Hot Fix: Burning Secrets #3 Page 4

  “Stop. You’re gorgeous. It’s a smoky eye look. So what happened?” Amber asks. She sees the positive in everything. Kind of like Jess. How am I surrounded by such upbeat people? Why do they bother to be around me when I’m such a buzzkill?

  “I saw Diego Rodriguez tonight. All those pizzas? They were for him. And the two guys he lives with. They play video games for a living. They live in a mansion on the beach. One of their fans sent them all the pizzas. Can you believe that?”

  “Yep. I heard about his streaming startup a while back,” Scott says in a mild voice. He and Diego used to be best friends. Until the photos. “He called me after Dad died.”

  I pick up a stack of newspapers in a chair and pause with the papers in mid-air. “And you never told me this, why?”

  My brother shrugs. “I didn’t think you cared. You hadn’t mentioned Diego since you left that summer.”

  An indignant snort erupts from the back of my throat. “He was the one who said it would be best if I left. He was the one who broke up with me and crushed my heart. Or do you not recall that detail?”

  As I glare at Scott, Amber breaks in.

  “Diego, Diego, Diego.” Amber murmurs. She knows my entire tortured history with him. The last time I had talked about Diego with her had been Christmas, many months back, out of earshot of my brother and before my dad died.

  I was home from New York, holed up in my house for a few days, not wanting to run into anyone from school. Jessica came over, and she and Amber and I drank beers and talked about love. That night, I forced Amber and Jessica to look at photos of Diego and me as kids, back when he moved to the area from New York and became friends with my brother. The three of us had dressed as characters from the Mario Brothers video game for Halloween. I also still had a framed photo of us with our arms around each other on the beach. It was taken that summer we were dating.

  In fact, that photo is still in my room back at my mother’s house.

  Flinging the papers in the trash, I nod. “Yep. Diego.”

  Scott slips past me, squeezing my shoulder. “Don’t be so hostile. I had a long talk with him. We had coffee after Dad died. And we’ve hung out a few times since.”

  “You did? You have?” My voice is higher pitched than usual. “Thanks for telling me. I’ve spent all this time thinking he went back to Puerto Rico to be with his family. I thought he had disappeared.” I didn’t mention that I’d looked for him on Facebook and Twitter and Instagram and hadn’t found him.

  Obviously, I hadn’t found him because he was now probably going by his gamer name. His stupid gamer name. Apathetic Fire.

  “I didn’t want to upset you, especially after what happened with Dad. That’s why I didn’t say anything,” Scott says, pausing. “Diego was actually in Puerto Rico for a while, took a few semesters of college there. But came back to Florida and started his business. And he seems genuinely apologetic about what happened between you two.”

  “Does he know about me? About New York?”

  “You mean, how you were fired?” my brother asks.

  I nod.

  “I didn’t tell him.”

  “Good. What he doesn’t know, won’t hurt him. I don’t want him thinking I’m some sort of sexting slut.”

  Scott makes a disgusted noise. “Stop it. We all know you’re not. Diego knows you’re not. Maybe forgiveness isn’t such a bad thing, Cat. I’ve forgiven him, you know. It wasn’t his fault. He was—is— absentminded, and that’s why he left the phone behind.”

  “Who said I haven’t forgiven him?” I shoot back. Like Scott had to forgive Diego for anything. It wasn’t his body paraded around the island.

  Scott scowls. “You can’t hold everything in. Don’t be like ...”

  “Like Dad?” I ask softly, thinking about how stressed he was in the final years of his life. Despite all his obligations and problems — my expensive private college tuition, the foreclosure of the rental property, his mortgage business drying up — Dad never said a word. He kept smiling and running marathons and working. Of course my dad had a heart attack.

  Scott nods once and looks down at the floor.

  “Whatever.” I shrug. I hate thinking about Dad’s death. Or Mom called me in New York, frantic, one Sunday. Your dad’s missing, she had said. He hasn’t come home from his morning run.

  Police found him slumped on a park bench at the beach, dead.

