his confession.
He’s capable of kindness.
The second eye-opener was infertility. He’s unable to create a child. Where that should appease me as justice served, it saddens me too. I don't know why. It’s not an emotion I can untangle, nor do I wish to dwell on it either.
I peer out the window, watching his helicopter land as we circle above. The dreamer inside of me wishes I could sprout wings and soar from my prime position in the cloudless sky. The realist, whose opinion I value more, forewarns me of the outcome. I’m not immortal. Such a bold opportunity to fly away would surely fail. He would block out the sun and cast away the moon. I’d drop from a starless black sky straight back into the labyrinth.
A sudden swoop flips my insides. Sunny blue becomes leafy green when we touch down on the helipad.
El Fantasma lingers on the worn boards a few feet away from the helipad, conversing with staff while I unfasten my harness and climb out. He was oblivious to our descent, and even now, as I’m ducking under deadly blades, he still doesn’t give me an ounce of thought. I squint, glaring at him from under the cupped hand pinned to my brow.
He has gifted me with a leisurely afternoon. Vexed irony bubbles and pops in my belly. An afternoon in my cabin, alone, with nothing to do. A prison of boredom and solitude.
The instant my ankles wobble, Sal latches on my elbow. “Are you okay?” he asks. I nod a few times and suck in steadying breaths. “Go back to your cabin and rest up. I’ll organize a feast fit for a Celt and have someone drop it off this evening. I’m sorry for your loss, Iris.” My lashes flick up, meeting caring brown eyes. “You’ve had a tough time. Sleep will reward you with strength, and meditation will center your thoughts.” A warming smile reaches right inside me.
Tiredness tugs at my eyelids and weighs heavily in my dangling hands. An arm snakes across my shoulder blades, luring me closer. I dip into Sal’s chest. His heart thumps by my ear, and he pats my hair like a brother nurturing a baby sister.
An overflow of energy from the funeral has left me emotionally and physically depleted. Seeing the site where Bruce was adamant we’d be safe was bittersweet. So much has changed since we landed in Brazil. A pang of loneliness germinates into homesickness. I haven’t been called Iris since Bruce’s thick Scottish brogue warned me of danger. The night when both Bruce and Iris died in a relentless thunderstorm.
“Why did you call me Iris? I thought he ordered you to . . .”
Both of Sal’s arms gently encircle me. “It's your name. And we’re friends now, right? We can keep it between us.” His voice is soft, but it rumbles in my skull as I stay nestled in his chest, soaking up the warm embrace.
My throat aches as I force down a gulp. “I really hope we can be friends.” It will be hard when his loyalty rests with my tormentor. “It was my name once upon a time,” I whisper, secretly admitting to myself that I no longer resemble that woman anymore. “He calls me beija flor.” The only connection to Iris is fading memories. She’s an echo in the forest, unseen beneath the canopy and unheard in the vastness. Nothing can resurrect her now.
“Hummingbird.” He smiles. “It suits you. Shall I escort you back?” He peers down at my pitiful bruised soul, offering an understanding smile.
“No, it’s okay.” I shake my head. “I’ll be fine.” Huddling within his warmth and kindness, I absorb the sensation of a simple hug. The human connection helps me feel less alone.
Sal leans away and examines his wristwatch again. I almost beg him not to let go. “I’ve got somewhere to be. I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.” He lightly taps my chin with his knuckles. “And stay indoors, okay?”
“Fine.” I smile and roll my eyes playfully, replacing his hug with my own folded arms.
I trudge away with achy limbs and step up onto the walkway. It follows a sweet floral scent that I’ve quickly become accustomed to. A delicate fragrance I’ve taken for granted, even though those species are the reason I hopped on a plane to South America in the first place. Now they’re just pretty flowers masking the backdrop of a leafy jail.
