21

We sleep in later than usual. I wake and find myself wrapped up in Ben’s arms, my body stiff and starting to sweat.

Ben is half-awake as well. Once he feels me stir, he tightens his arms around my torso. We move toward each other until I’m lying on the inside of a tight spoon. Ben’s whiskers tickle the side of my neck.

As the sun rises, a few dogs bark, along with the crowing of the odd rooster and other birdsong. One pink ray shoots in from between the louvers and illuminates the dust particles levitating about our bedroom.

Ben speaks in a throaty morning voice. “Malia, we’re going to be all right.”

I sigh. At that moment, I feel more inclined than ever to tell him about the other night with Alex. I believe he’ll forgive me, eventually. But I’m terrified of another confrontation like the one we had in the wake of the robbery. If we get into any sort of fight over this, things might be said that would end the trip for good. Better to tell him, I figure, once we’re out on the road—if we can still manage to make that happen. And if I can manage to keep Pelochucho quiet in the meantime.

Ben sits up a little. He leans over and looks me in the eye. “You get that, right? It doesn’t matter to me how far we go, or how many months we travel. So long as we’re together, it’s all worth it.”

I lift my head off the pillow and kiss him on the mouth.

He returns my kiss, hard, in a way he hasn’t done in days. I inch my way toward him and feel his erection through the sheets. With one hand on my shoulder and another on my hip, he pulls me closer. For a moment, I believe what Ben just said: We will be all right.

Still in a semblance of a spoon position, we grind against each other for another minute. Ben licks his first two fingers, puts them on my hip bone, then walks them inward and down. I spread my knees. Ben breathes into my ear, thrusts his hips forward. I reach between my legs and am just about to guide him inside. Then we hear it.

A piercing beep sounds first. It’s followed by the slow rumble of a diesel engine. I sit up straight, afraid that a semi is about to plow into our bedroom. Ben sits up as well.

“What is that?” he asks.

I shrug, then stand and wrap a sarong around myself. Ben fumbles into his board shorts. We open the door and find an enormous flatbed truck backing into the courtyard of La Posada.

The beep-beep-beep of its reverse gear makes it hard to hear anything else. Pelochucho stands near the back, giving hand signals to the driver. Kristy watches by the counter, a broom in her hands. Her face can’t hide her concern. Did she give Pelo permission for this? What might the owners say, on the off chance they stop by? Surely, Don Adán and his wife would not be pleased to see their establishment turned into a bodega—storing supplies for a competing business.

“What the hell’s going on?” Ben shouts into my ear.

“Materials, I guess. For Pelo’s hotel.”

Once the rear of the truck is only a few short yards away from us, the beeping stops. Two workers step out of the cab and untie the twine from bundles of rebar and stacks of cement bags. It all feels oddly familiar, like an inside-out version of the deliveries that once arrived at my bodega in the hills above Cara Sucia.

“Morning!” Pelochucho shouts once he sees us.

“You’re storing stuff here?” I ask.

“Better this than out at the job site, don’t you think? Here it’s all locked up. We can keep an eye on it.”

Ben yawns.

Pelo shows the laborers where to stack the cement. He wants it under the hotel’s overhang, which won’t be easy.

“Make sure they don’t block our car in,” Ben says. Nobody but me listens.

“He’s probably hoping we’ll ferry most of the stuff over in the Jeep,” I say. “It takes four-wheel drive to get up that hill.”

I go back inside our bedroom and put on a pair of cutoff jeans and a tank top. By the time I emerge, the truck’s engine is back on. Ben is in the kitchen with Kristy.

“Congratulations!” Pelo screams over the noise. “You’re an environmental impact consultant.” He shoves a stack of still-warm fax pages into my chest. “That’s your title, by the way. We want to say we hired one of those. Sign and date the last page, put your Social Security number here, and we’ll be good to go.”

“You need to give me a little time,” I say. The document is at least ten dense pages.

“Some time?” Pelo looks shocked.

Ben returns from the kitchen with two cups of coffee. He hands one to me, then takes a seat in the hammock.

“This is all happening fast, Pelo. Can I read through this? Think it over?”