  “No whatever, Cat. Don’t give me that snark. You need to talk about what’s hurting you.” My brother’s big into yoga, ever since dating Amber. Lately, they’ve both been imploring me to let go or forgive or some crap. He’s probably right, but I’m not sure I’m ready. Or if I can.

  I help Scott and Amber clean the restaurant silently because I’m lost in memories. Painful ones. Maybe Scott’s right. I should open up more. Maybe I can forgive Diego, and he and I can be friends again.

  Or more.

  No, more isn’t a good idea. For either of us. I’m leaving as soon as I can get a new job, anyway. More would lead to disaster. An inferno. Heartbreak. It’s not like we ever really dated. We went from childhood friends to a hormonal, intense … thing … almost overnight.

  It was like we inhaled each other after being buddies for years. He kissed me that June weekend at Disney, while everyone else was watching fireworks. Made some fireworks of our own. Even without the photos, it probably would have never lasted, anyway. Relationships never do. I would have moved on. He would have moved on.

  And he did move on. I haven’t gone anywhere, it feels like.

  No, it’s best to put our past behind us, for the sake of my own pride. Plus, from the look of him, he’s no longer interested in geeky girls with glasses. He’s more like a bro with a brand now. My mind spins, and I can’t wait to check out Apathetic Fire online. I roll my eyes, just thinking about that name.

  He’s probably an Internet celebrity. A guy who gets bottle service at clubs in Miami. A guy who can snag any woman he wants with the swipe of his thumb on a dating app.

  I hate guys like that. Went out with a couple in New York earlier in the year, guys I had met on Tinder. They were more interested in getting me in bed and counting me as another conquest. One guy I actually met IRL with had been up front about it: I was his third date that week, and he fully expected me to blow him before the night was over.

  “I want to nut all over your face,” the guy declared. I’d never been so horrified.

  “Maybe there’s an app for that,” I’d replied, grabbing my purse and stomping out of the bar. I was so sick of being humiliated by guys and technology. Admittedly, because of the high school photos, and the whole thing with the congressman at my former job, I’m touchy about tech and sex. Still. It seems like guys can’t even talk to women these days if they don’t have a screen in front of them. And when they do talk to a real, live woman, they have no idea what the hell to say.

  My next relationship, if I ever have one, will be tech-free.

  By now, I’m on a rant in my head. And what was Diego’s comment about my weight? My irritation rises as I remember his sexy voice and his words and how they made my heart stutter. How could he still make me feel so unsettled and confused and … turned on, all at once?

  “Anyway, it’s not like Diego wants to see me again,” I blurt. Scott and Amber look up, startled, since I’d been quiet for a while. “He didn’t ask for my number.”

  “I’m sure he can find you,” Scott says. “He knows my number and where you live. Or, you know, you could call him. Or visit him. I don’t think he gets out much because he’s running that business.”

  “Right. I’m sure he goes out a lot.” I snort, and Scott and Amber exchange some sort of meaningful glance that I can’t read. What’s the extent of Diego and Scott’s relationship? Maybe they’ve become close again, without telling me. The thought makes me uneasy.

  “Maybe you need to swap forgiveness for acceptance. Approach him with an open heart and clear mind.” Amber says, tossing her long, wheat
-colored hair behind her. That’s the way she talks. Peppers her conversations with words like karma and dharma. I want to roll my eyes but she grins at me so sweetly and then bows with a little, silly yoga prayer gesture that I laugh.

  “Namaste to you, too, bitch. You’re silly and New Agey, you know that, right? But I love you, Amber.”

  She giggles. “If I can get through to your brother, I can get through to you. Did you know he’s stopped playing all video games involving guns and violence? He’s started to play these online puzzle games. I’m so proud of him.”

  Scott and I lock eyes – his are the same blue as mine – and we grin at each other. My annoyance evaporates. I’m happy for him. Really. I am.

  “Cat, you going straight home, or do you want to come for a beer with us? We’re going to the Sloppy Iguana,” Amber asks. That’s the other reason I love her. She eats kale and is all into exercise, but still indulges. She’s cool. Maybe when I grow up and become enlightened, I’ll be like her.

