Текст книги "From What I Remember"
Автор книги: Valerie Thomas
Соавторы: Stacy Kramer
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Текущая страница: 9 (всего у книги 23 страниц)
’m sucking down the last of my margarita and laughing so hard at something Max said I almost pee in my pants. When I realize that I can’t even remember what it was he actually said, I laugh even harder. Max looks at me and then bursts out laughing.
“Settle down, Flores,” he says.
I kick Max in the leg to show him I’m feeling a little feisty. Ready to tussle. Max kicks me back, gently.
“Don’t make me get off this stool.”
“Ooooh, tough guy.”
I have to assume I’m flirting again. I may be new at it, but I know it when I see it. I’m also not stopping to consider why I’m doing it. Whatever. It’s fun, that’s why, nothing more. The truth is, I’m feeling pretty good. Great, even. Warm and relaxed. I totally get this drinking thing now, why everyone wants to spend all weekend doing it. I could hang here, at this dive bar, forever. It’s the most beautiful place I’ve ever been.
“Whatever. We’re in Mexico. Go crazy,” Max says, a grin slipping across his face. “So what do you think?”
“What do I think about what?” I bite my lip so that I won’t laugh. I’m finding everything funny.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“Not really. I couldn’t stop thinking about your addiction to blue Play-Doh in kindergarten and how your mother freaked out when she looked in the toilet.”
“Funny stuff. Hard to top that.”
“I don’t think I want to.”
“I asked if you’re going to miss Freiburg.”
“God no. I hate the place.”
Max looks surprised by my answer. “Really? That sucks.”
“It’s no biggie. I learned to deal.”
“But you’ll miss Will, right?”
“I’ll talk to Will all the time, so there’s nothing to miss.”
“Yeah, but it’s different after high school. You can’t hang with people like you used to. I mean, for the first time in fifteen years, Charlie and I will be in different schools. It’s weird. I’m gonna miss him. He’s, like, my better half.”
“Better half? I don’t think so.”
“Trust me, he’s a much nicer guy. What do you have against Charlie?”
“Nothing, really.”
“You think he’s a dumb rich jock, like me, right?”
I don’t reply. What can I say?
“That’s a cheap shot. You may be right about me, but there’s a lot more to Charlie than that. He’s always been there for me. And I’m not sure I can say the same thing.”
“For the record, I don’t think you’re a dumb jock. And I’m sure Charlie’s a great guy once you get to know him.” Ugh. Whatever. How did we get to the place where we’re talking about Charlie Peters? It was much more fun when we were discussing blue Play-Doh. “You know what? I think we need another margarita,” I say, pointing to our empty glasses. I want to get this party back on track. We seem to have veered off course.
“I thought you didn’t drink.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a bundle of contradictions.”
“You sure are.”
I’m not sure what he means. Is that a good thing?
“What do you say? Another margarita? Or should we try a shot? I’m buying,” I say. I’m out of my comfort zone and drop-kicking the rulebook.
“You don’t want to pound tequila first time out of the box. I’ve been there. It’s not pretty.”
“I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.”
I’m liking the buzz and I want it to keep on keeping on. The circuit of worries looping through my brain has stopped for the moment. I’m not thinking about Jake or Mom or Dad or school or…anything, really. I’m just hanging, without a care. Is this what everyone else feels like all the time?
“We should pace ourselves. Tequila can give you a crazy headache.”
Max puts his hand on my arm as if that will slow me down. It doesn’t. Instead it speeds everything up. My whole body is spinning from his touch. I don’t want him to ever move his hand.
“I’d like one more, please,” I say to Manuel, ignoring Max.
Max interrupts. “Could we get some water first? And maybe some chips?”
“Water and chips coming right up,” Manuel promises.
“And then another margarita,” I remind Manuel.
Manuel looks at me askance. “Only got two hands, darling. All in good time.”
Manuel’s been watching us, since there’s no one else here. He’s probably nervous I’m going to puke all over his bar.
He sets two glasses of water in front of us and then pulls out an iPod and puts on some music. He’s obviously delaying the margarita. Whatever. I can wait. I’m having the second margarita, and possibly a third, if Will doesn’t get here and spoil the fun.
Hard-core Mexican rap blasts from the speakers. It’s kind of brain numbing, or maybe that’s the alcohol.
