Page 28 of A Follow-Through in Faking
Panic has my chest in a deathly grip, making it nearly impossible to breathe as I ask yet another waitress if there are any grapes in the kitchen. She gives me the same answer as all the others.
No.
A familiar wave of grief hits me until the tears return to my eyes. I got them under control after my confrontation with Santi half an hour ago, but they return tenfold now.
“Twelve grapes,mija. You have to eat twelve at midnight.”
The sound of my mother's voice fills my ears, making tears drop down my cheeks. I cover my mouth, feeling a sense of hopelessness.
“Cata, take a deep breath for me.”
I don't want his voice to soothe me. It's not fair that I feel less overwhelmed simply because he appears in front of me, grabbing my arms to steady me.
I hate that his love language is physical touch. I hate it because it feels so good to be touched and comforted by him, by his strong grip.
“Tell me what’s wrong, and I will fix it. I promise.” When he said it earlier, I wanted to punch him in the face. Now? I kind of want to hug him.
It’s easy to get lost in my grief. It’s easy to forget I’m not alone when I feel this way, stuck in darkness. Having Santi here, steadying me is everything I need to feel tethered to reality again.
“Santi, I don’t have grapes. My mother said I always have to eat grapes,” I explain, taking a deep breath to slow my breathing. He runs a gentle hand over my arm, staring directly into my eyes.
“I brought grapes,cariño. I remember your tradition, and I didn’t know if they would have some here, so I brought them. Come with me,” he says, taking my hand to lead me to wherehe had given his bag to be checked earlier. The man behind the counter takes Santi’s ticket before disappearing to grab his black backpack.
As soon as it’s in Santi’s hand, he guides me to the terrace of the venue, sitting down with me at one of the empty tables right as someone shouts that it’s one minute to midnight.
“Here,” he says, handing me green grapes—because I don’t like red ones—that he packed in a tupperware.
I stare at the container, dumbfounded, then at him.
“Santiago—” I start but cut off because I’m not entirely sure what to say.
“Come on,mariquita. Open them so we can eat them.”
Someone starts counting down from ten seconds to midnight, and I keep my eyes on Santiago’s the entire time as we count aloud with everyone else.
The clock strikes twelve, both of us saying “Happy New Year.”
Never in a million years did I think I’d ever share such a personal tradition with Santi, but as we eat the grapes in silence, him counting out loud to make sure we don’t miss one, I let my shoulders untense for the first time in years.
I don’t have to be on edge right now. He has no intention to have another fight, and I’m too relieved to yell at him when he made sure I didn’t have to feel disconnected from Mamá tonight.
“Thank you, Santi,” I hear myself saying once we’ve eaten the grapes. He reaches out to wipe under the left corner of my mouth, probably cleaning up my lipstick.
“You’re welcome, Cata.”
I hate my heart for stumbling because of the way he looks at me, because of the soft touch of his thumb on my face.
If this is how we start the new year, we might be able to make it to the end of the season without killing each other, after all.
Or, more accurately, me killing him.
Chapter 13
Santiago
It’sourfirstGrandSlam tournament of the season.
The Australian Open is most often held during the second week of January until the end of the month. Twenty days of tournament. Mine starts a day before Cata’s, so she and I are currently playing rallies to warm me up for my match later.