  I shake my head and my stomach clenches when I realize I have to go home. “I’m heading to the house. I want to check on mom.”

  She nods, and we walk to our cars. Scott pulls me into a hug, and I try to squirm away. “It’s gonna be okay, Cat. Trust in the universe.”

  Oh, God. The universe. I hate the freaking universe. I roll my eyes as I extricate myself from my brother’s arms.

  By the time I make it home, I’m fully depressed. The weight of the stupid universe and the steamy night air presses down on me like a heavy blanket.

  Being here, seeing people from my past, it’s too overwhelming.

  Chapter Six

  CATALINA

  For five years, I’d thought of New York as home, tried to push the tropical island of Palmira and my family's little beige ranch house into the past. I embraced the city life. I walked fast, talked fast, took the subway. Raved about tall buildings and gray skies.

  Now that I'm back and smelling the night jasmine, hearing the waves of the Gulf of Mexico, I feel both nostalgic and trapped. All of the people I’ve talked to tonight run through my mind. They all seem happy. They appear happy, at least. Diego, Scott, Amber. Sawyer, Liam. Jessica. They all have their shit together.

  I’m the only unemployed loser who wants to escape from an island paradise. But I have nowhere to go.

  “Hey.” I walk into the kitchen and immediately pour myself a glass of sweet tea. I gulp it down.

  My mom grunts from the living room. She doesn’t seem to sleep at night anymore, not since Dad died. And while she hadn’t exactly been stress-free when he was alive, now she’s turned into another person. A ball of nerves and anxiety, all because of stupid money.

  I’m not even sure my dad’s life insurance policy even put a dent in my parents’ debt. I haven’t dared ask because I haven’t gotten over the fact that part of the reason why they were in so much debt was because they paid for my college. In cash, straight from their retirement savings. And, as I found out, they’d taken out a second mortgage on the house.

  They’d paid for my school out of pocket. Had to, because the big scholarship from the town tourism council, the one I won my senior year that would have covered two years of tuition, was revoked.

  All because of my naked selfies.

  Not the image we want to project for the island, Ms. Richardson. We wish you well in your schooling, the terse letter said.

  I feel the guilt every time I look at my mom. Now that Dad’s gone, she usually hunkers in her bed during the day when she’s not helping my brother at the restaurant. Stays up half the night playing poker on her iPad in the semi-darkness. The TV is always on, with the sound down. Usually, she watches shows about hoarders.

  It's depressing as hell.

  When I got laid off from the website, it seemed to make sense to return to Palmira. I’d live rent-free and thought coming home to live for a while would help Mom. I don’t think it has. And every night, I see her slumped in the recliner, swiping and pressing on the screen, I get more upset and feel like fleeing.

  “I feel gross. I’m exhausted. Headed to bed.” I plant a kiss on her forehead, and she looks up and closes the iPad cover. I think about telling her that I saw Diego, but I’m not sure how she’ll react. Since it’s the first time she’s ripped herself away from her screen for a few days, I don’t say a word.

  “Love you, baby,” she whispers. “You have mascara on your cheeks.”

  “I know. Love you too, mom.”

  “Wait. Catalina?”

  I turn. “Yeah, mom?”

  She sighs and looks straight at me. “I’m thinking about going to visit my sister for a while. An extended stay in Maine. It might be good for me. There are too many ghosts here in Florida.”

  I nod slowly. It would be good for her. But that would mean I’d be alone in the house with the ghosts. Scott lives with Amber now in an apartment on the beach, and if my mom leaves, I’d be the only one left here.

  “I think that’s an awesome idea, mom. Let’s talk about it tomorrow.”

  I can handle living alone here, though. I could get used to living with ghosts of the past. At least until I find another job.

  As I walk upstairs, it occurs to me that crying is so common in this house that she doesn’t even ask why mascara is staining my face. It’s apparently a given that it would.

