Amanda's Guide to Love (20 page)

I’m
looking at your selfie and touching myself.

Close
your eyes and imagine it’s me touching you.

What
do you think I’m imagining, silly?

You’re
driving me mad.

Good.
She grinned as she typed.

Are
you caressing yourself, too?

No.
YOU are caressing me.

How?

With
your mouth.

Am
I good? Are you enjoying it, Gypsy boy?

More
than words can say. I hope you’ll do it again tomorrow. IN REAL LIFE.

She put the phone on
the bed next to her and applied more pressure, feeling her climax nearing. As
she peaked, a new text lit up her screen.

I
can’t believe I just jerked off with my grandma and aunt practically in the
same room.

You
think they suspect something?

They
never stopped talking, so I hope not. Did you come?

She snapped a picture
of her flushed face and sent it to him by way of a reply.

* * *

The dancing began in the church.

As soon as the priest congratulated
young Lysandro, who was dressed like an oriental prince, on joining the
Christian community, someone in the back started to play the guitar. Four or
five women jumped up and launched into an energetic flamenco-like routine.

They wore garish clothes in
clashing colors and patterns. The total number of fashion faux pas was so high
inside the church that Amanda’s eyes began to hurt.

The priest, remarkably unfazed by
the commotion, resumed the service. He read several gospel passages, talked
with the parents and godparents, and then invited the congregation to pray
together. Everyone did, loudly and devoutly, including the dancing women.

From the corner of her eye, Amanda
watched Kes join in. After everyone said amen and opened their eyes, his
remained closed. His lips continued to move as though he was saying another
prayer. It was short and muted, but she was sure she heard him whisper thanks
to someone called Sarah.

Was Sarah a Catholic saint? Why was
he thanking her? Was Kes a religious person?

In the many conversations she’d had
with him over the last few weeks, they’d avoided discussing each other’s faith,
politics, and families. Those things had seemed too personal to share with a
pastime companion.

Well, they were a little more to
each other now.

Amanda turned away and smoothed her
hair, trying to shake her sudden melancholy. There were crucial things she
didn’t know about Kes—things she would’ve liked to know. But considering how
soon they’d part ways and how impossible it was for them to have a shared
future, there was no point in asking, really.

An hour later, the clan carried
Lysandro out of the church on a canopied litter and drove back to Fourchon,
where the fiesta began in earnest. Kes introduced Amanda to his parents, his
brother Juan, and his sister Rosanna, both at least ten years his senior.
Amanda also met his frail but vivacious grandmother and a dozen other people
identified as aunts, uncles, cousins, and family friends.

She smiled politely and tried not
to let the fact that the Morenos and other Gitans eyed her with a mix of
curiosity and suspicion put her on edge. Who knew? Maybe in their place, she
would’ve been just as suspicious of their son’s newly acquired “friend” who
seemed important enough to bring to a family reunion.

“Where do you want Amanda and me to
sit?” Kes asked his mom.

Madame Moreno pointed to the far
end of one of the tables. “First and second chairs from the left.”

“Wow,” Amanda whispered to Kes as
they sat down. “I didn’t expect this level of formality at a Gitan party. Makes
me feel like I’m at one of my mother’s dinners. She writes everyone’s name on a
cute little card and puts it next to their plates.”

Kes smirked. “How considerate of
her.”

“It’s not. It’s just one of those
things she does to convey my family is upper-middle class.”

“Well, mine is certainly not.” Kes
pointed at his and Amanda’s paper plates. “This is the reason we’re seated so
precisely. Disposable utensils.”

“I don’t understand.”

He told her about the clean
Gypsies, soiled gadje, and his own ambiguous status.

“How fascinating,” Amanda said.

“So, who are you, Amanda?” Django
Moreno asked from his place of honor at the head of the table.

She went for the safest reply. “I’m
a waitress.”

He frowned. “I’d never allow a
daughter of mine to wait tables. It isn’t a suitable job for a woman.”

“Why not?” Amanda asked.

“Late hours, strange men looking at
her and talking to her freely . . .” Monsieur Moreno shook his
head. “Even if she remained proper and chaste, everyone in the community would
believe her ruined.”

Amanda stared down at her plate,
unsure how to react. She had a ready answer, all right. In fact, she had at
least a dozen sarcastic retorts dancing on the tip of her tongue. But every
single one of them would lead to a nasty argument that would end in her
stomping away from the table . . . into the wasteland.

Keep your mouth shut, Amanda.

Kes touched her hand and smiled.
“Not all Gitans are as conservative as my father.”

“No, unfortunately, they are not,”
Monsieur Moreno said. “They forget it’s our traditions that keep our people
from disappearing. It breaks my heart to watch young Gitan couples move into
stationary houses, get gadje jobs, and abandon the Traveler way of life.”

“Next, their children marry a gadje,”
Levna Moreno chimed in, “and lose what remains of their Gypsy heritage.”

“And our solution to that bane,”
Rosanna said, smirking, “is to make sure our kids don’t get too much education,
and our girls are married off at seventeen.” She placed a huge dish of stew on
the table.

“Wife.” Monsieur Moreno turned to
his spouse. “Tell me how we ended up with two of our three children being
apostates?”

“Tata, it’s not fair.” Rosanna
tilted her head to the side. “I married young and stayed with the community.”

“And are you so unhappy with your
lot, my girl?” her father asked.

“I’m happy because I love my
family, and I love the nomadic life. But I can see how some of our youth could
do so much better if given the chance.”

“I don’t know what you mean by
‘better,’ ” he said.