Behind him, the truck has shut off. Pelo’s helpers stack the cement way too high. It’s turning into a tower even taller than they are.

“Some time?” Pelo says again. “I mean, sure. We’re on a schedule, but okay. I guess.”

I nod, open the door to our bedroom, and am about to slip inside.

Pelo keeps talking. “Hey, Norris? Who is Alex?”

“What?” Ben asks.

I turn back around.

“Do you know somebody named Alex?”

“He’s a Peace Corps guy who works for the Red Cross now. Malia used to date him.” Ben looks over his shoulder and steals a glance at me.

I shrug.

“But he doesn’t hang out here. Ever,” Ben says. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason.” Pelo waves his hand through the air. “I must’ve heard you guys talking about him or something.”

“Give me a second,” I say in a stern voice, staring straight at Pelo, “to read this over. Would you do that for me?”

He smiles. “Of course.”

“By the way, that stack of cement is getting awful high. You’ll need a ladder to undo it.”

Pelo turns around. “Shit!” He runs over to his workers and hollers, “Stop! Wait! ¡Muy alto!”

*   *   *

Inside the bedroom, I do my best to give the contract a quick read. Its legalese is just as indecipherable as the document I signed in Jim’s office to end my Peace Corps service. At least the money and the time commitment are both what Pelo promised yesterday. I take a deep breath and sign my name.

Back outside, the truck pulls away in a cloud of dust. Ben has taken his coffee up to the roof. I knock on Pelo’s door.

He answers it without saying a word.

“Here you go.” I hand the contract to him.

“Excellent.” He takes it and drops it on his bed. “Listen, we need to get out to Ninety-nine today. Could you run me by the Internet café first?”

I swallow and remind myself that this is what I signed up for, that I’m doing it for Ben and me. That our trip is worth it.

“Let’s go,” I say.

He smiles, holds up one finger, then steps back into his bedroom. I wait in the doorway while Pelo puts on a collared shirt. On the bed, he pops open a fake-leather briefcase I’ve not seen before and throws in my contract, along with some other documents.

“Glad we’re getting an early start, Chinita.” He opens the small drawer inside his night table. “We’ve got a lot to do today.”

From the drawer, he takes out a half-open newspaper envelope—one of the cocaine packets. He dips his room key into the powder and holds a white clump out toward me. “Eye-opener?” he offers.

“No thanks,” I say.

Pelo shrugs, then snorts the whole clump up one nostril. A yellowish chunk sticks to his nose hairs. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s fucking go.”

He gives a few last-minute instructions to the men unloading the truck, then climbs into the Jeep’s passenger seat. I steer carefully around the big cement stack. At La Posada’s gate, I wave to Ben, who’s still up on the roof.

*   *   *

We park on the street across from the Internet café. Pelo takes forever inside. Luckily, a woman sells pupusas and coffee at a stand nearby. I eat off the Jeep’s hood; my coffee balances on a painted star from the New Zealand flag.

“Okay.” Pelochucho bursts out of the café, a new manila folder full of paper under his arm. “Let’s hit the Western Union, then off to the site.”

“Western Union?” I burn my mouth on a last rushed sip of coffee, then climb into the driver’s seat.

“That’s right.” Pelo puts the new documents inside his briefcase. “We’re back in business.”

I pull up in front of the well-appointed office but don’t shut off the engine.

“This won’t take long,” he says.

Western Union recently dethroned a local service called Gigante Express as the preferred method for sending remesas from the States to El Salvador. Niña Tere uses the one in the capital often. I wonder what Pelo is getting cash for. More materials? Maybe he’ll give me an advance against my first paycheck.

After a few minutes, he emerges from the office with his sunglasses down, the briefcase in his hand. He looks suspiciously up the street in either direction, then climbs inside.

“Let’s roll.”

I drive out of town. Pelo pulls a one-hitter from his pocket and packs it with some of his potent weed. “I’m sorry about that Alex comment.” He lets the words out along with his first puff of pot smoke. “I don’t feel great about leveraging that eavesdrop. But what can I say?” He pauses for another hit. “I’m just a born deal-maker.”

