Page 118 of Tide of Treason
Gemz leaned over my shoulder, popped her gum, and chirped, “Your mum’s proper fit, innit?”
“She used to be a porn star,” I said blandly, shifting my hair so Antonio’s scissors could find the next lock.
She recoiled with the drama of a fainting goat. “Wot.Nooo.”
“Yes.”
“Shut up.”
“Can’t. It’s genetic.” I figured Gemz would go home and spiral down a rabbit hole of vintage VHS tapes, trying to match Mamma’s jawline to grainy screenshots posted on fetish forums. It wouldn’t be hard.
The rest of the appointment passed in a slow, citrus-scented daze. Snip. Mist. Snip. Compliments filtered through the fog, somewhere between Antonio’s impassioned rant about the death of good bone structure in reality TV and Gemz asking if I preferred Russian billionaires or American footballers. Itold her I preferred Brazilian war criminals. She laughed, thinking it was a joke. Bless her heart.
No illusions about stepping out of that salon a new woman; the moment the wind licked my legs, I knew I was still the same bitch, just with bangs and better lighting.
On the way home, I ducked into a bodega for my standard prescription: dried mango slices, two pints of pomegranate sorbet, and a sleeve of batteries. A street vendor tried to sell me knockoff perfume from behind an umbrella duct-taped to a traffic cone. One look at the sharp edge of my smile and he decided living was still a worthy pursuit.
I shifted the sorbet on my wrist, wondering, not for the first time, if the absence of a man could make your hips ache. Rafael called twice: first to confirm they’d secured the border property, second to poke fun at whether Lucius could “handle spicy food without being a little bitch.”
I didn’t pry for more.
If he was alive, I’d know.
If he died, I’dknow.
When I turned the corner near Grand and Wooster, Marisol was crouched outside a cheese shop, trying to untangle Sweet Lieve’s fingers from the leashes of two very fat French bulldogs. Both were growling at a pigeon that looked, frankly, exhausted.
I hovered there, one foot in the moment and one foot in my own head. Mango slices pressing into my hip through the thin bodega bag. Bangs sticking to my forehead from the damp. Pregnant. Horny. Somewhere between goddess andgremlin.
“Hey,” Marisol said, breathless.
“Want a hand?”
“No,” she lied, seconds before one leash slipped and a Frenchie lunged for the pigeon. It flapped once, lifted an inch, and then decided it’d rather die than fly again.
“Uh-huh,” I teased, adjusting my bag of sorbet and maternal resentment. Prins was shaped like a particularly stubborn wheel of gouda, all dense muscle and Napoleon complex. Kaasbal (roughly translated to “cheese ball,” because why not) had a limp from chasing a Vespa in Amsterdam and losing. Naturally, they belonged to Marisol’s parents.
We got the dogs untangled, the pigeon spared, and eventually made our way down the block. Lieve insisted on carrying the mango slices, buying me twelve glorious seconds of silence. I would’ve traded half my soul for that peace. I glanced down at her now, pink velcro sneakers scuffing the sidewalk, damp blonde curls matted to her forehead.
“Unca Lu!”
Lieve’s voice shot up, piping and hopeful, as she pointed to a man across the street. Big, broad. Dark curls. A coat slung over his shoulder.
Not him.
Not even close.
Still, my knees almost buckled from the whiplash of wanting.
“No,lieveke,” Marisol said gently. “Not Uncle Lu.”
The little girl pouted, bottom lip trembling, and Iswallowed the impulse to crouch down and promise her he’d be back soon. Because I didn’t know if he would. And because I hated liars, especially the ones who wore my face.
“I used to think,” Marisol mused, once we’d corralled the dogs and Lieve’s mouthful of grievances, “that Abel was psychic. When I was pregnant with Lieve, he rested his head right here”—she tapped her navel—“and said, ‘She’s a girl. She’s stubborn. She’ll come out cursing in two languages and smiling at God.’” Her eyes drifted, soft and sweet. “And he was right.”
“What was he like?” I asked suddenly. “Abel?”
She blinked.
