"Oh I don't want to intrude … "
"Nonsense." She pats the seat adjacent to her. "This is blackberry jasmine. And I always bring an extra cup, on the chance that I have company."
"Alright," I sink down onto the seat, and exhale. I pick up the cup after she pours it.
We sit for a while in silence. And that thought seemingly so long ago returns to my cognition: if you can't be in a man's company, and just exist in silence for a while, there isn't enough to be comfortable about. This is a lesson for the makings of a good friend. And if a man can't be your friend, he can't be your lover. I will have that one day. A man to just exist with. No more saving people. As if privy to my epiphany, Carmen smiles.
"Nothing is by chance. Vivimos con las cicatrices que escogemos," she says so poetically. Then a few moments later, she elaborates, "It means we live with the scars we choose."
"Wow, now that's a credo I'll take with me," I say mentally repeating the words, aware of their application to my life and how I've forced myself upon people, wanting to save those who didn't desire to change.
After finishing tea and parting ways with Franco's mother, I determine, much of the wise words she provided will be a caveat to the life I've been living. Though I came to Cabo de Blanco, overly critical about the mistakes I've made with Carlton, I walk with a renewed sense of hope.
It is easy as sin to settle. And even now, a tiny grain within my psyche wanted the friendship Franco and I cultivated to blossom into something more. But why? Why hold so many expectations for a man who owes me nothing. I knew the type of man Franco was, before we met. This is his world. An abundance of models, actresses, even commoners, with gorgeous facades, who lack depth. A ménage à trois is the thing to do. Heck, three, four, a boatload of females is probably the norm.
I start back toward the bungalow, with faith that one day, maybe not soon, I will find the right man. Hell, a man who will come find me.
"Angelique!"
My mouth is wide open as my brain stops working in overdrive. I pivot around on the heels of my shoes. Franco is bounding down the stairs. A v neck defines that taut plane of a chest that's embedded in my memory and bulging arms that are as familiar and welcoming to me as air. He's in his signature jeans, and those boots smack onto the ground as he skips the last couple of steps. Air fizzles past my lips as I take a deep exhale of Franco's scent. He towers over the space in between us.
"Franco, I thought you were … " My anger rises swiftly, but God grant me the grace to complete this damn sentence, "at your place with … "
"Brandi and Laura," he cuts into my brain-fuzzed mumbling. "They dropped by unannounced. Nothing happened. At least, not on my end. But tell me, Angelique are you getting married?"
He sounds floored. My eyebrows knit together. "Wha-what? No."
"C'mon, Angelique, you gotta be real with me. It took me a while, but I've opened up to you." He steps back, and stalks in circles. Eyebrows crinkled in thought, and square jaw tensed. "Because either you're the best con person in the fucking world, or," Franco's tiger pacing stops. He stands before me again, sexy accent hard as he asks, "Or you're marrying Carlton, si or no?"
"No," I shake my head. "I can explain." Oh yeah, that three letter phrase strummed together is taboo. As I stumble over the words about my thesis, and add a little incoherent dash of a well-known behaviorist, Franco takes my chin into his hand, thumb grazing my jaw line. He gazes at me as if it's been ages since we've last crossed paths.
"Angelique, I believe you."
My lungs finally absorb the air which refused to sink in, and I can breathe again. The worry has washed from his face. Franco again keys me to thoughts of a future, saying "We can chat about this bachelorette party later."
Our very first night together, when he'd lied about his name, he'd made promises to prove his outrageous stories. And now, I'd give anything just to solidify our paths crossing once more. But I cannot utter a single word.
"Angelique, I didn't think I'd see you again."
"Me, either." A smile bubbles over onto my face, though still dazed. Here he is, this beautiful being, in the flesh.
"Look, I know you don't prefer me drunk." That giddy connection breaks as Franco's caress glides away from me. He then rubs the back of his neck, "But one way or another, I was going to come see you tonight, to make sure we have discussed … "
Us? Damn, my tongue is filled with lead.
"To ensure that I have your information and you have mine, Angelique. There's no way in hell … ", hands shoving into his pants, he shrugs "The thought of not ever seeing you again is so far removed from my psyche, I can't fathom going a day without making you smile."
The words, or perhaps his accent, or the combination of them both or maybe it's the champagne glint in Franco's eyes, but I grab his face. On my tippy toes, I reach up and kiss his lips. As our tongues collide the immense heaviness in my chest begins to dissipate. With each caress of his tongue with mine, I fall for this man just a little bit more. Then. I. Let. Go.
He huffs. "Why'd you stop?"
The intense hunger in his gaze matches mine. But I glance up the passageway. "Carmen, your mother."
"Oh, I see. All right, let's get the most important task completed, my insurance of seeing you." Franco smiles, and pulls out his cell phone so we can exchange numbers.
As I take my phone back, with his number stored in the memory, I bite my lip. "It's getting late, and I probably should get back to my friends. But … "
He steps closer to me, sensing the sex woven within my tone. "Talk to me, Angelique."
"I'm going to text my girls," I begin to start typing. "And let them know that the maintenance man has just begun to get the job right."
"Maintenance man?" His thick eyebrow arches, and then realization sinks in. "No, no, I am not the maintenance man."
"Yes, you're the maintenance man."
"I get that … but where I'm from, I got tons more clout."
"There, done." I press send. Then look up at him. The confident, ambitious and borderline arrogant man waits for an explanation. "Mhmmm, I don't know about this clout, or any of your accolades as a chef since when I met you, your cooking was and I quote, ‘so-so'. And I need to determine if I want to call the maintenance man later."
"Oh, so it's like that," he chuckles at the underlying message. We both laugh, and then realize we don't have anywhere to go with my bungalow and his place doubly preoccupied.
Franco slips into the lobby, but instead of coming back outside with a key, he returns with a few blankets.
"All the rooms are booked." He grumbles, then mentions how his aunt claimed they were hurting for guests these days.
"What are these blankets for?" I eye Franco suspiciously, as he takes my hand, and we begin to walk toward the shore.
"Well, I've already showed you the best places for a sunrise in Spain, and even one of the best festivals during the season. But – "
"Franco, you are not taking me anywhere you've done the filthy McNasty as a teenager. I promise you," I shake my head.
"Jelly, you know me better than that." He smiles slyly. And though Franco doesn't sound convincing, I'm bubbly and happy like a horny school girl until we walk across the shore and it's too dark to see in front of me. With my ballerina flats in one hand and my iPhone's flashlight on in the other we trek across the cool, moist sand. We're traveling in the opposite direction of his bungalow, so like before, Franco is my guide, and all my trust is in him. We come upon a peninsula of boulders.
"Just watch your footing, we're almost there," he assures, giving my hand a squeeze.
"So besides the maintenance man, in another life you must've been a helluva tour guide," I smirk, planting my foot on one of the slick rocks to get a good grip. The stacks of boulders are about waist high and at least two feet wide. On the other side, Franco helps me down.
It's about twenty minutes later. The night is warmer than when we went to the festival. Franco and I collect the driftwood farther away from the water's edge.
Since it's still damp, he pulls a bottle of whisky from his pocket. "My Uncle Juan would be pissed if he saw this," he says, while pouring a bit onto the slightly moist wood.
"Umhmm, I'm sure this is the opposite of a testament to all of the adventurous things you've done as a child."
Franco cocks a smile, while his match catches fire against the wood. The spark turns into a luminous frenzy, dancing across his face, making those rich hazel eyes even more molasses like. and I do a three-sixty while he begins to spread the blankets. We're in the entry way of a cove. The large bolder rocks must be blocking away some of the chill. But I slightly shiver, and pull the cardigan around me tighter.