“What do you guys think of this?” Manuel says. “It’s my nephew’s band. I told him I’d play it. But I think it’s going to drive customers away.”
“I like it,” Max says.
“I don’t,” I say. “Can you put on something else?”
“Don’t hold back, tell him what you really think, Kylie,” Max says.
Manuel laughs. “It’s fine by me. I’d rather hear the truth than some bull.”
“Sorry,” I say.
“Even without alcohol, she can be kinda harsh,” Max tells Manuel.
Max squeezes my shoulder playfully. I guess he’s kidding. I can’t help but notice it’s the second time he’s touched me in the past five minutes. But who’s counting?
Manuel fiddles with the iPod, and soon we’re listening to this incredible guitar music, sort of classical meets gypsy meets Jimi Hendrix. I like it. It’s a lot better than the nephew’s band.
“This is Rodrigo y Gabriela, right?” Max says. “I love them.”
“They’re fantastic, no?” Manuel asks Max.
“Totally. My brother used to play them all the time. He took me to see them in San Diego. They killed it,” Max says.
“They used to be in a Mexican thrash band, like heavy metal. But now they’re totally acoustic.”
“They live in Ireland, right?”
“Yep. Dublin. They’re huge over there.”
“My brother says they’re about to blow up in the States.”
“I knew them when they were nobody. They played right here in the bar a bunch of times.”
“No way,” Max says, impressed.
They are still nobody to me, but their music is freaking awesome. It’s sexy, fast, and rhythmic. It’s a good soundtrack for hanging out in a bar in Ensenada with a boy I barely know. It’s the kind of music, in a movie, that underscores scenes where people go off the rails and do the unexpected, like sky-dive, bungee jump, or fall in love. The kind of movie I’d love to watch. The kind of life I don’t lead.
And yet, here I am. In the bar. With the boy. Listening to the music. What exactly it means, I have no idea.
’m not sure what to make of Kylie. She’s not at all what I thought she’d be like. She’s not at all what she was like an hour ago. She’s not at all like anyone I know. She’s totally unexpected, wicked smart, funny, off-the-wall, way more fun than she is in school. Different, in a good way. And kinda awesome.
“Where you guys from?” Manuel asks us.
“La Jolla,” I say.
“Actually, I’m from San Diego,” Kylie corrects me.
“What about you?” Max asks Manuel. “Born and raised in Ensenada. I moved to New York for a year, but I hated it. Missed Mexico too much. Came right back to Ensenada and opened this bar. Been here ever since.”
Manuel still hasn’t served us the second margarita. He’s waiting for the water to soak up Kylie’s first. She was laughing her ass off, but she seems mellower now.
“First time in Ensenada?” Manuel asks us.
“First for me. But Kylie’s grandmother used to live here. And her dad grew up here. You’ve been here before, right?” I say, turning to Kylie.
“Uh, no. I haven’t.” Kylie looks like she doesn’t want to talk about it.
“What’s your dad’s name?” Manuel asks Kylie.
“Javier. Javier Flores,” Kylie says, softly.
Manuel’s face lights up like a Christmas tree. “Il Maestro?”
Kylie stares at him blankly. “Il Maestro? I don’t know what you mean. I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”
“Is your grandmother Lola?” Manuel asks.
“Yes,” Kylie says.
“Then it’s the same Javier Flores. Your father is Il Maestro. I knew him really well. He was one of my best friends. You must be Kylie.”
Manuel rushes around the bar and pulls Kylie into a hug. Kylie lets herself be hugged, but she looks completely weirded out. I’m kind of stunned too—Kylie’s dad and Manuel know each other? I mean, what are the chances?
“Your father and I grew up together. You’re like family. I can’t believe I’ve never met you!”
“Yeah, my dad doesn’t talk about Ensenada much,” Kylie says.
I have a feeling this is a loaded subject. Kylie’s body language has changed. She’s stiff, awkward, much more like the Kylie from school.
“That’s too bad,” Manuel says.
“Yeah, well, that’s my dad.”
“Your dad is a complicated man.”
Like father, like daughter, I’m thinking. Damn, I never should have said anything. I was just trying to be friendly. Now I’ve messed with the vibe. Wish we could roll back fifteen minutes, before I brought up Kylie’s dad.
“I haven’t seen your father in years. He’s only been back a few times since he moved to the States. How is he?”
