Page 29 of When Ben Loved Tim

“I’m sure you’ve seen bigger and better,” I reply, picturing a tropical paradise. “Rich people’s vacations must be amazing. My family spends most of ours camping in a big leaky tent that we all have to share.”

Tim grimaces in sympathy. “Why don’t you sleep in the private jet?”

I turn an incredulous expression on him.

“I’m kidding!” He tilts his head toward a washed-up fishing boat that is further inland before hobbling toward it. “My family isn’tthatrich. And my parents never take me on trips with them. Even when I was a kid.”

I imagine a little boy with a mop of dark hair and piercing silver eyes fending for himself in a large empty house. “Never?”

“Except for Mexico,” he amends. “To see my grandma.”

We’ve reached the boat now, or what remains of it. Only the stern is still intact, forming a sort of hard couch. The rest is scattered wooden slats bleached white from the sun, some singed black from fire, because it’s clear that other people have used this as a place to hang out. I take Tim’s crutch when he holds it out to me and wait for him to get settled before I sit next to him.

“I’ve never been out of the country,” I admit. “What’s it like?”

“Mexico City?” Tim asks. “Amazing! You’ve never seen so many colors in your life. Every inch of the place is filled with sounds and smells and people doing things.” He shakes his head. “Words can’t begin to describe it.”

“You’ll have to draw me a picture,” I suggest, giving him an opening, but I’m not sure he even notices the bait, because Tim seems like he’s been transported somewhere else.

“My grandma lives in Xochimilco, where they have these super cool canals withtrajineraboats. Ever heard of those?”

“What are they called?” I ask. Mostly because I love how he slips into an accent when saying Spanish words.

“Trajineras,”he repeats, slower this time. “They’re all long and painted up, sort of like those boats in Venice, but bigger and way more colorful. You can eat on them, or kick back and have a few drinks. Usually you get to hear live music, because mariachi bands are floating around on their own boats.”

“Muy bonito,” I reply, hoping to impress him.

Tim looks surprised. “¿Tú hablas español?”

“Not very well,” I admit. “It’s one of my worst subjects. What about you?”

“It’s one of my best,” Tim says with a grin. “When I was growing up, my mom only spoke Spanish to me, and my dad only spoke English. Which was great, because I don’t remember learning either language.Soy muy afortunado.”

“I have no idea what you just said,” I admit, “but the words sound so much hotter coming from your mouth than my teacher’s.”

Tim makes a face. “Hotter?”

“Yeah,” I say with a nod. “You could literally read a grocery list out loud in Spanish and it would turn me on.”

Tim laughs. Then, with half-lidded eyes, he leans towards me and murmurs, “Pan, leche, mantequilla.”

“I’ve got literal goosebumps right now,” I say, raising an arm to show him. “What did you say?”

“Bread, milk, and butter,” Tim reveals.

I shake my head. “Doesn’t sound as good in English. Go back to Spanish.”

“And say what?”

“I don’t know,” I reply with a shrug. “Something nice.”

I expect him to scoff. Instead his expression grows serious, concentration creasing his brow as he studies the horizon. When his eyes flick to meet mine, he says,“Enséñame a volar, mi mariposa hermosa.”

“Somethingnice,” I repeat, scowling in return. “My Spanish isn’t great, but I know whatmariposameans.”

Tim shakes his head in confusion. “It’s not a bad word.”

“Then why do your dumb friends keep saying it to me?”