Page 55 of No Sweeter Poison

He’s gesturing wildly with his hands, loud and heated, speaking in such rapid, fluid Spanish I wouldn’t understand him if my life depended on it. I’ve never seen him angry before and I don’t think he’s there yet. However, he’s definitely pissed. He stands at the center of a group of seven men, each of them of varying heights and weights, dressed in identical black suits. Some carry exposed weapons while others keep their guns tucked into the holster at their side.

The sight would be intimidating if I thought I was in any danger.

Instead, I distract myself by drawing images in the sand. No sooner than they take form are they being washed away by the waves. There’s something very freeing about it. Knowing that whatever mistakes I made while drawing are gone and I get to start over again.

I wander further and eventually have to gather up the length of my dress and tie it around my knees so it doesn’t get wet. Hydrangea patterns are printed across the white organza fabric and the tie straps at the top slip past my shoulders when I bend down to reach for something in the water. It glistens pink and red in the light of the setting sun.

A seashell.

Alejandro had a few like these in his apartment back in Barcelona. I remember seeing them on the shelves with his picture frames. The water recedes and a few more appear beneath the sand. I bend down to dig them out and when the water returns, I wash the dirt and sand away. By the time Diego descends from the boardwalk to retrieve me, I have an entire collection gathered on the top layer of my skirt which I use as an apron.

He stops a few paces away. There’s something distant about him when he says, “Our father used to collect seashells.”

I dig a blue one out of the sand. “Your brother told me.”

He doesn’t respond right away. “What else has my brother told you?”

“About your family?” He nods. “Not much except that your parents are dead.”

That catches his attention. “He said Mom died?”

I pause and look up. “Not explicitly…I assumed—”

“Mom’s not dead,” he says matter-of-factly. “Just…gone.”

“Oh.” I rise to my feet. “I’m sorry. It’s my fault, I probably misunderstood.”

Diego shoves his hands in his pockets and gets as close as he can without the water reaching his shoes. It’s odd to see him this way: lost, deep in thought, comfortable with the silence instead of desperately trying to fill it with quick wit and deep laughs. Of the three Narvaez siblings, he’s the light between them. The one that keeps them from succumbing to the darkness no matter how powerful the temptation.

Alejandro and Lettie often tease him about his cheerfulness and lack of solemnity. He never takes anything seriously and treats life like a game at the carnival; you win some, you lose some, but the overall objective is to enjoy oneself. Despite this, I see how much they trust and rely on him. He’s the glue that keeps them together, the most capable.

The most dependable.

“Our father was murdered nine years ago. Alejandro was eighteen, I was three months shy of sixteen, and Lettie was only nine. When he died, it destroyed our mother. She tried but…” He gives a nonchalant shrug. “I’m not sure she ever recovered. We eventually chose to stay with Abuelo and she left. So, she’s not dead but she isn’t here either. She’s…gone.”

I think of my father the same way. Neither alive nor dead, simply gone.

“Lettie was practically a baby and Alejandro’s the oldest. He had to carry a lot.”

“And what about you? What did youhave to carry?”

He touches the water with the tip of his shoe. “I’m still trying to figure that out.”

I abandon my seashell search and make my way out of the water. We fall into step beside each other and I bump his shoulder on the way back to the boardwalk.

“I don’t know. I think you’re all right.”

He cracks a smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah…in a really annoying, I have to deal with this guy because he’s family kind of way.”

We lock gazes. I smile at him.

“In another life, this would’ve been kind of cool. You being one of us and all.”

I hold the seashells close to my chest. “But not this life?”

Diego doesn’t answer but he doesn’t need to.