He passes the still-smoldering pipe in my direction. I wave it off.

“The swell will probably be here by tomorrow. You’ll get some good waves, maybe a few barrels, and this resort will practically build itself.”

At the turnoff, I throw the Jeep into four-wheel drive and head uphill. Through the bumps and potholes, I maintain speed.

“Careful!” Pelo shouts as we near the top. By less than a meter, I manage to avoid driving straight into a gigantic hole in the center of the small hamlet, where we’d originally met with Don Miguel.

“Jesus,” I say. “Did a bomb go off here?”

“The pool, dude.” Pelo raises his sunglasses and stares into the hole. Three shirtless Salvadoran teenagers stand inside of it, swinging shovels and picks, chipping away at each of its sides.

“You can park over there, behind their truck.”

I pull up in back of an old Toyota pickup, the only other vehicle around. Pelo puts his pipe and lighter into the glove compartment, checks the vanity mirror, and straightens out his eye patch.

“Let’s do some work,” he says.

The second we step out of the car, we’re swarmed by the remaining members of the community. Half a dozen women take the lead, men and children behind them. Several hold up pieces of paper and all fight for Pelochucho’s attention.

“¡Tranquilo!” Pelo waves his hands and shouts at them. He turns to me. “Chinita, I’ll need you to translate.”

I nod. “Go ahead.”

“Please,” he says. “Let’s do this in an orderly fashion. Can we find a spot in the shade and sort all this out one by one?”

I do my best to translate.

An older woman whom I recognize from our last visit tugs at my arm. “We can use my house.”

She leads us toward a series of adobe walls that no longer have a roof. A blue tarp is strung over the top, with help from a nearby tree, and shades the inside. Pelo and I take a seat around what appears to be the same table we sat at with Don Miguel.

“What’s going on here?” I ask Pelo.

“I’m solving the problem with the hillside.” He places his briefcase on the table and pops it open. “You’ll like this.”

The owner of the house introduces herself as Niña Gloria and sits at the table with her teenage daughter. The other families wait by the entrance to the room.

“She has her deed?” Pelo asks me, pointing to a plastic folder full of notarized papers held tight to her chest.

Not knowing the Spanish word for deed, I ask about her “housing documents.” She smiles and hands them over. Pelo pushes his index finger around the lines of text, clicking his tongue inside his mouth. He then fishes a fresher document from his open briefcase.

I make out the title at the very top; it’s in Spanish and means “Letter of Intention.” There are several blanks throughout the main body of the text. Pelo takes a pen from his case and proceeds to copy a few names and numbers from the deed into his letter.

“Okay.” He looks up. Sweat has beaded along his brow. “Tell her to look this over and check if everything is correct.” He passes the paper to Niña Gloria. I relate his instructions. She holds it up to her eyes, but it’s obvious she can’t read. She hands the paper to her teenage daughter.

From his briefcase, Pelo produces an envelope full of hundred-dollar bills. He counts them out on the table. Niña Gloria stares wide-eyed at the currency.

“Jesus.” Pelo wipes his forehead with the back of his hand. “We had to do this on the hottest fucking day of the year.”

“What are we doing, exactly?” I ask.

He snaps a rubber band around what looks like a thousand dollars. “I talked to the guys at SalvaCorp about your issues with the hillside.” He counts out another stack. “They got squeamish. Then somebody suggested we just buy up the whole hamlet. Move our buildings back—and upward. We’ll have the kitchen and dining room on the lower floors. But the suites up top will still get the ocean view.”

My first thoughts are all about engineering. I steal a look out the door, at the line of sight toward the ocean. It would work, more or less. The ground is level here at the top. Then I become human again. “You can’t just displace this whole community.”

Pelo dribbles air out of his lips. “Is that a joke? They’re dying to sell. They’re living under fucking tarps. The earthquake did most of the displacing for me.”

The mother and daughter at the far end of the table sign the paper and pass it to Pelo. He smiles and hands them the stack of bills. “Gracias.”

