Part 2 - Andreas II

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Part 2 - Andreas II : The CDs | The Mangoes | The Piano | The Towel | The Wheels | “Somewhere Else” | The Kite | The Chilcanos | “Búscame”

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The CDs

Adriana came back from New York changed. Not in a bad way, no. More attuned. More present. For a few days before she reappeared, she went completely off the grid. No replies. No sign.

She left a gift on my desk: the CD 12 Memories, wrapped in recycled paper. There was a penciled note, folded three times with ritual precision. I knew the handwriting at once. It was our song. Track seven. I knew it already. She had told me. Not out loud, maybe. But she’d told me, sometime. Somewhere else.

“Did you know some people recognize each other before they ever meet?” she said once, flipping through her father’s records. She ran her fingers along the edge of a Domenico Modugno LP and then looked at me. Not straight at me, but inward. “Sometimes that happens with songs too.”

With her, music wasn’t just taste or pastime. It was code. Memory. Something like an altar. We fell in love that way, recommending songs, like sharing secret maps.

She had come from Puerto Rico a few years earlier with her Peruvian mother and Puerto Rican stepfather. Both doctors. They settled in Lima to work at a private clinic. For months, we were just two shadows crossing at recess, until one day, in religion class, she leaned toward me, eyebrow arched, pencil between her teeth.

“Sometimes I think Jesus didn’t even turn water into wine. They made it up to justify the hangover. And because, well, priests need reasons to toast, right?”

A laugh burst out before I could stop it. I clapped a hand over my mouth, but too late. “Out of the classroom!” the teacher yelled.

I was walking to the door when I heard Adriana raise her voice. Not angry. Not pleading.

“It was my fault, miss. I told him Jesus was a wine fan, and, well... he took it literally. Don’t throw him out. Throw me out.”

Laughter rippled through the room. The teacher clenched her jaw, then lowered her hand.

“Gael can come back. But I don’t want to hear either of you again.”

When I sat down, Adriana was looking at me. It wasn’t an apology. It was firmer than that. Like recognizing a song you’ve never heard before.

Back at my desk, I opened the case. I didn’t imagine that song would change meaning so soon. Twelve memories, sealed. I reread the penciled note and folded it three times. The seven marked an edge.

*

One August afternoon, sprawled on the rug, we were watching that movie where two people try to erase each other from memory. Without realizing it, I slipped my arm around her waist. My hand slid farther than it should have. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t move. She just pressed her fingers into the rug. Then she turned her head toward me, just a little. I did it again, slower this time, with intent. Her breathing hitched. I felt the warmth of her lips. The kiss was clumsy. Our teeth bumped, but she didn’t pull away. She let out a brief laugh, then rested her forehead on mine. We stayed like that for a moment, breathing the same air, hearing only the faint rustle of the rug.

We didn’t talk about it, but from then on we made room in each other’s lives. Months went by, and we got used to seeking each other out, to simply being. Today I was finally going to see her. Only a few weeks had passed, but I missed her. It felt like years. While I was changing, I wondered what to say, what to keep to myself. I adjusted my T-shirt in the mirror for the third time, not sure whether I wanted to look good or look the same as before.

The doorbell rang. I ran for the stairs. Adriana. It had to be Adriana. A familiar smell rose through the house. Damp earth. Mango. Then my mother’s voice cut through the air:

“Gael, come down, son! Andreas is here!”

*

Halfway down the stairs, I stopped.

I took another step. My chest tightened, but I kept going. It wasn’t a big deal, I told myself. No different from seeing him up north. It was just Andreas.

He was there. In the middle of the living room. The same gestures. The same body. I stood still a few seconds before moving closer. He didn’t wait. He hugged me hard. He smelled like wet earth, freshly cut fruit, that smell that stays on your hands after hauling mangoes at harvest. A smell that hurt.

I tried to smile. My lips moved. It came out tight.

“You let your hair grow,” he said, running a hand across his forehead. “It looks good.” The comment slipped out, and he didn’t take it back.

I adjusted my sleeve, though it didn’t need adjusting.

“Thanks,” I said, without looking at him.

“I came for some papers about your grandfather’s land, you know...” He paused. “I’ll stay a couple of weeks.”

“I didn’t know you were coming… I’m glad,” I said, clearing my throat. “How is everything up north?”

“Quiet. They sent you fruit, a few things. Camu and Francisco have been asking about you. And your grandfather... grouchier, but he sleeps better.”

