Page 37 of That Last Summer

“What toll?”

“A kiss. Here,” he said, pointing to his mouth.

Priscila stared at his lips, thinking they were redder than ever. “I’m not going to kiss you,” she said.

“Why?” he asked, confused. Because this is the thing with routines: when they change, it takes us by surprise. And kissing Priscila every time they saw each other had become a routine. It had happened twice, and that was a routine for Alex. Almost a norm.

Priscila didn’t know how to answer to that. She didn’t want to lie. She didn’t know how to lie. She’d grown up in too perfect and authentic a family environment—lies, machinations or bad intentions had no place there. So she went blank, not knowing what to say.

“Why?” Alex asked again, getting so dangerously close their noses were almost brushing each other.

“Because I’m not going to kiss you every time you come and ask me to.”

“Why?”

“Is that the only word you know?”

“Kiss me.”

Priscila gave up—she wanted to give up—and brought her mouth close to his. Her intention was to give him a brief peck, but as soon as their lips touched, their bodies came closer and Alex circled her waist with his arms. Priscila ran one arm around his neck, leaving the other between their bodies with a thumb resting on his chin. It was the first time they had touched with something other than their mouths. Alex—driven by the couple of drinks he’d had—even dared to touch Priscila’s ass with a trembling hand.

Alex’s mouth tasted weird; not unpleasant, just different. It was the taste of rum, although Priscila didn’t know it; while she was ordering lemon soda, he drank rum with Coke, courtesy of his older brother and his friends.

When they broke away a long while later, the light off the mirror ball hanging from the ceiling, recently turned on, dazzled them and covered their bodies with luminous reflections.

They looked at each other, not knowing what to say. That spark of energy that had gone through their bodies had all the signs of becoming addictive. And they both knew it.

Priscila moved quickly to the restroom, which had been her initial goal. She walked in and leaned against the door, catching her breath. By the time she came out again, her neighbor was nowhere to be seen. She ran to the bar, looking for her brother; she couldn’t find him either and was about to leave—or take her cell phone out of her pocket, where it had been all night, and call him—but something stopped her. The song beginning to play through the speakers: “Dancing Queen.”

She couldn’t help it; she closed her eyes to enjoy the moment and started to dance. Alone. Until someone held her gently from behind, and she felt that electricity again. And the smell; that same smell she’d picked up on in the school corridors when she was only six years old. She knew who this was. Turning her head, she saw her neighbor.

They stared at each other as they touched a second time.

They danced together, slow, swinging from side to side, not following the rhythm of the song at all. Until they were interrupted.

“Pris!” she heard her brother calling her.

“What?” the girl replied, freeing herself from Alex’s embrace at full speed, but not quick enough. Adrián had seen.

“Hey,” he said to Alex in his usual tone.

“Hey,” the other replied, in the same tone.

“I’m her brother,” Adrián felt obliged to clarify, so the neighbor was aware. It was a warning.

“I know. I’ve lived in front of you for nine years.”

“I know.”

“Good”

“Fucking perfect.”

“Let’s go!” the girl was quick to say. And not because of all the tension around them; if her brother was the king of “bite me,” her neighbor was the king of “fuck off, you bite me,” so it was more a question of I need to get out of here and get some fresh air; all this touching has me all worked up and feeling... things.

“Yes,” Adrián agreed, but he kept his eyes on their neighbor from the house across the street. “Mom and Dad are waiting for us outside.”

Priscila thanked God it was Adrián and not her parents who’d come in looking for her.