Twenty-One

WHEN DANTE AND I LEFT THE BOWLING ALLEY, I DROVE the truck toward the desert.

“Where are we going? ”

“My favorite hangout.”

Dante was quiet. “It’s late.”

“You tired? ’

“Sort of.”

“It’s just ten o’clock. Get up early, do you? ”

“Wiseass.”

“Unless you want to just go home.”

“No.”

“Okay.”

Dante didn’t put in any music. He thumbed through my box full of cassette tapes, but couldn’t settle on anything. I didn’t mind the quiet.

We just drove into the desert. Me and Dante. Not saying anything.

I parked in my usual spot.

“I love it here, ” I said. I could hear the beating of my own heart.

Dante didn’t say anything.

I touched the tennis shoes he’d sent me that were hanging from my rearview mirror. “I love these things, ” I said.

“You love a lot of things, don’t you? ’

“You sound mad. I thought you weren’t mad anymore.”

“I think I am mad.”

“I’m sorry. I said I was sorry.”

“I can’t do this, Ari, ” he said.

“Can’t do what? ”

“This whole friend thing. I can’t do it.”

“Why not? ”

“I have to explain it to you? ”

I didn’t say anything.

He got out of the truck and slammed the door. I followed after him. “Hey, ” I said. I touched his shoulder.

He pushed me away. “I don’t like it when you touch me.”

We stood there for long time. Neither one of us said anything. I felt small and insignificant and inadequate. I hated feeling that way. I was going to stop feeling that way. I was going to stop. “Dante? ”

“What? ” I could hear the anger in his voice.

“Don’t be mad.”

“I don’t know what to do, Ari.”

“Remember that time you kissed me? ”

“Yeah.”

“Remember I said it didn’t work for me? ”

“Why are you bringing this up? I remember. I remember. Dammit to hell, Ari, did you think I’d forgotten? ”

“I’ve never seen you this mad.”

“I don’t want to talk about that, Ari. It just makes me feel bad.”

“What did I say when you kissed me? ”

“You said it didn’t work for you.”

“I lied.”

He looked at me.

“Don’t play with me, Ari.”

“I’m not.”

I took him by the shoulders. I looked at him. And he looked at me. “You said I wasn’t scared of anything. That’s not true. You. That’s what I’m afraid of. I’m afraid of you, Dante.” I took a deep breath. “Try it again, ” I said. “Kiss me.”

“No, ” he said.

“Kiss me.”

“No.” And then he smiled. “You kiss me.”

I placed my hand on the back of his neck. I pulled him toward me. And kissed him. I kissed him. And I kissed him. And I kissed him. And I kissed him. And he kept kissing me back.

We laughed and we talked and looked up at the stars.

“I wished it was raining, ” he said.

“I don’t need the rain, ” I said. “I need you.”

He traced his name on my back. I traced my name on his.

All this time.

This was what was wrong with me. All this time I had been trying to figure out the secrets of the universe, the secrets of my own body, of my own heart. All of the answers had always been so close and yet I had always fought them without even knowing it. From the minute I’d met Dante, I had fallen in love with him. I just didn’t let myself know it, think it, feel it. My father was right. And it was true what my mother said. We all fight our own private wars.

As Dante and I lay on our backs in the bed of my pickup and gazed out at the summer stars, I was free. Imagine that. Aristotle Mendoza, a free man. I wasn’t afraid anymore. I thought of that look on my mother’s face when I’d told her I was ashamed. I thought of that look of love and compassion that she wore as she looked at me. “Ashamed? Of loving Dante? ”

I took Dante’s hand and held it.

How could I have ever been ashamed of loving Dante Quintana?