“My uncles...” I murmured. I smiled without forcing it. “I’m glad he’s improving.”

Andreas touched his forehead again, the same way as before. This time he left his hand there a second. A slight hesitation went through his gaze.

“I missed you,” he said.

Barely above a whisper. Fragile. But enough. A vibration. A hum that wasn’t just physical. I’d felt it before. For a moment I saw something in his face. A slit. A cut, opening.

I was about to tell him I’d missed him too. He blinked instead. Rubbed the back of his neck, trying to erase something. He took half a step back, almost imperceptible. Then he fixed his eyes on the big color-block painting on the wall. I knew that gesture. With Andreas, talking had always been easy. Until it wasn’t.

One afternoon in the storehouse on Grandfather’s land, the heat was heavy. We were looking for a box. The air stopped. He turned. He touched my eyebrow with his thumb, absently, as if brushing off dust. For a second, brief and inevitable, I thought it would happen. It didn’t.

He stepped away. Not roughly—more like a clumsy kind of care, as if he had to protect us from something we didn’t want to face. Since then, something had cracked. Nothing dramatic. Just different. Fewer words. More pauses.

My mother came in from the kitchen at exactly the right moment.

“Andreas!” She lit up, warm. “You look so handsome! How you’ve grown!” She hugged him, then held his face in both hands, the way she had when he was a kid.

“I can’t believe it. Time has flown. How’s life up north?”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Andreas said, with his usual modesty. “All good there. I’m still helping your grandpa, you know... the usual.”

She nodded, pleased, and added, “I’m so happy to see you. You know this is your home.”

She turned to me. “Gael, your brother is still in Argentina with his friends, so Andreas can stay in his room, okay?”

I nodded. Suddenly the house felt warmer. More in order. My mother had that gift. Inside me, though, things were still a little out of place.

Andreas looked around the living room, taking in every corner. His eyes returned to the painting. He wet his lips.

“Do you have plans today?” he asked, careful with his tone. “We could go out, or stay in. It’s been a while since we talked.”

I hesitated.

“A friend from school is coming over,” I said. “She just got back from New York and wants to see me.”

He raised an eyebrow, a faint mocking smile.

“Your girlfriend?”

I let out a short, dry laugh.

“Just a friend.”

“Perfect,” he murmured, still smiling. But he was no longer looking at me.

*

Andreas went upstairs with his backpack and settled into my brother’s room. I stayed in mine, straightening things that didn’t need straightening, opening drawers and closing them. I changed twice before picking something that didn’t look chosen.

The doorbell rang again. This time I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed the T-shirt off the chair and went down. Adriana had arrived. Her perfume hit me before I saw her, sweet and fresh and clean—more polished. When I opened the door, she hugged me hard. Long. As if the two of us could erase the weeks apart just by holding on.

“We have to go to New York together. You’ll love it. I brought art and pencils from MoMA, you’re gonna love them,” she said, taking things out carefully, trying to stretch the moment.

“This is incredible,” I said. “But the best part is you being here.”

“Wait, there’s more.” She rummaged in her backpack and, with a little theater, pulled out two CDs: Give Up and Room on Fire.

“What? No way!” I couldn’t hide it. I picked one and hit play. I set the cases next to 12 Memories on the edge of the shelf. An unlikely trio, but the mess had its logic. Seeing them together made sense.

We looked at each other and started moving with the song, especially during the robotic part. Our exaggerated gestures turned into a kind of absurd, improvised choreography.

While the song kept going, Andreas came down the stairs. He stopped when he saw us. He was smiling, not sure whether to join or stay out. Adriana gave him a tiny hand signal, an unspoken invitation. In a blink, he was with us. “I hope this song will guide you home...”

His steps were clumsy, like ours. But there was a freedom in his laugh, that way he had of giving himself without fear, that made us laugh harder. When the chorus hit, we moved without talking. The music seemed to pull us closer on its own. “Come down now...”

When the song ended, the laughter didn’t fade. It hung in the air a moment longer, lost between our bodies. Something alive remained. Recognizable. A faint, old tuning born right there.

Andreas looked at the CDs. His fingers moved toward them, then stopped just before touching. At 12 Memories, something in his face, barely, gave way. A muscle remembered what the rest of his body seemed to want to forget.

The player made a hard click. But it didn’t sound like a click. It sounded like someone in another room closing a door.

“We will become silhouettes,” the three of us said at the same time.

The song repeated it. And for a second, I felt we were being watched.