“Um, he’s good, I guess. Why did you call him Il Maestro?”
“That was his soccer nickname.”
“Soccer?”
“You know, because he was such a virtuoso,” Manuel tells Kylie, as if this will suddenly jolt her memory.
“My dad doesn’t play soccer.”
“Are you messing with me? Your dad was one of the greatest soccer players to ever come out of Ensenada.” Manuel doesn’t seem to believe Kylie. He thinks she’s bullshitting him. I’m pretty sure she’s not. “You really don’t know about your dad?” Manuel asks, the disbelief hanging awkwardly in the air.
“No. He’s never said anything, nor has my mother.” Kylie looks kind of stricken.
“Wow. Okay.…” Manuel looks thrown. I am too. “When he was younger, he was a soccer hero. He played in the World Cup in 1982. Kicked a few winning goals. Mexico didn’t win, but he came out of it an MVP.”
The World Cup? An MVP? That’s some big stuff to keep hidden. We did not need another curveball. This day seems to have a mind of its own.
“Maybe we could get those chips?” I say to Manuel.
“Sure thing.”
As Manuel grabs some chips, none of us say anything for a minute or two. Manuel watches Kylie out of the corner of his eye. I’m keeping an eye on her as well. I can’t figure out what she’s thinking. I want to find a way in, but I’m not sure how. It feels like she’s shutting down.
Manuel places the chips and salsa in front of us.
“I’m sorry if I’ve said too much. I was so excited to meet Javier’s daughter, and I figured you would have known about his past. I’m surprised your dad never talks about soccer.”
“My dad doesn’t talk about much. Period.”
Manuel looks like he’s about to say something else, when his cell rings. He picks it up and goes in the back to talk.
I turn to Kylie. “You okay?”
“I can’t believe I didn’t know any of this.”
“It blows.”
I instantly regret my clumsy reply. I want to say more to make her feel better. But this isn’t really my thing, propping people up. That’s Charlie’s job. It’s why I like him by my side. I could use him here right about now.
Kylie looks like she’s about to cry. She deserves better than me, sitting silently next to her, racking my brain for some words of comfort.
“It’s embarrassing,” Kylie says.
“I’m sure some stranger in a bar could tell me a lot of crap about my dad that would surprise the hell out of me.”
Kylie smiles, which makes me feel a little less lame.
“Before he got sick,” I say, “he was never really around, and I was so caught up in my own stupid stuff, I never asked him questions about himself.”
Kylie’s listening, taking it in. Maybe I can help in my own feeble way.
“This is kind of huge,” she says. “It’s freaky. I mean, a soccer hero? I’ve never even seen him hold a ball. What else isn’t he telling me?”
“I’m sure he’s got his reasons. You can ask him about it when you get back.”
“He probably won’t answer. He’s like that.”
Manuel is back. “Look, I’m sorry if I upset you. I just assumed you knew all of this.”
“Yeah, that would make sense. That I would know that about my dad.”
“Tell you what: why don’t you guys come to my house. We’re having a late afternoon barbecue, in celebration of St. John the Baptist. It’s probably getting started about now. I’ll take you over there and we’ll show you how we party, Ensenada style. Maybe I can dig up some old pictures from your father’s glory days.”
“We’re getting a ride back to the States in a little while. So we’ll be gone by dinner,” I say, jumping in to save Kylie. I’m thinking there’s no way she wants to go.
And then Kylie looks at Manuel and says, “Thanks. We’d love to come.”
She turns to me. “We can go for a little bit, right? Will won’t be here for at least two or three hours.”
“Yeah, sure.”
This girl is a total mystery.
ad is staring at me as he drinks his second beer. He’s not saying anything and neither am I. I don’t know what to say. I’m not happy. I wish I were. I like being happy. People can get frustrated with me. I don’t do what they expect, and that can make people like Dad mad. I’m not trying to be difficult, it’s just that everything’s wrong and that makes it impossible for me to eat my dinner. “Hey, Jake, eat up, it’s your favorite,” Dad says, pointing to my bowl. “I can’t. It’s not right.”
I haven’t touched the pasta. Dad put my glass of milk on the left side of the place mat, not the right side, where it belongs. He put my fork in the bowl, not next to it, which is where it goes. And he gave me an apple. I don’t eat apples. They aren’t on the list.
