Roatan Plunge | Love Travels #2

Nineteen - Lorena

I'm sitting in a Roatán taxi with Óscar Calderón. I'm not even a little bit drunk but my head is light and my skin tingles. His fingers thread through mine and he looks at me like I'm the point of contact tethering him to the earth; like it isn't gravity keeping him here, but me.

I am not nearly grounded enough to bear the responsibility.

"Why did you do it?" I blurt. "Buy me the food."

His thumb draws a circle on my wrist and I am keeping it together. I'm totally on top of everything. My eyes did NOT roll back in my head.

"I told you already," he says with a shrug, his eyes doing that thing where they seem to get softer. "I wanted to do something nice."

"What did you get out of it?" I know I'm pushing. But it's possible I'm spiraling a little. I'm not sure. Reality is crashing in around me, filling the small space of the cab with memories.

His finger pauses and he squeezes my hands in his. "I got to see you smile," he says simply. When I dare lift my eyes up to his, he isn't even looking at me, focus aimed over the coastline.

"It was delicious," I say, gripping my sanity and his hands tight in my own. "And I did win the bet, so."

His chuckle doesn't really reach his eyes.

"Can I ask you something?" He breaks the silence or, rather, the bumpy road noise.

"Mmhmm," I nod, laying my head on his shoulder.

He places a small kiss on my temple, resting his head onto my own. "Promise you'll still give me tonight?" he asks.

I shoot away from him and stare. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Keep your clothes on, Lorena, I'm not trying to sleep with you."

Damn. I asked for that but it still cuts. It shouldn't, though.

"Sorry. Go ahead, ask your question."

"What makes you assume my motivations aren't honest?"

Two verbal slaps in the space of a minute. That has to be a record, right?

He doesn't keep talking, either. No, that would be too easy. Give me an out. Instead, he just waits, fingers fiddling gently with the fold of fabric resting just above his knee. A light bouncy drum beat fills the cab as the driver turns up the music.

One deep breath. And another. The only way out is through.

"Have I ever told you about my mom?" I ask before I can back down.

He shakes his head, eyes drawing together. The car shoots over a huge bump and crashes into the ground, jolting my heart into my throat.

"Well, she has this thing where she believes that money will solve all problems," I begin. I expect Óscar to dive in with some explanation about how money is awful or that there are some problems money solves or something. Everyone always does. But he doesn't. He just sits, hands stilling in his lap as his eyes hold mine.

He isn't giving me any outs tonight and I'm not sure how I feel about it. Seen, but also scared. Is that an emotion?

"So my childhood wasn't, maybe the best, is a good way of putting it. I think she loved me, but it wasn't enough for her to focus on me instead of chasing the elusive amount of money that would make our lives better."

"I understand," he says, resting his hand between us as a peace offering.

I don't take it. Not yet. It'll be easier not to take his hand than to have him withdraw it. I need to get this out.