---

The Mangoes

He came back with a plate piled with mangoes. Proud. Free of doubt. Arms raised. Ripe gold.

“From up north. They fell early. They’re good,” Andreas said.

I didn’t answer. I felt the mango burning in my hand, my cheeks hot. He read my silence and set a mango in Adriana’s hand before looking at me. She turned just as he stopped. The timing was perfect, precise, choreographed.

“Are they from your ranch?” she asked, turning it in her fingers like it had been hers since before. “Mangoes from the north.”

He leaned in and set the plate before the three of us, an offering.

“I’m Andreas,” he said, finally meeting her eyes. “They’re from the farm.”

“I knew this would happen,” she said, unhurried.

Juice ran down her wrist. She lifted her hand, but it was too late. The liquid slid to her elbow, slow, insistent. She wiped the excess with the back of her hand, leaving a golden line. Andreas watched her.

“I didn’t think it would be today,” he said with his half smile—very him.

“I’m Adriana,” she said, like it was only a detail.

“Adriana,” he repeated, quiet. “A pleasure.”

“Likewise,” she said, peeling the mango with her fingers. She rubbed her thumb and forefinger to loosen a fiber.

“Can I use a knife?” she asked, half amused, half resigned.

Before she bit, she moistened her lower lip, testing the sweetness. Andreas laughed.

“No. That’s not part of the ritual. Did you forget?”

“What part, getting sticky?”

“Exactly,” he said. “Otherwise it doesn’t count. No knife. You eat them with your hands.”

I swallowed.

We bit, the three of us, in the same rhythm. Instinctive. Synchronized.

“So what’s the ranch like?” Adriana asked, just enough voice to pull us back. A strand clung to her fingertip. “Gael says it’s like another world. Everything breathes more slowly there.”

Andreas nodded.

“Life there is simple. Sometimes hard. You work a lot. Some days the sky arranges your body and sets you somewhere else.”

He moistened his lower lip too, without noticing. He took another bite, unhurried now, as if tasting helped him think. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the same line, the same stroke as hers.

He paused.

“The good thing, really, is that if you get lost, no one notices.”

Adriana looked at him. It sounded like a thought she already knew.

“Sounds like magic. Here, with everything so connected and visible, I sometimes feel there’s nowhere to hide.”

“Out there, no one calls if you go missing,” he said, looking at me. “Sometimes it’s a relief. Sometimes it weighs.”

He rubbed his thumb against his forefinger and dropped a thread of pulp onto the napkin. She mirrored the gesture.

“Lately I wonder if I breathe easier there because I’m happy, or just because I don’t have time to think about it.”

He closed his eyes a fraction too long. Something slipped.

“Don’t be fooled. The city knows loneliness too,” she said.

She paused.

“Do people call you Andreas?” she asked. “Or something else?”

“It depends who’s asking. With Juano, I’m ‘Andrés.’ With the guys on the field, ‘Andy.’ With your grandfather, ‘el serrano.’ And when I hear that, I know it’s time to work.”

“I’ve had different names too. Puerto Rico, Lima, the new house. None of them fully sticks.”

“Sometimes you end up on the edge,” he said.

“In the city, I miss not being seen,” she said. “Being and not being.”

“On the farm, I miss thinking. There the body decides first,” Andreas said.

“Must be nice, living where not everyone is watching. Though I don’t know how I’d survive without a hair salon nearby,” Adriana said.

He laughed.

“Out there you forget that stuff. But I’m warning you, your hair has a life of its own.”

“My hair has heat trauma. Beyond messy.”

“Same as Gael with mangoes,” Andreas added, glancing at me.

“Sorry?” I said, mouth full.

“The way he devours them.” Adriana laughed. “If you don’t split it with your fingers and get yourself covered, it isn’t a mango, right?”

“Forgive me for having northern manners,” I said, lifting a finger. “You’re not ready for this conversation.”

We laughed. Sticky juice on our hands, golden pulp shining on our lips. It was like watching a Linklater film.

Everything was framed. Perfect light. Focus. I was the spectator.

They were the script. Close-up. I was the background. Still in frame.

---

The Piano

The music had stopped. Only the creak of wood. She held out her hand—open, offered. No resistance. Not submission. Something else. There were no corners left to hide the pain.

He raised the axe. No screams. No pleas. Only a thick waiting that stretched time. The cut was rough. The finger came away from the hand.

She stood still, watching the blood spill onto the floor. It hit her with a dry, precise jolt. Not just a finger. Something else she would never get back. They had taken her way of speaking without words.

