Keep your double entendre to yourself, Candy.
He turned. His lips were inches away from mine. “And my insurance isn’t great.”
“I’m fine,” I said, tightening my face, attempting to fold my mouth in on itself. Truthfully, his mentioning his “not great” insurance made me remember that I had none. Incredibly, the daughter of surgical doctors was health insurance–less—living without a medical safety net—all because I wanted to be a writer.
He darted into traffic and I couldn’t help but hold on tighter, trying to ignore the six-pack under his shirt, his muscles as taut as rope even when he was sitting down. We started moving faster and I pulled tighter still, the movement beneath us startling me enough to forget I shouldn’t even be touching him—let alone embracing him. I rested my chin against his shoulder and told myself it was so I wouldn’t fall off, so I wouldn’t go into years’ worth of debt if I were thrown from the motorcycle.
I could believe that lie for now.
But the truth was I liked feeling like one of Candy’s characters. Free, uninhibited, doing crazy things like riding on a motorcycle with a man she was clearly falling for who was more dangerous to her than falling from a motorcycle. The wind whipping in my ears, I reminded myself, this can never happen; the howling was almost loud enough to muffle those words.
We pulled in at one of the ubiquitous Cuban joints peppering the streets of Miami like stars were starting to pepper the sky. James parked the motorcycle, got off, and held out his hand to help me. I didn’t take it, which seemed silly considering I had practically humped his back on the way here. I should have taken it, but my pride, my rule meant I needed to get off without his help.
Shut up, Candy.
Unfortunately, without him there to steady me, I almost face-planted into the mini palm garden lining the entranceway to the restaurant.
I saw him stifle a laugh. “You probably should keep the helmet.”
I shoved it at him, smacking it into his abdomen, which was so rock hard that the force made me bounce back and almost fall again.
“Like I said.”
“If you want me to wear it inside, I will,” I threatened.
“You probably should. You can use it as protection from me,” he said.
“You’re not as dangerous as you think,” I said, even though having touched him, having felt his back to my chest, I knew saying that was pure fiction.
“This okay for you, or do teachers not eat Cuban food?”
“I eat Cuban food.” I rolled my eyes.
“Oh good, we found something you’re allowed to do,” he said.
“I’m allowed to do a lot of things,” I said, “just not with you.”
“Burn.”
“You’re not allowed to be with me, either,” I said, reminding him this blocked street went two ways.
“No, I’m allowed to,” he said. “It would just be pretty fucking stupid of me.”
“So stop being stupid.”
“I thought we were just having dinner,” he said, indicating the restaurant.
We walked toward it. He enjoyed this game we were playing, and as much as I hated to admit it, I realized I did, too. Flirting was fun and something I hadn’t done in so long that I was amazed I actually remembered how. I guess it was good I had my Candy writing to keep me in practice. Even so, I rushed in front of him to open the door before he could open it for me.
Game or no game, this was not a date.
“How ironically chivalrous,” he said, letting me hold the door for him as he walked inside.
The music was loud and full of brass section and percussion. It was a sit-anywhere sort of place and we got a table near the bar with tall stools covered in bright red fabric. People were on the dance floor doing things that would make even one of Candy’s characters blush. It reminded me of the movie that came out after Dirty Dancing, the one about the Forbidden Dance. Apparently it was not at all forbidden and actually encouraged here.
I noticed the seats at the bar were actually bongo drums. There were probably a lot of people who’d played those drums with their butts after they’d had a few too many. It must have happened at least once a night. No way was I staying late enough to see tonight’s performance.
I could feel the music in my chest, could smell sizzling onions and peppers.
“They make a pretty good Cubano,” he said over the music. “You want me to order you one?”
“Sure,” I said. The sooner I ate, the sooner I could go home and stop pretending I wasn’t on a date. But then I figured I could at least let myself enjoy a sandwich. “Extra pickles,” I added.
“Exactly how I like mine,” James said, heading toward the bar.
I watched him walk through the crowd. It was clear I hadn’t just noticed him because he was working behind the counter at Buzzers. He towered above most people, moved as smoothly as if he were on one of those people-movers at the airport. He had a presence even from the back. It was clear I would notice him anywhere.
I picked up one of the hot sauce bottles from the table. It had the face of an old Hispanic woman on it, and underneath her it said: Sweet Cane Cuban Hot Sauce. Take a taste. One lick is never enough.
Even the condiments were conspiring against me.
When James came back to the table, I was still holding the sauce. I practically launched the bottle at him because I was afraid he would see me reading it and understand the subliminal message it was sending. Understand that if the University of Miami hadn’t stuck its big fat Hurricane nose between us, it would be hard for me not to comply.
Wait, do hurricanes have noses? I know they have eyes.
“You don’t like hot sauce?” he asked.
“Not this one,” I said, turning the bottle from both of us so he couldn’t read the label.
“The waiter will bring over the sandwiches,” he said. “They’re pretty spicy, so you might need the helmet.”