I pick up the letter and have a look. “Is this even legal?” It’s one single-spaced page. Niña Gloria and her daughter rise and exit.

“Legal enough.” Pelo shrugs. “A lawyer friend drew it up with speed in mind. Your tip about the squatters’ rights laws, that was a big help. Truth is, if they take the money and go now, and we build on this land, it’ll be ours either way.”

“That’s not what I meant about those laws.”

“¡Próximo!” Pelo hollers at the small crowd outside.

A younger couple enters, the man with a roll of papers cupped in his hand, the woman with a baby on her hip. Pelo smiles and extends another of his letters toward them. This time, he simply points at the blanks that need filling—perhaps guessing they are more literate, perhaps already bored with that part of the task.

“What are you paying them?” My voice quivers as I ask the question. “Like one or two fucking grand?”

He loses count of the bills and sighs, checks to see if the two understand. “Look here, Chinita. Every house, every road, every building that’s ever been built in the Americas—in Hawai‘i, too, for that matter—has pushed out somebody who was there first. You want all that to stop now? With me?” He scoffs and turns back to the money. “Grow up.” His rubber band snaps around another grand.

“I won’t help you with this.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“I’m only supposed to advise you on environmental impacts.”

“You didn’t read that contract very carefully, did you?” He turns to me. His one exposed eye is bloodshot and yellow. “This could work out, Chinita. For all of us. Don’t screw it up just because you don’t like my style.”

“Who are you?” It’s a question I’ve wanted to ask for days. “Are you even a real surfer? Or just a poser businessman? Are you some kind of evil spirit sent here to fuck things up for me?”

He grins harder. I wonder if he’s not a new incarnation of the Monkey-Faced Baby, another mischievous prophet who is never truly right, but never truly wrong, either. Though it makes no sense, I half-suspect him of somehow stealing my passport and my money, even of purposely putting Alex and me in close-enough proximity to commit the act he now blackmails me with.

“I’m just like you, Chinita.” Pelo lowers his sunglasses back down and relaxes his smile. “I’m just another drifter doing the best he can.”

“You’re nothing like me,” I say.

“I’m not as lucky as you are, if that’s what you mean.” An unfamiliar note of sincerity swells in his voice. “Not as lucky as Chuck Norris or you. I don’t have somebody in my life, like you guys have each other. I don’t have the chance to take this trip you’ll be taking. Don’t have that kind of freedom.” He turns his head away from mine. For a split second, I wonder if he might break down in tears.

I open my mouth, but no words come out.

“Okay, who’s next here?” He turns to the man and woman seated before him.

My face feels like it could pop from all the blood pumping through it. I turn to the couple. The man slowly fills in the blanks.

“Don’t do it,” I say in Spanish. “It’s not worth it.”

The baby in his mother’s arms begins to cry.

“It’s a bad deal,” I say, raising my voice.

“Shut the fuck up, Chinita,” Pelo mutters at me. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.” He turns to the couple, spins his finger around his ear, and says, “Loca”—calling me crazy.

I stand up. “I won’t be part of this.”

Pelo gives the couple their money and takes the letter out of their hands.

At the entrance to the house, I stare at the other families, all of them queued up with their deeds and their children in their arms. I’m reminded of what Alex said the other night, about the Red Cross lines and the atrocities they called to mind.

“Don’t listen to him!” I stand outside the doorway now but point back inside the house at Pelochucho. “It’s a bad deal! He’s tricking you!” My head feels light. My heart flops and flutters like a headless chicken inside my chest. “Don’t give up your homes!”

But my words are met mostly by confused silence. One of the men at the back of the line snuffs out a laugh and whispers, “Chinita loca.” The pool diggers stop working and stare up out of their hole.

Trembling, I climb inside the Jeep and dig the key from my pocket. The engine turns over. The entire line looks toward me. Pelo comes to the door of the house as I shift into reverse. He raises his sunglasses and gives me a one-eyed glare. I turn my head over my shoulder and back up.

As I have so often in the past few days, I drive fast with the windows rolled down, let the wind and the sound of the engine drown everything else out, until I can almost forget about Pelo’s plan and how mixed up in it I am. Who knows what sort of sick revenge he might concoct for my abandoning him there.