Her tears would not stop. When she finally looked down, her black dress was already red. Blood had soaked the fabric before she noticed. She didn’t cry out. She did not cover herself. She breathed hard. Her whole body was fixed on that exact point, the one bleeding, the one gone.

I could not feel my finger, and yet it throbbed. Adriana gripped my hand hard. Andreas covered his mouth; with his other hand, he brushed his ring finger without noticing. No one spoke. Still, all three of us reacted, as if we were there, each in our place.

The film moved us. It made us remember. It spoke of silences. Of bodies grazing without touching. Of something contained that kept burning. My mother had bought it as a gift because she knew it was my favorite. She found it on sale at the supermarket. The Piano was the story we watched that day. Andreas and Adriana watched it with me. Not by coincidence. For something stranger, more inward.

Andreas sat in the armchair beside us. Adriana and I shared a blanket. He seemed calm, but his gaze kept flicking from the screen to us, again and again, looking for a place to land and not finding one.

Each time Adriana leaned toward me or touched my leg, I noticed a small change in Andreas’s movements. Nothing obvious. Only a compressed adjustment. He tossed off light comments about the film, lines that landed without weight. His voice tried to join in. His eyes, not so much.

He stood, unhurried. He said he was getting water. His steps were measured, almost solemn, as if leaving a scene he did not know how to continue. I followed him with my eyes. His silhouette stretched on the wall, thin, steadier than he was. A question grazed my tongue, but I didn’t let it out.

“What do you think of Andreas?” Adriana asked, snapping me out of it. Her tone was light, but her eyes searched for something else.

“He’s a good guy. He’s always been that way. We’ve known each other since we were kids,” I said, trying to sound neutral.

She nodded, though the gesture hung there.

“He’s handsome. Has that mysterious air, don’t you think?” she said, one eyebrow arched, half a smile.

I did not answer. I just looked at her. I tilted my head and held her.

---

The Towel

Our home in Lima was cozy, though small. My brother and I shared a bathroom connected by doors between our rooms. Now Andreas would be sleeping close to me. I tried not to think too much about what that meant.

Back in my room, I tried to get ready for bed. I kept thinking of Adriana—the look in her eyes, the ease with which she treated Andreas. I leaned toward the mirror. I didn’t recognize myself. There was something out of place, something I couldn’t explain. Not quite me. Not Adriana. Not Andreas. A foreign presence in the glass.

Half a breath. A blink. The image vanished. I was myself again. A faint creak at the bathroom door made me turn. It opened slowly. Andreas stepped in. I meant to look away, but my eyes stayed fixed on him.

He was getting ready to shower. He slipped his T-shirt off in one smooth, almost absentminded motion. It felt like he was following a private ritual, a habit. When his pants came down, the hum in the room rose. Not a sound. A pause opening up in the room.

I watched from across the room. I didn’t breathe. I didn’t move. I stayed still. My body knew I was standing in front of something I wasn’t supposed to touch. He kept undressing, unhurried, unashamed.

Lean but solid, his body carried the marks of ranch work. He had a naturalness that went straight through me. Unselfconscious. At ease in itself. When he took off his boxers, my traitorous gaze slid to his abdomen. It stopped for a beat on the dark hair running in a straight line.

Our eyes met suddenly. An impact. A blow inside, like being caught. Something clenched hard in me. It wasn’t fear, but it felt like it. Heat rose up my neck and filled my ears. Everything I kept trying to hide felt, inevitably, exposed. And he… smiled. As if it were nothing. As if he hadn’t just split me open.

“Can you hand me a towel?” he said, making no move to cover himself.

His voice pulled me out of it. Steady. Unbothered. I nodded quickly, trying to recover.

“Yeah… sure,” I said, trying to sound natural. I went to the closet, got a white towel, and handed it to him.

He took it, naked, not a trace of discomfort.

“Thanks, Gael,” he said with a slight smile, and closed the bathroom door.

I stayed there a moment. Still. Breathing.

When the shower ended, I went to get the towel. It was still warm. I stepped closer. I was about to breathe it in, then I stopped.

What an idiot, I thought. I dropped it in the laundry.

---

The Wheels

I was about to get in bed when the door opened. Andreas came in.

“Gae, will you come to the skatepark with me tomorrow? I haven’t practiced in a while.”

“I’ll go, but I don’t have wheels for my board,” I said.

“I’ve got a spare set.” He scratched the back of his neck. “Adriana... she’s beautiful. She’s good for you.”

