He didn’t speak, but she could see the whites of his eyes.
“I know, right? My dad started researching colleges with the best archaeology programs that afternoon.”
“Your father, he is a good man?” Miguel asked.
“The best,” Evan beamed. “The divorce was hard on him, and we had a very unconventional life, but he's a great dad.”
“What do you mean unconventional?”
“Um, well, I’ve never had turkey for one thing. I mean, I’ve had turkey sandwiches and stuff but never…” She backed up a bit to clarify. “In the U.S., at Thanksgiving and Christmas, people have roast turkey. When I think of those holidays, I picture a table filled with people and a big meal taking up every inch of space.”
“Yes,” he confirmed. “I have relatives in Florida. I know of the holiday.”
“It's such a small thing, a big family meal. I guess we always want what we can’t have.”
Cam was bursting. She was describing his family's holiday celebrations.
She continued her musings. “I think of a big touch football game in the yard and sneaking into the kitchen late at night for an extra slice of pie.”
Cam bit his cheek. He wanted to tell her about the Thanksgiving where his oldest nephew rode his tricycle through the house and hit the leg of the supplemental card table holding all the pies. He wanted to explain the crazy rules of the annual family soccer game—real fútbol, his grandfather would say—and the battle for the coveted trophy, the “Canto Cup.” He wanted to bring her into his mother's kitchen and show her how he would lift the lids of each pot and pan to smell the magic simmering beneath, how his abuela would smack his hand as he snatched a treat.
But Miguel Ramirez didn’t celebrate Thanksgiving, didn’t have a family, didn’t care. So he listened without comment.
“My dad and I had our own tradition. Thanksgiving tacos and a double feature from the AFI top one hundred films list.” She scratched her cheek with her shoulder. “I love our tradition, but a part of me wonders, you know? I’ve always been a bit of a loner. Never lonely, but alone.” He heard more than saw her pick up a pebble and toss it into a puddle with a plunk. “Do you know the actual definition of an introvert?” She didn’t wait for his response. “It's from the Latin, vertere, to turn and intro, inward. It's a person who derives their energy from being alone, contemplating rather than expressing their thoughts. For good or bad, that's me.”
Cam didn’t speak for fear of what might spill out. The truth was he might have loved her in that moment. It took everything in him to bridle his desire to share. Every comment she made brought a recollection to his lips. God, when she talked about being alone. He only then realized that was a big part—maybe the most significant part—of the agony of living as Miguel Ramirez. He was never alone. Even when he was by himself, there was always a camera or a recording device to fear, always someone listening. What had she said? Never lonely, but alone? Miguel Ramirez was never alone but always lonely.
He wanted to cup Evan's soft cheeks in his hands and confess his truth. Tell her that he understood her words to a depth he had never explored. But he couldn’t. He could only connect with her the way Miguel Ramirez would connect with a woman. On some level, Cam wanted that physical connection too. Cam wanted to touch her. This time he didn’t stop to analyze the implications of the desire he shared with his alter ego; he reached out in the darkness and ran a hand down her thigh.
“Wha, what are you doing?” she asked.
He searched out her cinnamon gaze as his hand repeated the movement. “Passing the time.”
His night vision was exceptional, and he could just make out the two faint lines that formed between her eyebrows as she spoke. “That… that feels nice.”
He paused for a moment at the wonder in her voice. “You sound surprised.” Cam's hand traveled up her thigh, and he squeezed her hip.
“I… I don’t like to be touched,” she spoke on a breath.
“You sure about that, little mouse?”
His large hand spanned her ribcage, and she murmured into the pitch, “I’ve never had consensual sex.”
The declaration had him pulling his hand back. The implication had him fighting fury.
“Explain, please,” he demanded.
“It means I’ve never—”
“I know what the word means. Tell me what you mean.” Cam clenched his jaw.
Evan sighed, the sound echoing off the walls of their ersatz confessional.
“Don’t stop. Please,” she begged.
Cam returned his hand to her body, placing it gently on her calf as she prepared to share her pain.
“It's a long story,” she continued.