“I did everything your mother told me.”
Dad is using that voice, the one he uses before he gets angry and leaves the room. I wonder if he’s going to leave the table and go to the garage, like he usually does.
“I’m trying here, Jake. Are you listening to me?”
Of course I’m listening to him. No one else is talking.
I wish Kylie were here. She would have done it right. She knows what I like. She doesn’t get mad at me.
Kylie hasn’t come home yet. She’s late. Really late. That makes it even harder to be happy. I like seeing Kylie and talking to her about my day. We learned about the Trojan horse in school today. I wanted to tell Kylie about it. It was a big wooden horse that the Greeks built. They hid inside it and entered the city of Troy and won the war. I don’t think Dad would be interested, so I’m not going to say anything to him. I’ll just wait to tell Kylie later. I hope she comes home soon.
When Kylie didn’t come home after school, I told Mom to go to work and leave me alone until Dad got here. It was only ten minutes. At first she didn’t want to do it. She never leaves me alone. I knew I would be okay all by myself for ten minutes. And I was. I took off all my clothes and ran around the house. I went from room to room. It was so quiet, like being underwater. I like the feel of the smooth carpet under my feet and the cool air on my body. It was the first time I’ve ever been alone in the house. It wasn’t scary, it was fun. I think Mom is afraid I’ll do something stupid. I’m not stupid. Kylie knows that.
Mom told me Kylie was still at school. She had to stay late for something. It’s Thursday. She’s usually done with Advanced Chemistry by two forty and then home by four. When Dad came home he didn’t seem very happy to see me. He was angry that I was naked and he made me put my clothes on. I think I make Dad feel sad.
“Why don’t you eat the apple, buddy?” Dad says.
“No, thank you,” I say, remembering how they told me to try to be more polite in school.
I won’t eat the apple. Fear of fruit is called carpophobia. I don’t have that. They don’t scare me, I just don’t eat apples. I don’t like their shape. I will eat watermelon, though, and cherries. Fear of vegetables is lachanophobia. I don’t have that either. Fear of the number 666 is hexakosioihexekontahexaphobia, and I definitely don’t have that. I think I have neophobia, the fear of anything new.
“Okay, so what are we going to do about dinner?” Dad asks.
“I’m not hungry. Can I just watch Star Wars?”
“You always watch that. Why don’t you do something else tonight?”
“I don’t want to do anything else.”
I’m starting to get mad. I wish Kylie were here.
Dad finishes off the rest of his beer, gets up, tosses the can in the garbage, and grabs another one. He takes a long swallow and looks at me for exactly eleven seconds. Dad doesn’t understand that I watch Star Wars at least eight times a week, sometimes twice in a row. He doesn’t understand that I don’t want the apple, and that I want my milk on the other side of the place mat. He doesn’t understand anything. I don’t want to look at Dad anymore. I just want to watch Star Wars and wait for Kylie to come home.
“You know what? Watch Star Wars. Don’t eat your dinner. I don’t care. I’m going out to the garage.” Dad walks out the back door and he’s gone.
Fine.
our dad and I had some crazy times when we were your age. They called us Los Buscarruidos.” “Troublemakers?” I ask. “Yeah, basically.” Manuel laughs. We’re walking away from the harbor and the main part of town. The crowds are thinning, the streets are narrower, quieter. The air feels lighter, fresher. Somehow, it all seems more authentically Mexican. No more tacky souvenir shops, no more bars. Kids are playing soccer in the street, people sit outside on lawn chairs, talking to their neighbors. The houses are pressed close together, with only a sliver of grass between them. They look like little Lego homes that Jake would build, with their bright colors and blocky construction.
“We used to climb out of our windows at night and go to clubs in Tijuana, stay up all night, and sneak back in before our parents got up. We surfed The Killers during a hurricane. We even jumped out of a plane on our last night of high school. Crazy times. We were bad. Don’t try that at home, kids. I probably shouldn’t even be telling you all this. But it’s so long ago, I figure you’ll get a kick out of it.”
I’m getting a lot more than a kick out of it. More like a sucker punch. I’m listening to Manuel and wondering who this guy is that he’s talking about, because it doesn’t sound like my dad. At all.
“We know about getting into trouble on the last day of high school, right, Kylie?” Max asks me, pointedly.