I nodded. He touched my shoulder and left. The door stayed open.

I turned off the light. I replayed the mango scene in my head: juice on a wrist, a crumpled napkin, laughter still bright. My grandfather’s stone on the nightstand, cold. I wanted to stay there.

On my way out the next morning, I slipped the stone into my pocket.

The Miraflores skatepark thumped with hard hits on concrete. Andreas dropped into the bowl, board and body in one line. He gained height, switched his axis, came back clean. Tried again. I watched from the railing. The orange sky sank over the park. It was hard not to see it as the star.

“Relax,” he said, setting my feet on the skate. “Feel the board.”

I rolled off awkwardly, but I cleared the ramp.

“Not bad for your first time on a slope. Watch this.”

He picked up speed. Kickflip. Clean wheels. On the landing, the lip caught him. His forehead hit the edge. A red line opened over his eyebrow. Blood came fast and spattered the grip.

I ran. I dropped to my knees. I pinched the skin of his brow together with my thumb and pressed a folded napkin to it.

“Stay still.”

Heat rose from my pocket. The park’s hum fell into place. I touched a point beside the cut and pressed again. The bleeding eased, little by little.

“Thanks, Gae,” he said. “You’ve got your grandfather’s hand.”

*

We walked back from the skatepark with our boards under our arms. Andreas had the Band-Aid crooked on his forehead. It suited him.

“Does it hurt?”

“It stings a little. Nothing serious.” He smiled. “Nice patch job, Doc.”

“I’m not a doc.”

“You are. You just don’t know it yet.”

The avenue breathed salt air. An empty bus rolled past, leaving behind a dry, almost metallic taste that stayed on our tongues. We passed a bodega; the owner swept without hurry.

“I like Lima in moments,” he said.

“Sometimes Lima feels small to me,” I said. “I want more.”

“More what?”

“More map. More people. More languages. I don’t know.”

He adjusted his backpack and kicked a stone.

“I like it when the noise drops: the beach feels different, and even the smell changes. That, and emoliente stands on the corners, bodegas, someone saving you a yapa of juice after you run. That’s enough for me.”

“You’re the farm.” I nudged him with my elbow. “I want to lift off.”

“I’m the parcel. I like knowing where the sun hits at four, who lends the ladder, what time the neighbor’s rooster crows... family, they catch you so you don’t break.”

“And they push too.” I thought of my grandfather.

We walked a half block in silence. A car rolled through a puddle. A kid laughed from a balcony.

“Everything repeats,” he said suddenly.

“What does?”

“Life. Music. Fights. The names change. The rest comes back.”

“Examples?”

“Let’s see... Alejandra Guzmán is Pink on another frequency. Less circus, same punch. Then The Killers are New Order’s tidier sons.”

“So Gwen Stefani is Blondie with new sneakers?”

“Exactly.” He lifted his hand. “Things come back because someone remembers them. If you don’t name them, they cool down; if you name them, they move. We’re not here to fix the world in some grand way, you know? I think we’re here just to tune it a little. That’s why it repeats.”

A dog crossed the street. Andreas lowered his board and used it like a cane. A streetlight flickered twice.

“Would you leave tomorrow?” he asked.

“If I had somewhere to go, yes.”

“I can get you a room on the parcel,” he said, making a face. “There are chickens. Zero glamour.”

“I’ll pass. But I’ll go. I want to record my grandfather when he sings.”

“He says music opens air.”

“And that air brings back memories.”

We fell quiet again. The light changed, and no one crossed. You could hear the ocean even though it was far.

“My mom says family is for when the world gets ugly.”

“Your grandfather would say it’s also for when the world feels too small. Is it feeling small to you?”

“Today, yeah.”

He glanced at me. We turned down a street heavy with bougainvillea. A man watered the sidewalk; the air smelled like fresh earth.

“What do you want more than a map?”

“To play live. Travel with a backpack. Learn to record.”

“So you are leaving.”

“I go, and I come back.” I shrugged. “That’s the point.”

“To repeat,” he smiled. “But better.”

He adjusted the Band-Aid again. I dusted my hand; it still had grit from the park.

“What are you listening to today?” he asked.

“Travis. 12 Memories.”

“You almost cry with those.”

“No.” I lied without conviction.

“It’s okay to cry,” he said softly. “It comes back too.”

We reached the corner of the house. A radio was on in the window, only the hiss between stations.

“Tomorrow we skate again,” he said. “Then a movie.”

“And then the beach.”

