Only she didn’t see. Or understand any of what he was saying. But she knew instinctively that it was what he wasn’t saying that was really important.
‘If what?’
He ran his hand tiredly over his face. ‘It doesn’t matter—’
Reaching out, she grabbed his arm. ‘It does to me.’
Looking into her eyes, Luis felt his breathing trip in his throat. She was telling the truth. It did matter to her. But still he couldn’t speak.
As though sensing his silence was beyond his control, she said quietly, ‘If you’re not happy in California why do you stay there?’
He looked up at her slowly. ‘I never said I wasn’t happy there.’
‘But you did.’ Her fingers tightened on his arm. ‘You said you don’t sleep. That you have to run.’ She hesitated. ‘What is it, Luis? What are you running from?’
The directness of her question caught him off-guard. And, looking up into her eyes, he suddenly wanted to answer her—for he could see that she was worried.
About him.
And that she cared.
About him.
But… ‘I don’t know when to start,’ he said slowly.
Or maybe he meant how to start, for he’d spent so long trying not to think about that night that he didn’t seem to have the words to tell his story.
Thinking about her own pain, Cristina felt a knot in her stomach. ‘Usually it’s not when that matters—it’s who.’ She glanced around the kitchen. ‘And sometimes where. Let’s get some air.’
It wasn’t a question, but after a moment he nodded.
Away from the house Luis immediately felt calmer, and as they walked down to the beach it suddenly seemed the most natural thing in the world to start talking about his brother.
‘Bas and I went to this party up in the hills. I didn’t really want to go. I’d just finished my master’s, and all I wanted to do was sleep. But he wouldn’t hear of it and my mother thought I needed to relax.’
They had reached the beach, and as he stopped and stared at the sea Cristina felt a sudden panic that he’d changed his mind. That he was going to clam up, lock himself away.
Clearing her throat, she said quietly, ‘Did you have fun?’
He shrugged. ‘Not really. I liked my brother’s friends but I was four years younger than them. We didn’t really have a lot in common, and I felt a bit left out. I drank a bit too much—’ The corner of his mouth dipped. ‘And I was tired, a bit fed up, so I was just about to leave when…’ He paused, his jaw tightening. ‘When I saw her. She was already watching me.’
Glancing down, Luis pushed the toe of his shoe into the sand, wishing it was as easy to push away the past.
‘Afterwards I couldn’t believe how naive I’d been.’
Even now he could still remember the shock, the disbelief, and then the breathtaking shame of his vanity and stupidity.
Sick with misery, he turned, but Cristina stepped in front of him.
‘After what?’
The guilt and despair on his face almost split her in two.
‘After I found out she was paparazzi. Only by then it was too late. I’d already slept with her,’ he said woodenly. ‘And told her that my brother had hooked up with a Hollywood actress who was in town, making a film. She told her grubby little mates and that’s how he died—crashing his car, trying to escape a bunch of photographers.’
His face was stiff with misery and pain.
‘I was the last person to speak to him. He called and told me to have fun, and he said—’ he was suddenly struggling to speak ‘—and he said that he loved me.’