“Yeah…”
I know Max wants me to acknowledge the rich irony here, but I’m too distracted by what Manuel is telling me. Was it Jake that drove Dad so far underground, his mother dying, or something else? I mean, my dad used to have fun, surf, and play professional soccer? It’s all pretty hard to get my mind around.
“I think the last time I saw him was ’97. Before that, I hadn’t seen him in ten years, since he left Ensenada. He came back right after your grandmother moved to the States, to clean out her house. We had a beer and talked about his new baby boy, San Diego, your mom. You were probably only four or five at the time.…”
Max and I follow Manuel up the steps of a bungalow painted a daffodil yellow. There’s music coming from an open window and the smells of something cooking. The house sits atop a gently sloping hill, with views of the bay. Before we enter, Manuel stops and points to the rough blue waters in the distance.
“That’s Estero Beach over there. Your father and I spent most of our youth on that beach. Swimming, fishing, surfing. It’s one of the nicest beaches in Mexico. We call it La Bella Cenicienta del Pacifico.”
“Cinderella of the Pacific? That’s a weird name for a beach,” I say.
“It’s often overlooked for the fancier, newer beaches in Cancún or Puerto Vallarta,” Manuel adds. “But its charms will suck you in. No matter where I go, I always want to come back to Estero.”
I stare out at the jagged blue waves. They do look inviting.
“Ready to go in?” Manuel asks.
“Yep,” I say. Ready or not, here I go.
Manuel opens the door and goes inside.
I start to follow after Manuel, but Max pulls me back. “You good?”
“Yeah, I think so. I’m just sorry you got dragged into this whole thing. Yet another crazy situation I’ve managed to find for us.”
“You’ve got a gift, Flores.”
“I’m really, really sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m digging this.”
“Okay. Thanks. It’s just…weird that you’re here with me.”
“I know. But I’m glad I am. Manuel is awesome. And I’m psyched to hang here for a while. I just…want to make sure you’re okay. It’s a lot.” Max puts his hand on my shoulder. “If you want to leave, just say the word, okay?”
“Yeah and…thanks again, Max.” How weird to be thanking Max Langston twice in the span of thirty seconds.
We step inside, and immediately we are swarmed by people. Young, old, there’s even a guy in a wheelchair and a tiny baby in a bassinet. It seems like the whole town is here, cradle to grave.
“Kylie Flores. Javier’s daughter. Dios mío, you are gorgeous! Like a movie star!” says a tall, slender woman.
I blush sixteen shades of red. Max’s eyes must be rolling so far back he can see out the other side of his head. A movie star? She’s the one who looks like a movie star, with her thick mane of jet-black superstraight hair that frames her perfectly well-defined features. I would give a kidney for hair like that. Manuel’s arm rests protectively around her waist.
“This is Carmela, my wife. She knew Javier as well. We all went to school together,” Manuel tells me.
“We miss your dad so much. You must tell him to come visit,” Carmela says.
Carmela pulls me into a tight hug. I’m having a little trouble adjusting to all this affection and attention. It’s not normally where I reside.
“Il Maestro’s daughter. It is an honor,” says a man in a blue suit.
“You have your father’s eyes,” says an older woman with skin like bark. “Let’s hope you didn’t inherit his mischief-making.”
“No worries there. Kylie’s a good girl,” Max offers.
Because I’m the most neurotic person in the world, I will worry about the veiled significance of Max’s comments for days to come. Does he mean that in a bad way? A good way?
“And what is your boyfriend’s name?” Carmela asks me.
“Oh, no. He’s not—”
“I’m Max.” Max shakes Carmela’s hand. “Thanks for having us over.”
I’m glad someone is equipped to deal in this hall of mirrors, because I’m having trouble putting together nouns and verbs. Three adorable children appear at my side, two little boys and a girl. They tug on my sleeve.
“Do you want to play ball?” asks a small boy who looks like a mini Manuel.
“No. She’s going to play dolls with me,” declares the prepubescent girl.
“You are a serious celebrity,” Max whispers. His lips graze my ear ever so gently, sending a shiver down my spine. I start to giggle, partly out of nerves, partly out of a sense of the absurd. I’ve just dragged the hottest boy in school to a BBQ in Ensenada to meet my father’s old friends. On the last night of school. It’s so not what Max had in mind for tonight.
