Page 98 of The Wondrous Life and Loves of Nella Carter
Diego blushed. “I know. You hardly put it down. I saw it today and thought I’d discover what was so fascinating.”
“You might like it. It’s a story about a woman and man caught by external circumstances, and whether they have what it takes to fight for their love.”
“And what of you, Carmella? Are you a lover or a fighter?”
The question caught me off guard as I reflected on a long life of love and loss. “I’ve been a lover sometimes, sometimes a fighter, but I suppose it hasn’t mattered until now. What about you?” I said brightly, shaking off the maudlin memories always lurking in the corners of my brain.
Diego grinned. “A lover, for sure. If you must fight for your love, was it ever yours?”
Interesting take. “So, you’ve never fought for love before?” I placed the book back on his stack.
“I’ve never needed to.” He shrugged, sitting forward awkwardly, gripping the book in his slinged hand. “I believe that love has ... to come willingly. You can’t force it or be scared it won’t show up again.” He gestured into the space around us. “It’s like the oxygen in this room. We can’t see it, yet it sustains us. If we’re doing it right, we don’t have to fight for air, nor should we fight for love.”
“That’s very profound.”
“Myabuelo, my grandfather, was a farmer who thought himself a poet. Taught me all he knew to get the girls.” Diego waggled his eyebrows. “Is it working? I’d hate to let him down.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t hide my grin. “If I say yes, I’ll only be encouraging you.”
“That’s okay. A little hope won’t hurt.” His eyes were playful, a dimple dotting his left cheek.
I sighed. Why did there have to be a dimple? If I had a type, Diego fit it. He wanted to see more from the world. He wanted it to rise up to meet him, instead of running away like I was doing.
Maybe ... it would be okay, as long as I didn’t get too deep. Something light, something fun. Perhaps just sticking a toe in would be all right.
“Vamos,” he said, standing suddenly. “Two books don’t seem like enough for you.”
And that, right there, was the statement that won me over.
We browsed a bit longer while I grappled with the situation, catching glimpses of him between the stacks. The light glinted off hisdark hair as he perused the aisles, carefully selecting slim volumes and scanning their covers. I glanced away as our eyes met, unused to this new Diego. He was cute and more observant than I had given him credit for. I knew I’d never fall in love again, but there was something kindling between us, a kind of heat.
We made our selections and stepped outside. The sky had faded to purply black, and the flashing streetlights surrounding us hid the stars.
We headed to that little restaurant with the charming strings of lights, finally getting his promised drink. As I suspected, he needed no help with the straw but did stick to just one drink. We split anempanada de vacio y provoleta, sharing more about ourselves as the music pumped through the black speakers.
“Tell me about your past,” I said, breaking off a piece of flaky crust.
He seemed surprised that I’d even ask, but launched into his family saga. “Growing up, my family didn’t have much money. My mom met my dad, and, well, you know, here come me and my brothers and baby sister Liza. We rented this tiny brown house at the bottom of this big hill in Salta. We all shared a room, even my sister, a double set of bunk beds. The house was so small you had to head outside if you thought you might sneeze. That yard was everything—you could play a littlefútbol, race your friends, and pretend the yelling inside wasn’t happening.”
He quieted, gazing over my shoulder. “My father was not a good man.” His voice was small, but the words were not. I placed my hand on his and squeezed.
He squeezed back and continued, “The best thing about that house was the hill. My brothers and I would race each other to the top to be elrey de la colina—king of the hill.” He grinned, holding his hands over his head like he had won. “When we would get there, we would lie in the grass and watch the planes overhead, making up stories about where they would go and what the people in them would do when they got off. We had big dreams, too, of taking our trips and seeing the world.” Asmile lit up his face. I could see the small boy he had been, with dimples and thick curly hair flopping into his face.
“I made it to the big city, to Buenos Aires. I got a job. And then ... I met you.”
His eyes held mine. The silence was back, not uncomfortable, but exciting. I’d tried not to feel it at the cemetery, and I tried not to feel it then. Perhaps it was the Malbec? It was difficult to tell.
“Well, what about you?” he said, breaking the tension. “What’s your dream? You don’t get to interrogate me.”
“Oh, well ... um, writing, of course.” I’d given a similar answer to Gabby, and it was still true. Other dreams felt too lofty.
“Writing?” His forehead wrinkled.
I sat up straighter. “Yes, writing. Why not? I write for work. I’mprettygood at it.”
“You are. You write the most magnificent copy in the entire office. Of this, I have no doubt. But there is no passion there. A dream must have passion.”
He wasn’t wrong, and yet it burrowed under my skin that he could see me so plainly. “I have passion for my writing.”
