“It’s dos, not does, which are female deer.”
“Maybe you can give me Spanish lessons when we get back home.”
“Maybe,” is all I say. But, of course, my mind races with the implications of that innocuous comment. First he mentioned going to the Ken. Now Spanish lessons. Does he think we’ll be seeing each other when we get back home? On a regular basis? I definitely need another beer. It’s been a long night and the buzz is ebbing and flowing. I need to get a continuous flow going or I’m going to pick apart everything Max says, looking for the hidden meaning. I’m sure he’ll forget about seeing me the minute we’re back in La Jolla.
A shouting match breaks out at the bar. A drunk guy with dreads is screaming at the old bartender. The bartender yells back. He’s a tough old dude. He looks about ready to leap over the bar and smash the guy’s face in. Manuel has one eye trained on the guy, watching. The shouting gets louder, and then the guy with dreads throws a glass at the old dude. The old dude rushes out from the bar, but before he can get to dreadlocked guy, Manuel is there. He’s got dreadlocked guy in a headlock. The old dude is yelling in Spanish. His face is turning red with fury. Manuel barks out orders. The old dude retreats. Manuel drags dreadlock guy toward the exit and kicks him out of the bar.
Max and I share a look. I don’t think either of us would want to mess with Manuel. He’s one tough mother.
Manuel walks over to us.
“Enjoying the show?” he asks.
“Totally,” I say.
“That was awesome,” Max tells Manuel.
“Just another night in Ensenada.” Manuel laughs. “Dealing with people like that is part of doing business. Don’t own a bar when you grow up, mis amigos. People are loco. And when they drink, forget about it. Do something that doesn’t involve glass or alcohol.”
“Got it,” Max says.
“I texted Juan. Didn’t hear back from him. Probably doesn’t want me to know he’s with a guy. I wish he’d just come out already. It would make life a lot easier for all of us. I’m sure if you wander around you’ll run into him. Either way, you’ll crash at our place. I’ll make sure Juan gets Will to the house bright and early, even if I have to go to Juan’s apartment myself in the morning and fetch Will. I’m sure Juan will insist they’re just friends, even if they’re butt naked and in bed together.” Manuel laughs at his own joke. “Don’t worry, I’ll get you guys to the border in plenty of time.”
“Thanks, Manuel,” I say. “For everything.”
“It’s nothing. I just hope you’ll come back to Ensenada. And bring your dad.”
“I’m definitely going to try.”
“You guys should get out there and enjoy the party. No need to hang around with a boring old man.”
“You’re the least boring person I’ve met in years,” Max says.
“I second that,” I say.
“Okay, now get out of here and have some fun.”
“All right, we’ll catch you later,” Max says, throwing his arm around my shoulder and leading me out the door and back into the crowd.
We weave up and down the streets, connected. For Max, an arm around a shoulder probably means nothing. To me, it means everything. A whole new world. My whole body is buzzing from the sensation of being bound to Max. Never let me go, I think.
“So did you really hate the quote?” I ask Max.
“What quote? What are you talking about?”
“The Golda Meir quote. From my speech.” I’ve been wanting to ask Max about it, but I didn’t really feel comfortable bringing it up until now.
“No. I didn’t hate it. I was just surprised by it.”
“Surprised. Why?”
“I don’t know. I guess the quote felt pretty average. Kind of dull, predictable. I figured you’d have some obscure movie lines or some brilliant insights into our future. You don’t think like anyone else I know. So I was expecting something different, I guess. Does that make sense?”
I’m pretty sure he means this in a good way. Still, it doesn’t bode particularly well for my speech.
“You have to hear the rest of it. It makes perfect sense in context.”
“I’m sure it does. And I know it’ll be great. I’m hardly the person to give advice. I’m a terrible writer. You should do the opposite of what I say.”
“You think people can’t relate to the quote?”
“Look, Kylie, I haven’t heard the whole speech, so what do I know? It’s just, now that I know you, I bet you could stand up there without any speech and just ad-lib and it would blow everyone away. You’re funny and smart and insightful. You don’t need to quote anyone but yourself.”
“Yeah, well, that’s not exactly how I roll. I show up prepared for everything.”
“Whatever you say is going to be awesome. Don’t over-think it. And don’t take my opinion too seriously. I’m almost always wrong about stuff like this.”
“Okay,” I say. But Max’s words ring in my ears. Is it too stiff? Not relatable? I don’t ad-lib my life, so no chance that I’ll just show up and wing it.
We walk by a cluster of people standing on a street corner singing Mexican folk songs at the top of their lungs. Like mostly everyone else in town, they’re drunk. Oddly, they don’t sound half bad. As we pass, a woman pulls us into the circle, throwing one arm around each of us. It’s exactly what I need to shift the mood. I don’t want to think about my potentially disastrous speech tomorrow.
We all sway together, like trees in a breeze, as everyone continues to sing. Even though I don’t know one of these people or the song they’re singing, I want to be part of it, which is bizarre since I’m so not a group kind of person. I attempt to sing along, catching words and phrases here and there. They finish singing and the circle splinters.
Max and I wander back into the street. We’re no longer touching. I wish we were, but I’m not sure how to initiate it. I spend several endless seconds thinking about how I should do it. Do I just grab his hand? Or would it be more subtle to slip my arm through his and then slowly, gently, wind my hand down his arm until my fingers find his? As I’m strategizing, Max casually throws his arm over my shoulders, and once again we are connected. I am freed from the misery of figuring out how to do it myself. Max probably didn’t think about it for a minute.
We turn down a small alleyway lined with open-air stalls. Couples kiss in discreet corners. Stragglers loiter on stairs, sharing cigarettes. It’s quieter as the revelry from the main street dies down. A dress in a tiny shop window catches my eye. I stop and stare at it. It’s a deep fuchsia, delicately embroidered with yellow flowers, with layers of lace on the front, and tiny cap sleeves. The body of the dress hangs in tiers, almost to the floor. It looks as if it’s been fashioned out of paper, like an elaborate valentine cut by hand.
“You like it?” Max asks me.
“Yeah, it’s sort of fantastic. Tacky and chic at the same time.”
“Let’s go in. You can try it on,” Max insists.
“First of all, I don’t wear dresses, especially not one like that. Second of all, I’ve got practically no money; and third—”
“Slow down, Flores. You know what, I don’t care about number three. Or number one or two, for that matter. You like it. You should try it on.”
Max opens the door and pushes me into the store. There are racks of brightly colored flouncy dresses crammed into every pocket of the tiny space. The shop is packed so full of dresses there’s barely room to maneuver around the clothes. Purses and hats hang from the low ceilings and line the walls.
“Hola,” says a round old woman as she approaches us. She’s so short she barely makes it to my shoulders. “Let me help you find something, señorita.”
Before I can respond, she ushers me toward a rack of dresses. She plucks a lime green macramé number from the mass and holds it up to me. The skirt is speckled with pink pom-poms. Hideous does not begin to describe this frock.
“You like?” The woman peers up at me, hopeful.