Grandpa calls that night and talks with Tiago’s dad, then Martha comes into the room where I’m still reading so she can talk to me. She tries to explain something to me, but I don’t understand. She switches to English.

“You stay here?” she says, pointing at the bed.

I put my hand on it. “Today? For a few hours.”

“Okay? To stay here?”

“Sure, it’s fine.”

She shakes her head. “Tiago!” she shouts.

He comes into the room. I study him while she explains something. He’s wearing a baseball cap again, which emphasizes his high cheek bones. From the profile I see his lashes, so thick they kink in the middle, forming a perfect crown around his eyes. He glances at me, and I notice with a start that he’s attractive.

I didn’t think so a few days ago.

“So,” he says, unaware of my scrutiny, “my aunt has decided to stay at my grandfather’s house for a few months. He asks if it’s okay if you stay here with us.”

I blink in surprise. “He’s kicking me out?”

“He needs the space. But if you’re not comfortable staying here, we can find somewhere else . . . Maybe a family from church . . .”

I look from him to Martha. It would be ridiculous of me to stay with another family, someone I don’t know, when they have the space and desire to put me up. But still . . . staying here in the same house as Tiago . . .

It makes my heart race with uncertainty.

“Where would I be?” I ask, trying to mask my sudden anxiety.

“Here.” Tiago gestures to the room I’m in. “This would be your room.”

I glance around it without seeing it. I’ve been here all day, I know what it looks like. And I decide not to cause this family anymore trouble. “Yes. That’s fine. I can stay here.”

He tells his mom, and she says something else, and he says, “My dad will take you there after dinner to get your suitcases.”

Then he leaves me with his mom.

***

We move me in that night. Tiago keeps himself scarce, appearing only when summoned to help move something. I wonder if his declaration earlier weirded him out or if it’s having me in the same house.

I can’t stand the suspense. 

It is strange to close my bedroom door and know that Tiago is down the hall. We are under the same roof once again.

I’m up before anyone else in the morning. I go to the dining room when I hear voices and find Tiago’s brothers eating breakfast and watching TV, but not Tiago.

So I head back to his bedroom.

The door is ajar, and I give a tap before pushing it open further. “Hello?” I say, poking my head in.

Tiago stands by the dresser, wearing only a pair of shorts, arm lifted as he applies deodorant. And my eyes are drawn to his torso, the same one I saw the other day at the beach but failed to fully notice. Or appreciate. He’s not as slender as he was when we were younger, but he still has a set of nicely tanned, defined abs above his waistline. 

“Hey,” he says, dropping his arms. He grabs a shirt and pulls it over his head before approaching me. “Do you need something?”

“Are you avoiding me?” I pleat my fingers in front of my stomach, forcing myself to maintain eye contact. 

He opens his mouth, then closes it. “Maybe a little,” he admits.

“Why?”

“I know you don’t like it when I talk about my feelings. And I was afraid I made you feel awkward yesterday.”

“What exactly are your feelings, Tiago?”

He studies me, his eyes somber, and shakes his head. “Nothing.”

“Nothing?” I feel a surge of frustration. “Or do you just not want to tell me?”

He turns away from me and walks out of the room.

I can’t believe he just walked away from me.

“Tiago!” I zip out after him and grab his arm. “I’m talking to you!”

“What do you want me to say?” he says, spinning toward me, his voice harsh. “You don’t want me to feel anything for you. I’m not allowed to. You made it clear that for us to be friends, I can’t see you as anything but that.”

“So you’re just pretending not to feel something for me?”

“Do I have any choice?” 

He’s angry. I see it in the dilated pupils, the rise and fall of his chest. 

“Of course you do,” I breathe, trying to calm my own emotions. “I want you to be honest with me.”

“But only if my honesty puts me in the box you want me to be in. The box that says, ‘someone you used to love but now is just a friend.’”

“I thought you said there was someone you like—someone you might have feelings for—”

“I lied to you! Because you want me to like someone else! But how can I when I love you so—”

And he cuts himself off. He pivots away from me.

I stand there catching my breath, shaken from the emotional spin cycle, trying to piece his words together, when he pivots back to me. He grabs my shoulders and he kisses me.

There is nothing soft about this kiss. It is anger and hurt and fear and loneliness and despair, all crashing into me as he presses me up against the wall and crushes my lips with his.

And it’s also hungry and passionate and voracious, and it stirs me awake like a sudden jolt of electricity. My arms go around him, and we’ve been here before, this is not new territory. He pushes me right back into his bedroom, back onto his bed, and he climbs on top of me.

He still turns me on. He still knows exactly how to touch me.

This can’t be happening. It can’t be. Somewhere my logical brain is in complete denial. I swore this wouldn’t happen, I swore I felt nothing for him, I swore I wouldn’t do this—

It’s happening.

I utter a groan because I don’t want to stop this, but I’ll hate myself if I don’t. I push his chest, hard enough that he can’t mistake my meaning, and then as he sits up, as he pulls away from me, I see the haze clear from his eyes too as he realizes what we just did.

“Lucia, I—”

I hold up a hand to stop him. I don’t want to hear anything right now. I bite my lip and break the skin, the pain and taste of blood knocking some sense into me. 

I don’t speak. There will be a reckoning later, but right now I can’t think of anything to say. I stand up and leave the room. 

I’m trembling when I close the door to my little room. I lock it and lean against it, then slide down to the ground. I grab my suitcase and dig around until I find my journal.

But I don’t write.

What does this mean? Was I caught up in a lustful exploration of feelings? Or do I feel more for Tiago than I’ve wanted to believe?

***

I can’t stay in my room all day, as much as I want to. I recall those days in Arkansas when Tiago and I were going through a rough patch and he would spend his days in his room. I know how he felt now. He just wanted to get away for a minute, not have to face me and our tormented relationship, but there was nowhere to go.

I feel that now. 

I pretend to be sleeping at lunch and no one bothers me, but by the time dinner rolls around, I’m too hungry to stay in my room. I come out as the maid sets the table and find Tiago at the front door, sliding on a pair of shoes and grabbing a bag.

“Where are you going?” I ask, and I’m suddenly seized with the fear that he’s escaping me.

“I have class tonight,” he says. He looks toward me but doesn’t meet my eyes.

If he worried I’d feel awkward because he told me he loved me, right now he must be terrified.

I turn around and go back to the room and get my shoes. I’m not thinking, just acting. I come back out and say, “I’m coming with you.”