favorite. And
The Godfather: Part II
is the best one. Am I right?”
“Well, it’s on my top five.”
“Okay, so tell me something else,” she says. “Like, your favorite ice cream flavor.”
“Vanilla,” he says without hesitation.
“Oh, I don’t believe that. Vanilla is bland! You’re not bland.”
“
That
is not true,” he says. “Vanilla is subtle. It goes with everything. It’s adaptable.”
“But you don’t like everything,” Gabriella says, remembering. “You hardly like anything, in fact.”
“No,” he says calmly, shaking his head. “That’s not true, either. I like a lot of things. I just don’t like a lot of people.
And there’s nothing more delicious than vanilla ice cream with hot guava sauce on top. Or vanilla ice cream on a chocolate
soufflé.”
“Or vanilla ice cream on a hot apple pie,” she says slowly.
“Or plain vanilla ice cream, but the homemade kind, where you can taste the cream and the butter, and it’s so totally rich,
you don’t need any other flavor or topping because the purity of the vanilla is enough,” he says seriously, in a way that
makes her want to taste what he’s tasted.
Gabriella looks at him obliquely, trying not to stare as she attempts to divine this otherness he is supposed to have but
she can’t discern. In the stark light of day, she can see the hint of a beard stubble on his golden skin, the slightest of
lines around his eyes—not fine lines from squinting at the sun, but actual creases—though he can’t be much older than her,
and a very faint white scar that hooks from his jawline and into his face, like a thin, transparent half-moon.
She wonders yet again what it is about him that makes her want to be so physically close, makes her want to reach out and
trace the marks that break up his skin. She feels empowered suddenly. If she were to do just that—touch him—nobody would even
know. And if they did, how could it hardly matter. Look at her mother, at her sequence of actions, and not a single consequence
as a result.
She feels almost detached from herself, ethereal. It’s been so long since she’s done something, anything, without considering
what others will say; she’s forgotten how liberating it can feel to just—be.
“Can I see what music you have?” she asks, even as she leans forward and starts to flip through the iPod hooked to the stereo,
until she finds Jorge Celedón and Jimmy Zambrano’s “Qué Bonita Es Esta Vida,” a hymn to positive thoughts, she thinks, and
cranks up the volume.
She rolls down her window and leans back on her seat, feeling the air cool down the higher up they go. When his hand finally
reaches out for hers, she closes her eyes for just an instant at the impact of his touch, then remains perfectly still, her
eyes ever trained on the scenery below as he runs his fingers proprietarily over her knuckles, her wrist, the veins and tendons
that run the length of her hands.
He takes her to the house in the mountains. The house her mother photographed for her book. The house his mother bought.
She doesn’t know the destination until they get there, and she recognizes the home, nestled at the foot of a hill as they
approach from the road above. He must have thought the gesture over carefully, not anticipating it could be the wrong gesture
at the wrong time. She will know this house because her mother wrote about it in her journal, photographed it for her book.
But right now, the sight of it takes her breath away, leaves her slightly dizzy.
“Angel,” she says, holding him back as he steps out of the car, looking at the mountains that beckon around them. “Is it safe
to hike? Can we hike alone here?”
He looks at her, puzzled. No one hikes anymore for fear of running into stray guerrillas.
“If we stay within the perimeter, yes,” he says carefully. “But that means we can’t go too far. I had lunch prepared, though.”
“Can we take it?” she
The Godfather: Part II
is the best one. Am I right?”
“Well, it’s on my top five.”
“Okay, so tell me something else,” she says. “Like, your favorite ice cream flavor.”
“Vanilla,” he says without hesitation.
“Oh, I don’t believe that. Vanilla is bland! You’re not bland.”
“
That
is not true,” he says. “Vanilla is subtle. It goes with everything. It’s adaptable.”
“But you don’t like everything,” Gabriella says, remembering. “You hardly like anything, in fact.”
“No,” he says calmly, shaking his head. “That’s not true, either. I like a lot of things. I just don’t like a lot of people.
And there’s nothing more delicious than vanilla ice cream with hot guava sauce on top. Or vanilla ice cream on a chocolate
soufflé.”
“Or vanilla ice cream on a hot apple pie,” she says slowly.
“Or plain vanilla ice cream, but the homemade kind, where you can taste the cream and the butter, and it’s so totally rich,
you don’t need any other flavor or topping because the purity of the vanilla is enough,” he says seriously, in a way that
makes her want to taste what he’s tasted.
Gabriella looks at him obliquely, trying not to stare as she attempts to divine this otherness he is supposed to have but
she can’t discern. In the stark light of day, she can see the hint of a beard stubble on his golden skin, the slightest of
lines around his eyes—not fine lines from squinting at the sun, but actual creases—though he can’t be much older than her,
and a very faint white scar that hooks from his jawline and into his face, like a thin, transparent half-moon.
She wonders yet again what it is about him that makes her want to be so physically close, makes her want to reach out and
trace the marks that break up his skin. She feels empowered suddenly. If she were to do just that—touch him—nobody would even
know. And if they did, how could it hardly matter. Look at her mother, at her sequence of actions, and not a single consequence
as a result.
She feels almost detached from herself, ethereal. It’s been so long since she’s done something, anything, without considering
what others will say; she’s forgotten how liberating it can feel to just—be.
“Can I see what music you have?” she asks, even as she leans forward and starts to flip through the iPod hooked to the stereo,
until she finds Jorge Celedón and Jimmy Zambrano’s “Qué Bonita Es Esta Vida,” a hymn to positive thoughts, she thinks, and
cranks up the volume.
She rolls down her window and leans back on her seat, feeling the air cool down the higher up they go. When his hand finally
reaches out for hers, she closes her eyes for just an instant at the impact of his touch, then remains perfectly still, her
eyes ever trained on the scenery below as he runs his fingers proprietarily over her knuckles, her wrist, the veins and tendons
that run the length of her hands.
He takes her to the house in the mountains. The house her mother photographed for her book. The house his mother bought.
She doesn’t know the destination until they get there, and she recognizes the home, nestled at the foot of a hill as they
approach from the road above. He must have thought the gesture over carefully, not anticipating it could be the wrong gesture
at the wrong time. She will know this house because her mother wrote about it in her journal, photographed it for her book.
But right now, the sight of it takes her breath away, leaves her slightly dizzy.
“Angel,” she says, holding him back as he steps out of the car, looking at the mountains that beckon around them. “Is it safe
to hike? Can we hike alone here?”
He looks at her, puzzled. No one hikes anymore for fear of running into stray guerrillas.
“If we stay within the perimeter, yes,” he says carefully. “But that means we can’t go too far. I had lunch prepared, though.”
“Can we take it?” she
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