“You know very well, Tata.” Rosanna
gave him a stop-playing-dumb look. “Cousin Joachim is in jail. Cousin Diego is
at the hospital with a knife wound. My best friend Blouma’s niece ran away and
has been missing since March because she couldn’t stand the boy her father had
ordered her to marry. She’s sixteen.”

“So, tell me, Amanda,” Madame
Moreno asked, visibly uncomfortable with where the conversation was going. “How
did you meet my son?”

Kes opened his mouth to reply, but
Amanda cut in, “We met in the library.”

His eyebrows rose.

Truth was she had no idea why she’d
lied. Maybe to avoid potential follow-up questions about why she’d been
gambling.

Rosanna smiled. “That’s my little
brother. When he’s not in a casino playing blackjack, he’s in a library
reading. What kinds of novels do you like, Amanda?”

“I read only nonfiction. Cultural
anthropology mostly.”

“Anthropology.” Monsieur Moreno
sneered. “Kes, why is your friend speaking Latin to us?”

Kes’s lips twitched. “It’s Greek,
actually. ‘
Anthropo’
means ‘human’ in ancient Greek.”

“Anthropology is the study of
savage tribes, Uncle,” Marco said.

“Is that so?” Django Moreno arched
an eyebrow at Amanda. “So, what’s your verdict? Are we savage enough for you?”

Amanda squared her shoulders.
“Marco’s definition is obsolete. Today’s anthropology can look at any group and
any social behavior. If you study lunchtime habits of members of the Senate,
you’re doing cultural anthropology.”

“I see.” Monsieur Moreno’s face
relaxed a little, and he turned away to chat with someone.

The rest of the party was less
stressful and more fun. Amanda ate and drank as much as she could manage
without throwing up. She also danced in the big circle and adapted her salsa moves
to the Gypsy rhythms. Kes always hovered nearby, dancing or talking with her.
Even when he was several meters away, chatting with other young men, she could
feel his gaze on her. It was openly appreciative. And protective. He had
singled her out among all other women and was bathing her in the warm, golden
light of his desire.

Amanda couldn’t get enough of it.

At three in the morning, the party
slowed down, and the guests began to return to their caravans. Kes asked Marco
if he could borrow his car to drive Amanda back to Arles. His grandma kissed
his forehead and made him promise he’d be back for an early breakfast with her
before returning to Paris. His parents and other relations bid her farewell.

In the car she rubbed her eyes and
yawned, as she watched Kes slowly drive them toward the town.

Very slowly.

“I’ve had some wine,” he explained,
noticing her amused look. “I’m sure I’ll pass the alcohol test if the police
stop us, but I’d rather not take the risk.”

“If you say so.” She arched an
eyebrow. “You’re the gambler.”

“Technically, I’m a card counter.”

“Are card counters some sort of
elite corps among gamblers?”

“You could say that, yes.”

They drove in silence for a little
while before she spoke again. “When you said some Gypsies didn’t share your father’s
old-school thinking, were you referring to yourself?”

He nodded.

“So you haven’t excluded the idea
of settling down one day and staying put like the gadje do?”

Amanda hoped the question had
sounded casual enough to rule out any misinterpretation. She was only being
inquisitive, like someone interested in anthropology would be. She wasn’t at
all holding her breath or itching to bite her fingernails while he mulled over
her question.

Why would she?

After a long moment, he shook his
head. “If I take root somewhere, it would limit my freedom. I guess I’m a true
Gypsy that way. I need to be on the move to feel free. And I need to feel free
because . . . I need to.”

“I enjoy traveling, too,” Amanda
said. “Lots of people do. Travel isn’t a Gypsy invention, nor is it a Gypsy
prerogative.”

“I never said it was.” He smiled.
“But it’s our way of life. Whereas for the gadje, traveling is just a way of
getting from point A to point B.”

“I know gadje people who live to
travel,” Amanda said.

“OK. Let me explain this
differently. When a sedentary person travels, they pack, leave home, go to a
place—or many places—and then return home.”

“So?”

“For Gypsies, travel isn’t like
that. When we stop somewhere, it isn’t to make a home. It’s just to make some
money, before we’re on the move again.”

“Hmm.”

“We leave nothing behind—nothing we
would long to go back to. Our home is our family, and the family travels
together.”

“Then why do
you
, Kes the Gitan,
live in hotels and not in your parents’ caravan?” Amanda gave him a triumphant
look.

“I’m the family’s black sheep,
remember? The renegade. Neither a gadje, nor a proper Gypsy anymore . . .”
He sighed. “I don’t know who I am, Amanda, and to be honest, I don’t know where
I’m going.”

She turned away from him and stared
at her hands. This confession was the biggest, deepest glimpse into Kes’s soul
he had granted her since they met. She saw the lost boy behind his usual mask
of irreverent nonchalance, and the sight humbled her. His trust flattered her
more than she cared to admit. But there was something else, something she felt
a lot more ambivalent about . . . if she could only put her
finger on it—

Amanda’s breath hitched as it
dawned on her. The intimacy. The scorching, uncanny intimacy of his words.

Kes was the first lover to share
his doubts and his fears with her as if it had been the most natural thing to
do. He was the first friend to let her this close, to entrust her with the full
measure of his weakness. Come to think of it, he was the first person in her
life to do that. It unsettled her.

Forget unsettling—it
freaked her out.

* * *

Friends with
Benefits

~ ~ ~

A Woman’s Guide to Perfection

Guideline # 10

The Perfect Woman never tells her
current lover about
all
the previous ones.