“What’s so funny?” asks the little boy.
“Nothing, I’m just…really happy to be here. And a little nervous,” I say. “It’s nice to meet you all,” I announce, because everyone is staring at me, waiting for some kind of response. That’s all I’ve got. This is not my forte, being brilliant on the spur of the moment.
“It’s cool. This is going to be fun,” Max whispers. “More interesting than a high school house party. C’mon, where would you rather be?”
He’s right. This is bound to be interesting. Max manages to put me at ease the way so few people can. It’s bizarre. My nerves settle. I smile at everyone.
“We’re honored to have you and Max join us today,” Carmela says. “Move away, everyone. Give them a little room to breathe. Ay yi yi.”
Carmela leads us through the house, which is decorated with wicker furniture and plastered with family photos, and into the backyard. It’s lush with flowers, potted plants, and bougainvillea. There’s a clear view of the water. Several picnic tables with colorful tablecloths are piled high with plates of food. Paper lanterns are strung from the trees. It’s lovely out here. I wouldn’t mind settling in for a nice long holiday.
From the table, Manuel grabs a pitcher full of a deep red juice. He fills a number of goblets, and he and Carmela hand them out to everyone. Now that I’m getting a good look at the crowd, I realize it’s not quite as overwhelming as I thought. Maybe only about thirty people or so.
“This is wild, huh?” Max asks me. “These people are so psyched to see you. Your dad must have been way cool, back in the day.”
“Yeah, maybe back in the day.”
We all take glasses and follow Manuel’s lead, holding them up in toast.
“To Kylie and Max’s visit,” Manuel says.
Everyone drinks. I take a huge gulp and my eyes water a bit. The stuff is strong. It warms my throat as it goes down. It’s certainly not juice, whatever it is.
“Carmela makes the best sangria in Baja. But it packs a punch,” Manuel says.
I’ll say. There must be a bottle of tequila in every glass. My buzz from the bar is almost completely gone. I wouldn’t mind getting it back on.
“Yo, slow down, girl. We need to pace ourselves. This could be a long night,” Max says. “Speaking of which, we should call Will, let him know where we are.”
I borrow Manuel’s phone and excuse myself. It would be a nice reality check to talk to him, explain my current surreal state. I give him a call. But, alas, Will’s not answering his phone. Maybe he’s in a dead zone on the 405. I text him our new details and hurry back outside, worrying that I’ve left Max to fend for himself. But there’s clearly no reason to worry. Max has made himself right at home. He’s got a huge wonking plate of fish tacos, and he’s listening intently to a story the old man in the wheelchair is telling him. He’s also managing to toss a baseball to a little boy, in between bites.
“Hey, Kylie, come here.” Max motions me over. “You have to help translate. I think he’s saying that he used to be a bullfighter, for real.”
He slaps the old man on the back as if they’ve known each other forever. Is all of Max’s life this effortless? Can he just slip seamlessly into any new situation? This is what it means to be popular. Max has a certain comfort level with himself, with new people, that is deeply ingrained in his DNA, unlike me. He is relaxed, happy, enjoying himself, while I am uncomfortable, awkward, questioning my every move. I’m starting to see the pattern here—Max crumbles in the face of a real threat, but put him in a room full of strangers and he shines. I’m just the opposite, but I’m going to try to be different tonight, because it makes a lot more sense to be like Max. I mean, I spend a lot more time in fairly harmless rooms with strangers than I do in serious peril. My skill set is not so handy in real life. Only in the movies.
I turn to the man and ask him, in Spanish, if it’s true, was he a bullfighter?
“Sí, sí,” he says. And then he lifts his shirt up and reveals a six-inch scar under his rib cage. Whoa! Serious. Max and I gape at it.
“Holy shit,” Max says. “My man, I have never seen anything like that.” He whips out his iPhone and snaps a picture of the scar, up close. He shows the photo to the man, who smiles at the image. I didn’t know they had bullfighting in Mexico. It turns out there’s a lot I don’t know.
“This is fantastic, Kylie. I totally dig it here,” Max says.
Max refills both our glasses. We toast and knock back the sangria. Max’s body is pressed close to mine as we take a seat on the wooden bench. A gentle heat starts in my stomach and slowly spreads out to my extremities, some of it alcohol related, some of it Max related. All of it good.
