Page 64 of Liar
My throat hitches until I feel light-headed.
“But I’m not for you.” He rises to his feet and looks down at me. “I’m not for anyone.” My world begins spinning as he stalks off into the darkness.
“Ever hear of fate, Hayden?” I holler after him. “Sometimes you don’t get to decide.”
17
The August heat barrels in with a raised middle finger. I open my lavandería early, close at midday for a three-hour siesta, then reopen in the evening. This particular Friday night is quiet, with few customers inside and little pedestrian traffic outside.
My loneliness seems to grow with the rising heat.
Diego hasn’t been home in a week, though he calls frequently. Our empty house is quiet with just me and my thoughts. Most of which are hyperfocused on one man, who has returned to Italy.
I gave him something to remember me by never considering I’d replay our kiss a thousand times in my mind. Did it work? Does he think about me?
I’m a black and white kind of girl. Navigating within these shades of gray is driving me loca. I even miss his laundry, the fine thread of his Italian shirts, the familiar smell of him on the unwashed fabric.
Who does his laundry in Italy?
Is there someone special waiting for him?
When will he be back?
Rehearsing for Nacionales keeps me somewhat sane. The competition is a week away, and Eduardo and I are practicing every day. Neither the weather nor the memory of my first kiss will interfere in the most important competition of my life. I’ll dance through molten lava to win it.
Twice we’ve executed the ten-point jump. I’m giddy with happiness. To celebrate, I’ve invited my friends to go shopping with me tomorrow to splurge on a special performance dress.
But tonight, there’s laundry to get done.
The phone rings, the bright canary-yellow rotary phone vibrating on the counter. Vintage-style—it’s the kind you use your fingertip to circle the numbers to dial out. A collectible I inherited along with the lavandería. Except that’s not why I stare at it.
This makes five phone calls in a half an hour. When I answer, the person on the other end hangs up. Diego never calls this phone or this late. Maybe whoever is calling needs five tries before concluding they’re dialing the wrong number?
I snatch the receiver from its cradle.
“Lavandería Luciana.”
Click.
I frown. Kids playing a prank? Or a person lacking good manners?
I busy myself folding the last of today’s wash.
About a half hour later, and close to closing time, the front door alarm blares. I look up in surprise and find two Sureños entering, identifiable by their black clothing and purple bandanas around their necks. They stalk toward me without so much as abuenas noches. My gun is within reach, and the security camera is on, but any cartel member not a Lobo invading my space is a sign of trouble.
“Do you know this man?” the Sureños asks me, withdrawing a picture from his pocket. He drops the photo on the counter, but I’m so busy quieting my panic I don’t immediately look at it.
There’s only one man these two men might be asking me about.
Diego. Oh, Dios mío. How did they discover his lie? What information do the Sureños have on my brother?
He taps the picture. “Answer us.”
“What if I don’t know him?”
The two men look at each other. “He said the lavandería, ¿no?”
“Sí. The lavandería owned by the pretty señorita.”
