Page 19 of Lust in Translation

“Everyone is afraid. No one understands what’s going on with me. I’m a grenade. No one knows whether to hold me and defuse me or toss me to someone else. I don’t even know, to be honest.” I pause and enjoy the silence of the night. “You should try to ignite the spark if that poor girl is still hung up on you and that’s all that’s keeping you from committing.” That’s what a friend would say.

“Yeah, maybe,” Leo replies. “Or maybe I distance myself as much as possible and move the fuck on.” Leo coughs again.

“Want to move into the cab where there’s heat?”

He nods and we both shiver as the vents kick the icy air around the cab of Leo’s truck. It turns to heat and we both hold our hands over the vents. “Tell me the last memory you have of Natalia and the bog,” I whisper, just loud enough to be heard over the blowing heat.

He looks like he’s about to tell me he doesn’t want to talk about it, his mouth opening and closing a couple of times. Then he turns to meet my gaze. He grins. “Your nose is the same color hers was the last time we were here.”

I smile to urge him on. “She was so beautiful. Remember that photo you showed me when we were at the beach that night? Her hair was wild in the wind and she was holding up a pencil like a sword?”

Leo’s face transforms. “Yeah, she was pretending to joust the wind. It was so windy that day.” He swallows hard and his hands grip the steering wheel tighter. “That photo is at home.” The wistful smile slides over his whole face. “We were here. Parked in this very same spot, actually. She was really sick that day.” His eyes shine and I have to look away. “She had her notebook. This old ratty thing that she’d write down her poems and draw pictures in when she was feeling up to it. I offered to buy her a new one a thousand times, our parents, too, but she liked that it was worn. Said it gave it character. Every single line is filled with her words, and all the white space has drawings. It’s all that’s left of her.” He coughs again and shakes his head—I see the action through my peripheral. “She had me write a poem that day. Her hands were too tired—they were shaking.” He turns down the heat now that the cabin is blazing hot.

When he doesn’t say anything else, and I hear him sniffle, I slide my hand to the center seat of the truck—keeping my eyes forward. His hand skims over and covers mine. “She’s here now. I feel it,” I say.

“That’s why we’re here,” Leo says, voice low. “I have the notebook. I stole it out of her bedroom after she passed away. My parents didn’t even realize it was missing. The thing that brought Natalia so much joy wasn’t remembered in their grief and marital disaster.” His throat works as he swallows. “That poem she had me write.” He nods a few times. “It was about this bog. About flying above it and seeing the berries.”

“Can I read it sometime?” I ask.

He squeezes my hand. “Yeah, maybe. When I read it again. She died two weeks later. It was the last thing she created.”

“She was so young,” I remark, shaking my head. “Leo,” I say. He meets my gaze. His brown eyes are soulful and full of sadness. “I’m sorry. You were a good brother.” The shit sentiment that everything happens for a reason doesn’t apply here. It doesn’t apply to any tragedy. Sometimes bad things happen for no good reason.

“I know,” he says.

I chuckle. “I’m glad I came tonight. Even though I nearly froze to death.”

“Thanks for showing up. Natalia would have loved you. I told her about you. She loved to hear stories about my time in Florida. About our random beach talks.”

A piece of me is with her. “Well, that just makes me blush,” I say.

Tilting his chin down, he looks at me. “Just your nose.”

“Just my nose.”

“Should we get back home? I’m feeling tired.”

“Too much emotional stimulation for the night?”

Leo looks down at our joined hands and pulls his back to the steering wheel. “I’m dragging today for some reason.”

I want to ask him about his hospitalization. Talking about Natalia forced it to the forefront of my mind, but I think there’s a question I need to ask more. Right now, before this moment slips away.

“One more question for bog night,” I say.

“Shoot, Kid.”

I roll my eyes. “Kendall. It’s Kendall on bog night.”

“Fine. Ask your question, Kendall.”

“How many?”

The solitude of the silence takes on a new meaning when he sorts what question I’m asking. Leo closes his eyes and hangs his head. His breaths come a little more rapidly. “How many?” I repeat again.

“Twenty-one. Counting Natalia.”

I put a hand on his shoulder, but his head remains down—mind remembering happy times with people he loved. His eyes are closed. A smile plays on his lips.

I love that.

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