“I’ll go commando,” I said, not even realizing until it came out. Mandy used that all the time referring to everything—when she ate her fries without ketchup she called it “going commando.” For James, it probably only had one meaning. “I don’t need the helmet,” I added, my chest, neck, and face blazing.
He laughed, the kind of laugh that could make a girl “go commando” in its original meaning. “Guess I didn’t need to order you a drink.”
“I didn’t ask for a drink,” I replied quickly. Drink meant date. Date meant complying with the rule of the hot sauce.
“You didn’t not ask for one, either,” James said, still playing our game.
I wasn’t sure what winning would mean for either of us.
The waiter brought the drinks first—placed a tall, frosty mojito in front of each of us, the mint so green it made my teeth hurt.
“Muchas gracias, camerero,” James said, before the waiter walked away.
“You speak Spanish?” I asked.
“Sure,” he said, taking a sip of his drink, “I transferred to school in Miami. It seemed required learning. I guess that means you don’t?”
“Not yet,” I said. I didn’t want him to think he was more conscientious than me, even though it was becoming clear he was. He was on time to his meeting with Professor Dylan. He’d learned Spanish. He’d gotten into NYU. What else was he better at than me?
What would I ever teach him?
“Get it while it’s still cold,” he said, indicating my untouched drink.
“I’m not drinking this,” I said, pushing it away from me. The condensation made it glide across the table.
“You sure? It’s really good,” he said, taking a long sip from his straw. I found myself staring at his lips, his tongue. “Better than my Chai latte, even.”
“Dishwater is better than your Chai latte,” I said.
“Yet you keep coming back for them. So, if it’s not the latte,” he said, leaning toward me across the table, “what is it?”
“I’m not drinking this,” I said again,
because he knew the answer. At least, what had been the answer before this morning.
“If you don’t drink it, I’ll have to, and then you’ll need to drive the motorcycle.”
“How many other girls have you used that line on?” I asked.
“None.” He paused. “You’re actually the first person I’ve had a drink with since I got here,” he admitted, looking down, like he was trying to hide the loneliness in his eyes, but I saw it.
“Didn’t attend any of the mixers in your dorm?” I asked.
“I live in an apartment,” he said, “and my roommate kind of sucks.”
I guess James had been using his swagger to cover a fresh vulnerability.
I slid the drink back over and took a long sip. I could have one drink with him. Make him a little less alone for the moment. I knew what it was to feel like you didn’t have anyone in your life.
The rum warmed my throat and core. “Are you afraid you made the wrong decision transferring here?” I asked.
“Whenever you make a life-altering decision,” he said, forcing a smile, “you can’t help but wonder if it’s wrong. Am I right?”
He was right. That was what I wondered every day when I woke up and right before I went to sleep. The rest of the time I was able to block it out by keeping busy, but yeah, life-alerting decisions had the power to alter your life in more ways than one.
“So,” I said, playing with my straw, “aside from Professor Dylan, why would you come here to study if you were already at NYU and a junior?”
“It’s not something I really want to talk about,” he said. “It’s kind of the luxury of being three thousand miles away from it.”
“Oh,” I said, feeling a little braver from the rum. “Maybe you can write about it.”
“I’m sure there are things from your past you’d rather not discuss,” he said, squeezing a lime into his drink and licking his fingers. “Anyone in a new place has to have at least a few.”
Right again. I sucked on my straw.
“Besides, where you study doesn’t really matter,” he said. “Some people think you can’t be taught to write, anyway.”
“Some people?” I asked.
“The beats,” he started. “You know, ‘you have to experience life’ and all that. ‘Writing should come from inside you, be inherent, not be tainted by outside influence.’” The words tumbled out of his mouth.
“I’m not sure that’s true,” I said, mostly because I was here trying to learn how to write. If it came from life experience, what was the point of school? I needed to be taught to be someone my parents might finally respect, might finally talk to again.
“For you it might not be,” he said.
“Who are some of your favorite authors?” I asked.
“A little forward for our first dinner,” he said. I noticed he refrained from saying date.
I laughed because I knew what he meant. It was a typical you like reading and writing question, but it also had the possibility to reveal more about yourself than you were willing to share.
“I’ll tell you one if you tell me one,” I said. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours, I couldn’t help but think.
“I need some context,” he said, moving his hands to punctuate each statement. “Author I feel like reading when I want to think, want to laugh, want to cry, don’t want to think at all.”
“Author you couldn’t live without,” I said.
“Wow, that is personal,” he said, laying his palms on the table and leaning in.
“We can say it at the same time,” I said. The nearness of his body pulled me closer, and I met his gaze.
“Okay,” he said, taking a deep breath and counting to three. At three we both said, “J.D. Salinger.”
The name hung there between us, connecting us in a bizarrely complex way.
We were born an hour away from each other, both fans of extra pickles on our Cubanos and super-fans of J.D. Salinger. What was next? Sharing the same birthday?
