PRISCILA IS FIFTEEN YEARS OLD (ALMOST SIXTEEN). ALEX: EIGHTEEN.
That was the second year in which their encounters weren’t always punctuated with kisses. The first was nine years ago—the year of Alex’s head wound. Otherwise, whether they actually spoke or just crossed paths somehow, their meetings would end in a kiss.
It may seem strange, since they were neighbors and schoolmates, but it was part of their relationship. They ignored each other most of the time, and that made the time they spent together unique, rare in its oddity.
Alex, already a natural-born chaser—in addition to his gorgeous looks, being an elite athlete also helped a lot—couldn’t help bringing himself near Priscila from time to time: at the beach, at a cafe, at the sports center... But he didn’t chase her too much, in case the girl thought he liked her. Because he did not. Well, maybe a little. But a very little.
That was the summer the fights began at the St. Claires’, and Alex needed something to distract him from that. He had told his parents he wasn’t going to college—at least, not yet. He wanted to swim—that demanded many hours, every day—so he’d save university for later. It wasn’t a “no” in perpetuity, but his father didn’t understand. He said over and over that Alex could do both, and maybe he was right, but it wasn’t what Alex wanted just then. He just wanted to swim. His mother understood, at least. But that wasn’t enough, and the arguments were endless. Fortunately, after his success at the Olympics, he moved to Madrid—to the High-Performance Sport Center there—so he didn’t see much of them. Those discussions were relegated to the weekends Alex came home.
One day in mid-June, when he was back in town to unwind from hard training before his World Cup event in Montreal, Alex spotted Priscila a few meters ahead of him. She was walking cheerfully, jumping on and off the stone benches she came across along the way. That made him smile. How old was she? Fifteen? And she was jumping the benches as if she were a child. Chance had it the girl was alone, an unusual occurrence since in general her brothers never left her side, in sunlight or shadow.
He picked up his pace to catch up with her at the next bench. She was wearing her school uniform—classes weren’t over yet—and her skirt was short. Pleasantly short—mid-thigh. He entertained himself looking at her legs for a few seconds before saying hello; he was, after all, a boy—just turned eighteen.
“Hi.”
Priscila wasn’t surprised by it; it was quite common, in her town, for people to greet her on the street. What did surprise her was the fact it was her neighbor. She stopped and stared at him for a few seconds, then carried on, but not without saying “Hi, and what?” first.
She jumped off the bench and up onto the next.
“Excuse me?” Alex said, confused. He was quite tall, but since the girl was standing on the bench, his head was level with her chest.
“Don’t you know my name?” she said without looking at him.
“Do you know mine?” the boy struck back.
“Fernando.” Priscila couldn’t hide her smile, although she tried.
“Alex.”
“Right. Alejandro.”
She jumped off the last bench and got on the bus that would take her home. Alex followed her right to the back, to her favorite seat by the window, and sat down next to her.
“It’s Alexander, actually. And you’re the Queen of the Desert,” he said.
“Priscila.”
“Right.”
They could hear the minibus radio playing music in the background—it was the summer of “Torture” by Shakira; Pereza’s “Princesas”; “Caminando por la vida,” by Melendi and Green Day’s “Wake Me Up When September Ends,” among others. Among many others. As far as music was concerned, that was a great summer. And it was also great in Alex and Priscila’s story.
When they reached their neighborhood, Priscila got off the bus with an enigmatic smile and a sweep of her eyelashes. She didn’t say goodbye.
Alex became more fascinated with every passing minute. He loved that she’d just left him there, ignoring him. It was a rush. He didn’t understand how he’d managed to live without girls for so much of his teens. Girls were the best things ever. And, although he liked girls in general, right then he wanted his neighbor in particular. He remembered her kisses as something momentous and every day she grew more and more beautiful.
Fate—or the fact they lived across from one another so Alex saw her arrive at the swimming pool—wanted them to meet again that afternoon. Priscila was taking a sunbath in one of the hammocks, listening to music. She had a blue bikini on with white ruffles, and it suited her so perfectly Alex thought if he didn’t kiss her again, he would die.
The boy looked around, making sure no one could see them. He didn’t know where the girl’s brothers were. He didn’t care. He scooped her up and tossed her in the pool without ceremony. Priscila didn’t make a sound; she didn’t have enough time.
Alexander St. Claire had power over one thing in his life: water. So he grabbed Priscila by the waist and kissed her. If anyone could do it, it was him; the water was his habitat. His home.
He waited a few seconds, in case his neighbor rejected him, in case he had to step back and give up on this plan, but he soon discovered she wanted him too. She held his head to bring him closer, and that was all he needed to sink into the kiss.
And it was epic. As if the two things he loved the most—Priscila’s kisses, and water—had come together and formed a mind-blowing whole. He could have stayed there, lived there, forever. He felt like, down there, he could tell Priscila everything and anything, that he could tell her he wasn’t what he pretended to be, that this was just a shell, a wall to protect himself, that all he wanted was to be loved, but he had learned—wrongly—from the world around him: that was for pussies. He was ashamed to want to hug his parents, or kiss them; he was ashamed to reveal his inner yearnings, his fears—his fear of the dark, how much he wished he could climb into his mum and dad’s bed. He could tell her that he talked to the water too, that the water talked to him, that it whispered in his ear. He’d been swimming since he was three years old and the water was his escape. His whole being, his truth. Everything he thought, everything he yearned for, all his wishes, he shared them with the sea or with the swimming pool, his sole confidants. Only them. Always.
He decided not to tell her. Not for the moment.
At the girl’s stunned gaze when they broke the surface, Alex flicked his eyelashes and left the pool with his most enigmatic smile. What goes around comes around.