*   *   *

Back at La Posada, I park in front of the too-high stack of cement bags. Ben swings in the hammock outside our room.

My eyes are moist from all the wind on the drive. I lift up the front of my T-shirt to wipe at them. “We’ve got a problem,” I say.

“Just one?” He sits up straight in the hammock, finds his tobacco pouch on the windowsill behind him.

“We were out there today, at K Ninety-nine. His people want to buy up all the land, turn the whole hamlet into the site for their resort.”

A thin turd of tobacco takes shape between his thumbs. Ben looks up and cocks his head. “Would that help with the erosion thing?”

I shrug. “It depends. But he was getting all the families to sign over their deeds for a thousand bucks or so. I couldn’t be part of it.”

He nods and licks the glue edge of his rolling paper.

“So I ditched him there.”

Ben’s eyes widen. He stops licking, but his tongue still hangs halfway out of his mouth. “You ditched him out on K Ninety-nine?”

“That’s right.” I prepare myself for admonishment.

Instead, Ben laughs out loud. “Holy shit.” He shakes his head. “Wish I could’ve seen the look on his face.”

“I told the sellers that they were getting ripped off.” I can’t help but share a little of Ben’s mischievous glee. “I screamed it.”

Ben lights up his cigarette and shakes his head again.

“What do we do now?”

He shrugs. “I’m not sure. Can you stop him from buying up the rest of the parcels?”

“Doubt it. It’s probably over by now.”

“What’s he going to do? Fire you?”

“I’m not sure he wants my help anymore. He might try to use the contract against me somehow.”

“Right.” Ben takes a deep inhale and lets the smoke out slowly. “Listen. Don’t sweat it. Getting back here is easy. He can hitchhike or wait for a bus. I’ll have a talk with him, play the good cop.”

I sit down beside Ben in the hammock, take the cigarette out of his hands, and help myself to a long drag. “What about all those people losing their homes?”

Ben puts a hand on my knee. “You told them the truth; you walked away once it got uncomfortable. If everyone in the world did that all the time, it’d be a better place.”

I nod, hand back his smoke.

Ben pushes off the wall so that we swing back and forth inside the hammock. “Should I grab a beer?” he asks.

“Why not wait a bit?” I put my hand on Ben’s thigh. “Maybe we could pick up where we left off this morning, before we were so rudely interrupted.”

Ben grins and steals a quick glance around the hotel. Still no Pelochucho. Kristy has disappeared inside the office. He climbs out of the hammock and offers me his hand. We enter our bedroom. I close the door behind me. Ben hits the switch and the fan starts up like an old airplane propeller. Already sweating in the hot room, I undo the buttons on my cutoffs and pull my shirt off over my head.

Ben rips open his Velcro fly, lets his board shorts fall to the ground, and then lies across the far side of the bed, naked and already hard. He pats a spot beside him on the mattress. We truly will pick up where we left off this morning—pretend that loud truck of building supplies never arrived. I wish we could do such a thing with even greater chunks of time—splice the present into the past and delete the bits in between.

I lie down on my side in front of Ben, in a near-fetal position. His hand runs up from the peak of my hip to the bottom of the valley formed at my waist. He cranes his neck around my shoulder and kisses my lips at a glancing angle. I turn my head to meet his. He moves his hand to just below my belly button. We stop kissing. I close my eyes as his forefinger inches farther downward.

Ben’s first two fingers hold fast against me as I shudder on the bed. I squeeze his hand between my upper thighs and inch closer. His other hand strokes the top of my head.

He lowers himself next to me. I reach between my own legs, find him there, and finally we make it further than we did this morning. Ben lets out a long breath.

He moves with a gentle and circular rhythm, one that somehow falls into step with the oscillations from our fan. He wraps one arm around my shoulder, grabs my hip with the other, and pulls me even closer to him. I brace my hand against the wall and push my whole body into his. With my other hand, I grip the underside of his thigh.

