It's okay. It's okay. Everything is fine. Only I wish someone would tell my heart that. I take out the pack and light another cigarette. That's three left. Esteban had better come soon. I could smoke all three sitting here; I'm burning through my smokes and my mental resources all at once. The water is no longer perfectly smooth - it shivers in a way I've never seen before, kind of like the ripples from a stone but smaller, faster, constant.
It's then that I see him. Dark, slim and unfamiliar. The water shivers faster and I realize it's me - I'm the one shaking and rippling the surface.
"¿Donde es Esteban?" I say, my tongue dry as ashes.
He frowns. Great.
"¿Habla usted Inglesé?"
His frown deepens. "Usted?" he says, in an accent that is pure SoCal. "Isn't that kinda formal?"
"I was being polite." The voice that comes out of me seems to have nothing to do with me. It's like I'm watching myself on autopilot.
He tilts his head to one side. His hips seem incredibly small, dwarfed by the bulk of his belt. I know he has a gun. "Technically," he says. "I'm your servant, so a tu will do. I think."
"You think?"
He shrugs. "I don't speak much Spanish. You must be Amber, right?"
I nod. "Where's Esteban?"
"He's moving on – got a new job. I’m replacing him."
I shake my head. I'm no longer on autopilot - it's like I've been dumped back in the cockpit of my brain while it's heading full speed towards the ground, and I don't even know the first thing about flying. I fall back onto the patio, my feet still in the water. He comes running; it's his job, after all.
"Are you okay?" The sun slants right across his face, making him squint. His eyelashes are black and long - heartbreaker lashes. It's just as well his eyes are brown instead of blue. He touches my shoulder and I scream - I can't help myself. He's the first man - apart from Dad - who has touched me since it happened. I leap up like someone has hit me with an electric cattle prod and he falls back on his butt, his hands raised in surrender like I was the one with the gun.
"I'm sorry," I say, scrambling for a grip on myself. "I get these..." Breathe. Easy. "...it's...um...panic attacks."
He lowers his hands and exhales, his lips pouting in a perfect 'whew' of relief. "Wow," he says. "I'm sorry. Those can be nasty, right?"
"Yes."
"Is there anything I can do?"
Despite freaking out I could have kissed him. He's about my age too, the kind of guy I would once have passed up for smiling too much. No tattoos either. "This is gonna sound so stupid," I say. "But could you get me some cigarettes?"
He raises his eyebrows - black to match his eyelashes. "Do they...help? I thought nicotine increased your heart-rate?"
Great. Of all times to give me the California boilerplate anti-smoking speech. "I'm crazy." I blurt it out like he's an idiot and it should be obvious. "Crazy people love cigarettes."
He looks at me for a moment, concerned. "Are you okay right now though? Because I'm not leaving until I know you're okay."
I catch my breath. "Don't worry. I'm not going to Virginia Woolf myself on your first day on the job, if that's what you're thinking."
"Virginia what?"
"Virginia Woolf. English writer. Went swimming with rocks in her pockets. You know - Nicole Kidman played her in the movie. With the nose."
"Oh, the nose," he says. "Yeah, I think my Mom likes that one. Goes on forever. Lots of talking." He pulls a face.
"You don't like movies with talking? What are you into? Charlie Chaplin?"
He shakes his head. "Nah, man. I'm all about the action."
"You must like this job."
He grins. "I love this job. I’ve seen all your old man's movies. Even that comedy he did with the dog."
To my complete amazement I actually laugh. "We don't talk about that one," I say.
"Yeah. I guessed. He's got framed posters for every movie but that one."
"It was a mess. I'm surprised it didn't go straight to DVD. And the dog was awful."
"Really?"
"Really," I say. "And mean. And it pooped everywhere. I think it had some kind of bowel condition. Every time they thought they were close to a perfect take the damn thing would pop a squat and..."
He holds up a hand, laughing. "Stop, stop. I get the picture." He looks me up and down. "Listen, are you sure you're going to be okay? I'll get on the cigarette thing."
"I'll be fine," I say, reminded of my own terrible neediness. "But please - be quick. I only have three left and I'm having a really bad day."