“And then the parcel.”

“And then...” I laughed. “Okay, enough.”

He hoisted the board onto his shoulder. I pushed open the door. The metal was cold. Inside it smelled like lemon and freshly mopped floor.

“Do I take off the Band-Aid or leave it?”

“Leave it. Gives me character.”

“Gives you drama.”

“All the better.” He pushed his hair back. “See you upstairs.”

He took the stairs two at a time. I stayed in the entry. The streetlight flickered again. Twice.

The hum stuck to the wall. I took a long breath. It was already night.

---

“Somewhere Else”

The house was almost dark. Outside, the wind carried the smell of salt. Adriana sat on the floor with her back against the sofa, a glass of wine in her hand. The radio was on, but turned low.

“Come,” she said, patting the rug twice.

I sat beside her. Her knees folded toward me, the edge of her skirt brushing my leg. Book spines in the back. She opened the Room on Fire case, set it aside, and picked up 12 Memories. She held it a moment.

“Track seven,” she said. “That one.”

The player gave a soft click. The guitar came in slow, a low strum. Not sadness, a contained ache.

“When I lived in Puerto Rico, I dreamed of escaping to New York. Not for the lights or the crowds. Just to be far from everyone who knew my name,” she said, eyes unfocused. “I like to think that if they hadn’t taken me, I would’ve gone on my own.”

“Did you do it?” I asked.

“Not quite.”

The corner of her mouth lifted, then fell.

“I think there are things you don’t escape. You just move them.”

“I’m going to study medicine,” she said after a while. “Not to be a hero. To learn how to close what bleeds. To heal when you can. To soothe when you can’t.”

She set the glass down between us on the floor.

“I need to heal too,” she added. “Lima loves me, but it’s too small. I want long shifts, hallways that don’t know who I am. I want to hear my name in another accent.”

“I’ll go with you,” I said. “We’ll go wherever it takes us. I’ll record. I’ll bring you bad coffee at four in the morning. And we’ll come back when it’s time.”

“Would you really go with me?”

“I would.”

“Then promise me something: If I get lost, you’ll remind me of the way back.”

“Done.”

The voice on the song looped; for a moment, I thought it was talking about us. About what we had been. About what we were not saying now. Adriana rested her head on my shoulder. The wine left a deep red on her lips. Her scent, sweeter than in the afternoon, mingled with salt and old wine.

“We both knew it from the moment we got here... but don’t say it. Not a word,” she whispered. “Gael, if one day I really leave, promise you won’t stop me.”

I wanted to tell her I wouldn’t stop her, but I would look for her. I would stay at the station until I saw her get off the train. I said nothing. Her hand moved toward mine and stopped halfway.

“Kiss me,” she said, without raising her voice.

The kiss was slow, contained, until it wasn’t. Wine, heat, tangled breath. Her fingers closing at the nape of my neck. The world reduced to that touch. Outside, the wind moved the curtain. I don’t remember when I stopped hearing the song.

“We could put on another,” I said.

“No,” she answered. “This time, let it finish.”

---

The Kite

As soon as we got to the beach, my parents took out the kites. It was a tradition: write a message before letting them go. It didn’t matter what we wrote. What mattered was letting it go.

Andreas, in small handwriting, wrote: Thank you to the family who found me, and to the life I never imagined I’d find.

Adriana smiled and wrote something for her grandfather: To my grandpa, whom I miss every day. May he send me his love, wherever he is. Her eyes gleamed as she read it, and the wind recognized it.

My parents chose simple notes. My dad wrote: Peace for everyone I love. My mom, with her delicate hand, wrote: Serenity for those who are here, and for those who are gone.

I didn’t know what to write. The marker felt heavy in my hand. In the end I wrote: May the wind carry me where I’m meant to be. It wasn’t a wish. It was a certainty.

We let the kites fly. Andreas ran alongside my mom. Adriana adjusted her line with my dad. I watched from the side, feeling that somehow all of them fit together perfectly, like a family.

A metallic taste touched my tongue. The string snapped. My kite dropped hard a few yards away.

I ran to it. When I picked it up, it was ruined.

“Maybe a pigeon hit it,” my dad said, waving it off.

But it had a red stain, odd, the same as the lamb’s.

---

The Chilcanos

Andreas came out of the room slowly. His coral T-shirt hung loosely on his body; a trace of sleep still on him. No shoes. No hurry. No nerves either. In the car, light poured through the open windows and settled on his shoulders; his skin gave it back.