Normally, I find it stupid when people make comparisons between sex and surfing. As if all sources of pleasure should be converted to some kind of universal currency, then measured against one another. But today, I see the connection. Like the barrel I had so many months ago, this session with Ben is a beautiful set of blinders. For a few moments, there is no Pelochucho, no Alex, no earthquake even. My peripheral troubles melt away like fat rendered off a bone. With all our limbs wrapped up tight, it feels as though we are indivisible, that even the worst of our secrets and jealousies won’t be able to split us apart.

Once it’s over, we lie limp and silent. Our bodies spread across the bed. I settle my head into the crook of Ben’s armpit and run my fingers through the hair on his belly. As the minutes go by, Ben’s breath slows, his chest rises and lowers less often, until I’m certain he’s fallen asleep. I feel drowsy myself.

Lying beside Ben on the bed, I’m momentarily able to imagine our trip once again: waking beside each other, surfing, seeing the world. It had all been so very much within our grasp one week ago. What could I do to get back there now?

A few minutes later, Ben wakes and turns to me.

“Let’s go up to the roof,” he says.

“I’ll meet you there,” I say. “I want to shower.”

*   *   *

Inside my preferred shower stall, I turn the single knob and open the tap all the way. Though there’s no heater, the water is normally warm by this hour of the afternoon.

Once my hair is lathered up, a bang sounds from the sheet metal of the stall door.

“Yeah?” I ask.

“Hey. It’s me,” Ben shouts over the running water.

For a second, I wonder if he isn’t about to join me inside.

“Lock the door to the bedroom when you’re done, will you?”

“Okay.” I hate that Ben has to remind me about the ground rules of staying in this town. I rinse my hair and shut the water off. Back in our room, I dry off and get dressed.

*   *   *

The long day’s last light clings like rust to the edges of a worn-out sky. Smoke rises in columns off the burning sugarcane fields to the east. Mariachi bands start up in the restaurants by the point. On the roof, Ben sits in his usual plastic chair, staring out to sea, two canned beers at his feet.

“No waves?” I ask.

“No waves.” He passes me one of the beer cans he’s brought up, his stare still stuck to the ocean.

My thoughts pace a circle through my mind’s front yard, still contemplating Pelo’s contract, our trip, even the temporary visa option. My eyes cast out across the Pacific, and I wonder which way it is to Honolulu.

“By the way,” he says. “I spoke to Peseta again, while you were gone.”

“Oh yeah?” I say. “More funny stories of torturing kids?”

“I mean about your passport.”

“Right.” I feel instantly sorry for the remark. “What did he say?”

“He doesn’t think it’s any of the usual suspects. Nobody’s been flashing money or anything like that.”

“That’s weird,” I say. “Maybe they’re playing it safe.”

“I don’t know,” Ben says. “I think we might’ve jumped to conclusions.”

I take a big sip from my can. A kind of dreadful emptiness overwhelms my stomach, a feeling that can’t be erased, not with beer or anything else. No matter what, I have to get out from under Pelochucho’s thumb. That much is clear.

“Ben,” I say. The beer can grows woefully light inside my hand. “I have something to tell you.”

He seems to know that this means bad news and keeps his eyes on the ocean. “What’s that?”

“I didn’t stay at La Estancia the other night while you were in the hospital.” I look at the side of his face.

He brings the beer can up to his lips and then down again, the red fur on his cheeks rising and lowering in a tight swallow. “Is that right?”

“I was with Alex.” As I say it, I wonder if maybe I’ve overestimated how much of a surprise this will be for Ben.

“You fuck him?” he asks.

“Yeah.” I turn my eyes away from his. Tears dump down my cheeks in a quick, watery way, as if from spicy food or chemical drops.

“I see.” He takes the last sip from his beer can and then crushes it inside his fist. “You go visit him yesterday?”

“Yes,” I admit. “I had to say good-bye. The other morning was weird.”

“What about the embassy? Did you even go there?”

“What?” I’m taken aback. Perhaps I shouldn’t be. “Yes, of course.”

