Page 48 of Liar

Romantic hope.

I never had “the talk” with him. Actions speak louder than words, and I was counting on him to realize I’m not interested in him in that way. An unreciprocated crush is a horrible thing. It’s mind-voodoo, where everything’s blown out of proportion. The slightest look, the swiftest of smiles, the smallest acts of kindness. You dwell on these moments and shape them into something surreal. When in reality, there was nothing there to begin with.

“I’m sorry.”

“No need to be sorry. You don’t weigh that much,” he replies, misunderstanding. Unaware that I’m apologizing in advance for breaking his heart. We have other challenges to overcome. Heartbreak isn’t one of them.

Eduardo’s or my own.

I roll off him then stand. “We’ll try again tomorrow.” I hate admitting defeat. But sometimes you need to in order to win the bigger battle.

What I won’t be doing is admitting defeat to my pig-headed brother. Brochures have been arriving nonstop in the mail, from the University of Buenos Aires to Calgary State to a private school in Copenhagen. Diego’s handiwork. I see more brochures and less of him these days. He’s rarely around. In the hours he spent filling out catalogue requests, he could have been home.

Something snapped in his mind since I pledge loyalty to Hayden. He’s become intolerable. A man on a mission to drive me out of this town. At least I’ll have a few days’ reprieve from the lectures, with Diego away on cartel business.

Impressing the judges at Nacionales has never seemed more important.

“It’s late. Can I walk you home?”

“Okay.” This isn’t a part of town I’m familiar with at night and I appreciate his offer.

I pull a long, thin sweater over my leotard and slide on my worn leather clogs. We lock up and head home.

Eduardo is quiet as we walk. Ten minutes later, I’m still debating whether to have that talk when Eduardo’s step falters.

I follow the direction of his gaze.

Three men are up ahead. Wooden beams, like the kind gringos use to frame houses, have spilled onto the road behind a pickup. It’s an odd sight. Mexican homes are constructed with blocks or bricks and plaster, so why all the lumber? Beam by beam is loaded into the flatbed of the pickup. Bouncing before settling, the men loading the wood cursing angrily with each toss.

Eduardo mutters something unrecognizable.

“What’s wrong?”

He shoves me sideways. With a gasp, I fall through an old, white picket gate and into a small alleyway wedged between two businesses.

“You,” I hear a Z22 shout, as the gate closes behind me.

“Run, Luciana,” Eduardo hisses.

“What? No!”

“Go, please. This isn’t going to end well.”

I hear cursing as the men approach. I tuck myself behind an overgrown rosebush, obscuring myself from sight.

“You spying on us again?”

A chill runs up my spine because I recognize that voice. El Calaca. Poor Eduardo, accused of spying on the Z22 when we were just walking home. Is this how El Calaca justifies harassing innocent people?

“Shoot him,” El Calaca snaps.

“Not on my life, compadre,” another man says. “His uncle ...”

“Fuck his uncle.”

I jump as a gun is fired anyway.

The gate rattles as someone is thrown into it. Fists pound loudly.