Existence Read Free

didn’t realize you had a headache.”
    â€œI don’t, I just . . .”
    â€œIs it a law, in England, not to finish your sentences?” he snaps—then instantly regrets the flare of temper. He’s simply not used to this kind of frustration.
    She grins. “Aha! There you are.”
    â€œWhat? Of course here I am.”
    â€œNo, I mean, you . Like, the real you, not this cheesy romance bullshit. The you from last night.”
    â€œExcuse me, cheesy romance bullshit?”
    â€œFlowers, candlelight, champagne, violin music? A necklace, for a girl you’ve just met? I don’t know what kind of girls you usually date, but . . .”
    He dates girls who like “cheesy romance bullshit” and the rewards that come with it. These are the kinds of girls who want to date a Tlaloc—at least a Tlaloc who looks like him. These are the girls who won’t ask hard questions or make demands he prefers not to fulfill.
    â€œAnd what kind of girl are you , Alicia? What would you prefer to do?”
    â€œHow about talk ?” she says. “You could tell me about yourself.”
    He shrugs. “There’s nothing to tell.”
    â€œYou go to school?”
    â€œSure,” he lies. “Who doesn’t? Junior year’s a bitch.”
    â€œSATs, picking colleges, all that, right?” she says.
    He nods like he knows what she’s talking about. Jago’s life doesn’tresemble that of the teenagers he sees on TV. He’s been homeschooled for his entire life, taught by tutors and physical trainers behind the walls of his family’s gated estate, trained not for a life of college and banal employment but for duty, sacrifice, courage, and, eventually, rule.
    â€œI’m thinking about, uh, law school,” he says, wondering if that will impress her.
    â€œBullshit.”
    â€œExcuse me?”
    She stands up. “Do you think I haven’t figured out who you are, Feo ? You must think I’m pretty stupid. And I don’t date people who think I’m stupid.”
    â€œWait! Please!”
    Jago stops. Composes himself. All over the restaurant, heads are turning. He can’t afford to be seen like this, begging. Tlalocs do not beg. When he speaks again, it’s with imperious scorn. “What is it you think you know about me?”
    â€œI know you’re Jago Tlaloc, that you’re part of some kind of mob family, and you’re the heir to it all. I know this whole city’s scared of you.” Her voice softens, almost imperceptibly. “And I know you’re a terrible dancer.” She shrugs. “That’s about it. I came here tonight because I wanted to know more—not because I want expensive champagne and jewelry. You can’t buy me, Jago. Not with a fancy dinner, and definitely not with a bunch of crap lies about your life. That’s not who I am. I didn’t think that was who you were.”
    â€œIt’s not,” he protests.
    â€œThen prove it,” she says. “Show me who Jago Tlaloc is. The real one. The one I fell for the first time I saw him.”
    â€œYou . . . you did?” He doesn’t understand. No one could fall for him, just from looking at him. His face is not designed to melt hearts; it’s designed to freeze them.
    â€œOf course I did,” she says. “I told you: I’m not stupid.”
    They ditch the restaurant. Jago takes Alicia to his favorite street vendor, an old man who grills up anticuchos and picarones just north of the city center. She tries a bite of everything, and the way her eyes light up at her first taste of choclo con queso makes the whole night worthwhile. They sit on the edge of a crumbling brick wall overlooking a vacant lot and stuff themselves, licking the grease off their fingers and kissing it off each other’s lips, passing back and forth a frothing bottle of Pilsen Callao, and all the while, they talk.
    Jago tells Alicia