“So the lost passport, that’s true, right? That really happened? That’s not some other lie meant to get you out of this fucking surf trip”—he raises his voice, still staring out to sea—“which you wanted to come on in the first fucking place! And which you can bail on, at any time, just by saying so! It’s your fucking life!”

I’m suddenly a child, screamed at by a well-intentioned but exasperated parent.

“My passport got stolen,” I manage to say.

“Sorry to yell,” Ben says.

I wonder if he’s suspected such a thing all along, or if my one confession has led to a viral breeding of jealousy and paranoia that’s taken over his entire mind in the last minute or so. My eyes are on the concrete roof below our feet, but I can feel his gaze settle upon me.

“Does Pelo know about this?”

“Pelo? What?” It’s the last question I expect from him.

“That whole song and dance outside our room this morning. ‘Do you know somebody named Alex?’ Blah-blah-blah … Is this what that was about? Am I the last person in El Salvador not to know who my girlfriend is screwing?”

My head does a cross between a shake and a nod. “No. Well, yes. That’s nothing. He heard me talk to Alex on the phone.”

“You’ve been talking to Alex on the phone?”

“He called here; I blew him off.” This all seems so tangential to the real reasons Ben should be mad at me. “That part is no big deal, seriously. But I did sleep with him that night you were in the hospital. We were drunk. A lot of weird emotions were going around. I’m sorry.”

“Look at me, Malia.”

I wipe at the sides of my now-puffy eyes with a trembling finger and turn toward him.

“I forgive you.” He’s not yelling anymore. He is impossibly calm.

“What?” Somehow, this is not at all the response I anticipated.

Ben rolls his eyes. “That’s right. If you want to be with Alex, if you want to stay in this country, if you want to bail on our plan and on us, then you’ll have to decide it for yourself. You’re going to have to pick up your bag and walk out. I’m not going to push you away.” His chest rises in a hard breath. “Frankly, I think it’s pretty lame that you’d put me in that position.”

My chin goes rubbery. The crying jag gets a second wind. Is Ben right? Did I confess only to force one of my doors closed, be made to either stay or go? I can’t bring myself to tell him about Pelo’s blackmail. I don’t want him to think that’s the only reason I came clean.

“That isn’t what I want. I want to go to South America with you. I’m just scared that it won’t happen.”

“I need to be away from you for a little while,” Ben says. “Can you handle that?”

I nod, careful not to ask him for more understanding than I deserve.

Ben goes down the stairs. I let myself cry in a way I’d not wanted to in front of him—with deep, wheezing, self-pitying gasps. The bedroom door slams. A second later, a vehicle enters La Posada. I rise to have a look, and see a pickup full of shirtless young men. It’s the pool diggers. Pelochucho hops out of the truck. I step back from the edge of the roof so that he won’t see me.

I can’t quite make out their words over the sound of the truck pulling away, but Ben and Pelo greet each other, then walk out. The rough shuffle of their rubber soles sounds against the street outside.

I stay on the roof for a while and watch the rest of the sunset—a clear-skyed affair of purple and orange that seems to mock me with all its beauty. Once it’s over, I go downstairs and wipe my eyes and nose with a handkerchief. Thankfully, Ben left his tobacco and I can pass the time with smoking and hand-rolling.

Neither Ben nor Pelo returns to the hotel. Perhaps they’re drinking together and speaking ill of me, of all women. Perhaps they’ll visit the whorehouse. The very thought unnerves me.

A whistle sounds from the street. I see Peseta outside; he’s not allowed to enter the courtyard unless he has potential guests in tow. He makes a gesture for me to come over.

I walk toward him, not sure what he wants.

“Take this.” He looks from side to side on the street, then hands me a small prescription bottle. “Sorry it took so long. My friend was out of town.” I nearly forgot about the Valium.

“Thank you,” I say, feeling ashamed for my suspicions the night before.

“And this.” He holds a few coins on the flat of his palm.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“Your change.”

I pick a couple of the coins off his hand, then say, “You keep the rest.”

He nods and walks off.

I cross the courtyard, enter the bedroom, and swallow two of the pills. The drugs take effect in an instant. I try to confine my body to one side of the bed, hoping that Ben still wants to share it with me.