Page 26 of Capicú Summer

“This is big, so we need to think bigger. Think vendors, flyers, live music.” The excitement has the words rolling without a chance of stopping. “I could sing. Turn it into a festival, something that reminds people why Altura matters. Support the local artists. We can do so much.”

He studies me for a long moment, then smiles. “You always were the brain.”

“And you,” I tease, “the pinky.”

Yael chuckles at that, the dimple on his cheeks deepening. “Yeah, the pinky.”

The humor in his gaze fades, replaced by that quiet look he gets when he’s thinking too hard. He glances towards the domino table near the window, still scattered from the morning’s meeting.

“Play with me,” he says.

I arch a brow. “It’s too early for you to want to lose?”

He smirks. “Maybe I just let you win all that time,” he teases me with a tone that has warmth pouring over me, making me too aware of him. I wrap my arms around myself, and paint on a smile, one that doesn't reach my eyes.

“Sure thing,” I add. “You were always delusional.”

We head to the table, sitting across from each other, my eyes fixed on his large and veiny hands—calloused from all the hard labor. And yet, he shuffles the fichas with ease, making delicate circles. The sound of clicking feels like a heartbeat between us.

Once he deals, the game begins.

The air around us grows hotter, the soft wind dances around us like a warm breath of life. We think quietly, casting small stolen glances through our lashes, pretending like neither of us notices. He plays first, cautious but confident when opening the game with his favorite number—a two.

Double at that.

“Rule number one,” I murmur, almost to myself. “Always open strong.” Our voices merge into one answer. The words slamming me backwards—into a memory—of the first time he won. The memory comes in strong, blurring with the present.

His hands brush against mine, as he learns the rhythm.

“If I win, I want a kiss,” he states, before dropping his gaze to his hand. I look down at mine, feeling my heart beat wildly against my ribs. My hand is a disaster, all mismatched numbers, no doubles… I’m gonna lose.

Yael’s laughter fills the space between us, and I blink, trying to shake off the memory, but it clings. It all floods through my mind, making me giddy as I remember the way he leaned in, the way his voice dropped as he recited the rules back to me. Match the ends, keep your doubles, and block your opponent before they block you.

I blink, and I’m in the present.

Following the same rhythm, he plays fast and confident, reading the board as easily as he could read me. I try to focus, but it’s impossible with this heat, this tension so thick that I can taste it. My fingers move in a pattern, selecting and placing.

Plucking and slamming.

“If I win,” he says, in a low tone. “I want your help.”

A quick glance at the board shows me that I’m not winning this block, he’s about to block it given the single ficha between his fingers.

“That’s not fair,” I chide, lifting my chin to meet his heated gaze. “You’re about to win.”

“I am, but I haven’t made my move.” With a shrug, he adds, “So I still have grounds for a bet.”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “No, that's cheating.”

“It’s for a good cause, c’mon, Ciela. Help me.”

The nickname hits me like cold water stealing my breath. I clear my throat, unable to find words, and nod instead. A silent agreement that feels heavier than it should. He smiles, then drops his tile.

“Capicú.”

* Así no - Not like that

* Yo quiero vender, mijo. - I want to sell, son.