Page 76 of The Deepest Lake
She was trying to put her foot down. She was ready to decide her own future.
Jules may have been anxious, but she wasn’t apathetic. Rose knew Jules. She knows her, still.
The view in front of Rose gets glassy. Never mind her daughter’s Instagram. Rose has her own family photos, and the smiles in them are genuine. She brings her phone closer, flicking in search of a favorite image from their last family holiday, when a hand drops onto her shoulder.
She spins around, startled. It’s the young man—Eva’s son—from the orphanage talk.
He grabs her by the arms, his thumbs firm against Rose’s biceps.
“It’s you.”
His voice is strange. He’s standing too close.
Rose’s heart bangs hard in her chest. She twists out of his grip.
He lets go of her arms and takes both her wrists, clasping hard enough to make her wince.
“I thought . . . thought . . .” he stammers.
His eyes seem to be fixating on something: maybe the silver bangle she’s wearing.
He whispers, “Don’t be afraid,” but it comes out as a guttural sob, like he’s overcome by emotion.
She follows his gaze to the spot above her left wrist-bone, where she has a tattoo no bigger than a dime half-hidden by the bangle: R and J in cursive, intertwined, with a rose next to it. Her daughter had the same one on her ankle. It was Jules’s idea to get matching tattoos for her twenty-first birthday.
At that moment, Astrid comes walking toward them from the house.
He releases Rose’s hands, their faces still close, switching to Spanish: “I have to talk to you. Do you understand me?”
She nods, her biceps and wrists still registering the pressure of his fingers.
Astrid smiles at them, sauntering past, “Hey guys. Workshop almost done?”
“Yes,” Rose barely manages to say.
“You and Mauricio doing a little garden tour?”
Mauricio reaches down and snaps a blossom off a flowering bush at the base of the stairs.
“Pretend we’re not talking about anything serious,” he continues in Spanish, holding the pink blossom close to her face. “Smile. Am I talking too fast?”
If Astrid spends a lot of time in Guatemala, she must understand some Spanish, Rose thinks. But maybe not. Eva doesn’t.
“You do a great job with the plants,” Rose says in English, feeling torn between wanting to hear what he has to tell her and needing to put some distance between them. She can’t quell the alarms in her body. He grabbed her so roughly. She stammers, “What’s this flower called?”
Astrid stops ten feet away from them. “Mauricio, is Eva still in the classroom?” She shades her eyes with a hand. “Never mind. They must be wrapping up. I see her coming.”
“It’s not what you think. Don’t let anyone know we’ve talked. It’s important, you understand?”
Mauricio pushes the flower closer to Rose’s face, his hand crushing the petals as his eyes continue past her, tracking the progress of not only Eva but all the women pouring out of the classroom.
“We have to go somewhere private, so I can explain.”
“So pretty.” Rose nods. “And who are you, exactly?”
“Mauricio.”
“That’s not what I meant.”