From a distance, we saw Adriana, waiting with the wristbands tangled in her hand. Radiant. Sure of herself. Yellow dress with red flowers; her walk cleared a path. She took my arm right away, firm, and introduced me to her friends.

“My boyfriend,” she said, steady.

I squeezed her arm. My smile lit up. It was official. What I’d waited for had finally happened.

Andreas introduced himself too. A crooked smile, easygoing. He looked like he’d always been part of the group. Maybe better.

Everyone arrived at once, my friends and hers. Jorge and Claudia from school. With them came Debra, Claudia’s cousin, blonde, light on her feet, bright-eyed.

Adriana told New York stories with open hands. Andreas spoke softly about the parcel, like a place you protect. They moved easily among everyone without forcing a thing. It was easy to believe they’d always been part of my life.

At some point, Adriana raised her glass to Andreas. He flicked a lemon seed off the rim with his finger.

“Full ritual,” he said. “Now we’re good.”

She nodded without breaking eye contact.

“Cheers,” she answered.

They held each other’s gaze, briefly. She whispered something; he smiled. They were about to swap codes when Debra cut in with another round of chilcanos. As she handed one to Andreas, juice ran down his wrist; the lime left a cold thread to his elbow.

“Sorry,” Debra said.

Andreas shook his hand. Adriana was already there with a napkin, drying him from thumb to elbow, precise.

“I knew it would happen,” she said.

“I didn’t think it would be today,” he said.

Adriana turned to me.

“Stay on the edge tonight,” she said in my ear.

“With you,” I answered.

*

“Come on, Gael. I want to introduce you to a friend,” Adriana said, taking my hand and pulling me toward another group. She led me to a guy in a linen shirt with rolled-up sleeves.

“I’ve known him since I was little. He’s from the beach. His gaze is hard, but his gestures aren’t. He started a foundation for families hit hard by mining,” she whispered. “You’ll like him.”

“Mariano, this is Gael.”

He adjusted his watch before shaking my hand. Adriana held on to me until that second. Then she let go. Someone at the bar called her over for the wristbands.

“I’ll be right back,” she said. “Look after him.”

He took his time before speaking.

“Chilcano?” he offered, hesitating.

I took it. I looked for Andreas. He was talking to Debra.

“Hey,” he said. “Mariano.”

“Gael,” I said.

I glanced up. The sky was amber and heavy.

“Some view, right? Do you watch the light?”

“Yes.”

“Sometimes it stays where it has work to do.”

“Work?”

“To sort things out. To open them up. Depends on the day.”

He took a short sip.

“Adriana told me you’re from the north.”

“I’m not from the north,” I said. “My family is.”

“It shows,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he meant it as a good thing.

Adriana passed behind us carrying glasses; someone tugged her away again.

“Sorry, be right back,” she said, vanishing into laughter and wristbands.

“Don’t worry,” Mariano said. “She’ll be back.”

He kept his eyes on the counter’s edge and traced a line with his nail.

“Some days the edge works better than the center does. Don’t you think?”

Andreas was still with Debra. They fit. She didn’t let go of him with her eyes. Windswept, her hair the right kind of messy, her laugh quick, her hand on his arm.

Mariano tapped his glass twice with his index finger.

“I’m not following. The edge?”

“You see better. It gives you distance.”

He gestured at the party.

“We’re at the margin. From here you see who’s here and who isn’t. In the center, the noise hits you. You can’t see.”

Our eyes met. I took a long drink.

“How do you know about edges?”

“Adriana taught me. She has a good eye. That’s why she brought you.”

I looked up.

“I was diagnosed with terminal cancer at sixteen. I didn’t think I’d make it this far. When I accepted that I couldn’t control it, life or death, I started living.”

He let out a breath.

“Since then, I don’t waste time.”

“That’s brave,” I murmured.

“Not bravery. Perspective. Someone’s coming over for you. Do you know him?”

“Andreas,” I said. Mariano glanced at the sea, then retraced the line with his finger.

*

Andreas arrived with a quick step and tight eyes. He rested his arm on my shoulder.

“Come on, walk with me. Let’s find Debra.”

“See you at the edge,” I told Mariano by way of a goodbye. He lifted his hand halfway.

As we walked, Andreas leaned to my ear.

“I don’t want to find Debra,” he whispered. “You looked a little bored, so I thought I’d pull you out.”

I laughed and raised my glass toward him in a small toast.

“Heartbreaker, huh?”