  I lather up in the shower and sniffle, then scrub my face with my hands under the water. When did life become so fucking complicated? Was it when Dad died during his usual, six-mile morning run by the waterfront? Or earlier, when everything happened between Diego and me? Life had been so good in high school, until the photos. Or was it when I was laid off and forced to come back to this humid hell?

  While blow-drying my hair, my mind is on Diego, and I wonder how he heard the news about my dad. Who told him? How did he react? Had he read an article about my dad online, or did someone e-mail him while he was staying at a hotel in Hong Kong?

  Did he cry when he found out?

  He loved my family, and they loved him. He’d been my age and in my grade, but was first a friend of my brother’s, who was two years older than me and Diego. And because Diego had been practically a feral child growing up – never knew his father well and his mother was an off-again, on-again pill addict – he’d spent tons of time at our house when we were kids. He was like a brother to me, until he wasn’t.

  It was like a switch flicked on when we realized our attraction to each other. We were both eighteen, the summer after graduation. No one, from my brother to our friends to my parents, was all that surprised. Scott was more like my parents: outgoing, extroverted, bubbly. I was darker and nerdier. So was Diego.

  You two are meant for each other, Jessica would say.

  And our relationship was something my parents even encouraged. When we first started dating, I told them. They were so accepting of us that they had planned to bring Diego with us on vacation.

  That all changed after the photos. Everyone seemed disappointed in both of us. Rightfully so, I guess.

  I flick off the light and slip under the covers. This is the bed where we slept together that one time my parents went out of town that summer. It’s a full-size mattress, not big, not small. Had been enough for the two of us back then.

  While in New York, the memory of him, of us, had faded. Replaced by parties and drinks and promises from guys that initially seemed almost as kind as Diego. But never were.

  And yet, what had happened between us constantly steered my life, buffeted my entire being into gale-force winds. I’ve never been able to forgive or forget.

  Now that I’ve seen Diego in the flesh, now that I am lying exactly where he used to kiss me for hours, I can practically smell his spicy citrus scent on my sheets and my skin. My body’s desire for him is white-hot. Scalding. My need for him churns up feelings of shame, though.

  I think about texting my brother to ask for Diego’s number and glance at my phone on the nightstand. Where’s my control? My pride?<
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  My palms brush my nipples over my tank top. They pebble and harden as I think about Diego’s muscular body and the way the corners of his mouth turned up when he smiled at me.

  It’s soothing to let my mind wander, to fantasize about sex. Better than thinking about the present hell of my life. I caress my bare stomach under my top, then lightly pinch my nipple. I shiver, thinking about Diego’s tongue in the same place.

  Back when we were together, Diego was eighteen and horny as hell. We’d play with each other for hours, either at his house or mine, wherever was free from adults. My parents knew, of course. But they tried to preserve a veneer of appropriateness, hence a no-sleeping-in-the-same-bed rule. They didn’t mind if we held hands at dinner, or if we stole kisses during movie night.

  They were the cool parents. Helpful. Involved. My dad was a hippie-turned mortgage broker, and he tried to hang on to his counterculture roots. He took Diego out for coffee and talked to him about how to treat a woman with respect.

  I don’t know why your dad always talks to me about that. I respect you more than anyone on the planet, Cata, Diego would say.

  My mom went with me to the clinic to get birth control.

  I’d rather have you be safe and explore your sexuality with Diego than in a car somewhere with some random boy, my mom had said. Don’t tell your father. He’ll be uncomfortable.

  Maybe because we were geeks, or because we were afraid of the intensity between us, we waited to have sex. We told ourselves we were being responsible and safe by waiting for me to be on the pill for a full month. Oh, we tried to be so adult about it. And we did everything but. Sex was on our minds all the time and we teased each other. Like I said, horny teenagers.

  One afternoon, while he was at work, he texted me.

  I want you so bad. Can you send me a photo?

  I responded with the naked pictures, thinking I was so grown up and edgy. I finally had a boyfriend, I thought. Why not show him something hot? Didn’t all the girls in school send naked photos to guys? Jessica and I had been the nerdy prudes in high school. We’d never do anything like that.