“I’m charming. Northern blood.” He laughed. “Remember when I taught you the clock game with the cards?”

“I remember it perfectly. I think that’s how I learned to count.”

“Your grandfather taught me.”

“Really? He didn’t teach me like that. He threw books at me.”

“I think he thinks you’re smarter than you look.”

“Ha, what?”

“I mean… wait, the other way around. You’re even smarter than you seem. That’s why he gave you books, but I don’t think he knows you need a few steps first. He sees you as already grown because you’re from Lima. People here tend to assume that.”

Ice slid down my spine.

His smile shifted. His face thinned, fragile. He rubbed the back of his neck.

“Walk?” he asked, pointing toward the shoreline.

We went down the concrete steps to the sand.

“You have good friends, a good beach. It’s a good place to stay.”

I didn’t know what to say. The party pulsed far away now, like a borrowed echo. The sea rose in pitch. Waves broke hard, like a warning.

“Sometimes I wonder what goes through your head, Gae,” he said without turning.

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I know you, but sometimes I can’t read you or keep your pace. I try. The clock game is simple. You place the numbers in a circle, you order, you learn to count. The point isn’t to win. It’s to count. With you, it was different. The second you got it, you moved on to something else, fast. And I thought: One day you’ll do that with me. You’ll look at something else, something that feels better, sharper. It isn’t you. It’s me. It scares me, Gael. Sometimes you pull up a wall between us and it scares me.”

The sand slipped under my feet. I would have sworn he was the reserved one.

“It isn’t that, Andreas. It’s just that…” My voice gave out.

He took a step toward me. The party fell behind. The wind set us apart in the dark.

“I know you, Gael,” he said quietly. “I know you like Adriana. I also know there’s more between us.”

He gave a small nod. Slow. Certain. He touched his wrist. No watch.

“What are you talking about?”

A wave crashed hard, like thunder.

“I like you, Gael. I always have.”

---

“Búscame”

The confession hit me dead center. I shoved him. Hard.

“Shut up,” I said, almost spitting. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, Andreas.”

My voice sounded harsher than I recognized. He tried to speak. I saw his mouth open, the hesitation. I didn’t let him.

I turned and left. I don’t know if I ran or walked, only that I got away. I got home. I went straight to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Cold water ripped the heat from my skin. I scrubbed my arms, my chest, my face. I wanted to erase.

I came out and dropped onto the bed, still wet, cold.

I stared at the ceiling. The stone. I thought of Andreas. Of Adriana. Of my parents.

I closed my eyes, but my own breathing was louder than everything.

I didn’t sleep.

*

The day began too bright for everything we were carrying. Glare poured through the windows. The house smelled of salt, damp clothes, dawn.

My parents had gone out early to buy fish for ceviche. Music floated in the room, old, misplaced. One of those songs that seem to be always there, and you don’t remember when they began. “Donde haya un sol… donde se acabe el mar.”

Andreas appeared in the doorway. Hair rumpled. Eyes heavy with sleep. “Can I come in?” he asked, barely moving his lips.

I nodded.

He closed the door, sat beside me on the bed, and pulled off his T-shirt. The mattress dipped under his weight. Our arms brushed. Nothing else.

The clock read 7:07. The sunlight made us look more tired, exposed. He lay back, looking at the ceiling. I mirrored him. Heat from his body reached me in small waves. Fatigue. Sweat.

When he turned his face toward me, it wasn’t to speak. He looked into me. He drew a deep, quiet breath. I did too.

I noticed the mole beside his ear.

“Gae, I think we need to talk about last night,” he murmured.

“Yeah,” I managed.

“And now what?” he whispered, and touched my eyebrow with slow motion.

He came closer; his chest grazed mine. His head moved in. Our lips met. The kiss started soft, shaky, then grew. His hand held the back of my neck, like finding something lost. His mouth tasted familiar and new at the same time.

A tear slipped free. He held my face in both hands.

“It’s okay, Gae. What we’re doing is okay,” he said quietly.

He kissed me again, firmer this time, as if he wanted to erase any doubt left.

I looked at the clock.

“Wait—my parents. Hide in the bathroom.”

Still dazed, Andreas slipped into the bathroom.

“Gael, I forgot to buy limes,” my mom called, her voice ringing through the house.

She walked into the room while I struggled with my shirt.

“Son, what are you doing?” she asked, eyes fixed on me. “Why are your eyes red?”

The player gave a hard click.

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Part 1 - Andreas ← Previous | Index | Next → Part 3 - Alberto

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