“That was unexpected,” he said, looking at me like he could see the inner workings of my brain.
I didn’t want it to be, but it was damn sexy.
“Yeah,” I replied, the only word that would come.
“Catcher in the Rye got me through high school,” he said. “It still gets me through sometimes.”
“I had to buy a new copy before I came here,” I admitted. So much for keeping my feelings hidden. “The one I got in high school was falling apart.”
Like James, I had connected with Catcher in the Rye in a way that meant I had to always have it with me. I didn’t read it all the time, but it had to be there when I needed it.
“I feel like I need a cigarette or something,” he joked.
“You sound like Holden,” I said, even though it did feel like the release of something; not necessarily something sexual, but more intellectual.
“Just like any good antihero should.”
“So why are you here if you can’t be taught?” I asked.
“I think college is an experience, don’t you?”
It had been for me, I guess, but I’d also been glued to Keith from about day three. The only thing I really experienced aside from my classes was the inside of both our dorm rooms. I took another drink to wash the memory away. “Yet you chose to study with Professor Dylan.”
“He chose me, really,” James retorted. “Gave me a scholarship I couldn’t refuse.” He finished doing the worst Godfather impression I’d ever seen.
“Stick to writing,” I said.
He clown-frowned, pretending I’d upset him.
“I have one of those, too,” I said. “Well, I have a teaching fellowship anyway.”
“Right,” he joked. “I heard you’re a TA or something?”
“Hilarious,” I said.
“I don’t know.” He scratched his chin. “Professor Dylan e-mailed me a picture of a pool on campus reflected by a taffy-colored sunset and an offer of full room and board and I caved. Sue me.”
“I understand.” I nodded. “It’s beautiful here.”
“Some things more than others,” he said, staring at me. It was so cheesy, but I also couldn’t believe he was saying it. I also couldn’t let it show that it was turning the skin beneath my panties into a quivering pile of jelly.
“Forget what I said about sticking to writing. You might actually be better at acting,” I said. If Mandy were here, she would have told me to swipe our drinks from the table and dive headfirst into those soft lips.
But she wasn’t.
“So why do you write, then?” he asked, the light from the flickering candle on the table making his face glow as he leaned toward me. “For the fame?”
I swallowed something I considered saying about Candy. She hadn’t made me famous, but she did have fans. She did have readers. Not that anyone here would understand. Having experienced the happiness and pleasure I brought to my readers—the GIF reviews when they couldn’t even describe in words their happiness and pleasure—I didn’t really care if no one here understood. But that didn’t mean I could tell him about it.
“I guess…” I started. Could I really answer? No one had ever asked me why I wrote before. Certainly not Keith or my parents. “I like the control,” I finished, words I had never said to anyone. “The control I feel over my characters when I have…” I stopped. It was clear the mojito was making me forget I wasn’t on a date.
“When you have?” he asked expectantly.
It was also clear I’d left out the good part, one of the things from my past I didn’t want to discuss because I was in a new place. It was the part where I would have explained how my relationship with Keith had left me a fragile, esteem-less mess when it came to guys and sex—or at least he had before I threw myself at James.
Look how that had turned out.
That was why I couldn’t tell him, or anyone else here, that when I was in the head of one of Candy’s characters, it all went away.
“Never mind
,” I said. I downed my drink. I prayed for our sandwiches. I was trying desperately to build up the barrier just talking to him for twenty minutes had knocked down.
Maybe it was because we’d basically just had booksex.
James waved for the waiter and ordered us two more.
“I’m glad you finally gave me your number,” he said. “There’s nothing hotter than a girl letting you know she wants you.”
Just like a guy. Even after booksex, he was attempting to hide his sensitivity.
“Wanted you,” I said, the double mojitos definitely being the only reason.
“So you admit it,” James said, like he’d caught me.
“In the past tense,” I said, “sure.”
“We’re writers, Candice.” His mouth eased into an amused smile. “Changing tense is easy.”
Chapter Eight
When I woke up, I wasn’t sure where I was at first. A poster of Jack Kerouac stared at me from the far wall. Not that I recognized him as Jack Kerouac, but it was the name printed underneath the black-and-white photo. My eyes felt bleary, burned with a hangover. The headache and stomachache inhabiting the places where my head and stomach used to be both pulsed in agreement that I was, in fact, hungover.
I put my fingers to my forehead and looked up. No puke-inducing yellow ceiling, which was good because I felt like I might puke even without it, but bad because it meant I hadn’t slept in my own bed.
Oh crap. Oh mojito mother of crap.
I took a deep breath in an attempt to prepare myself and turned to find James lying next to me, shirtless—his bare, gorgeous back to me.
There were scratch marks all over it.
In a flash, I saw the two of us in the back of a taxi on our way to his apartment, making out. And not just making out, me straddling him so my back was to the driver.
I felt doubly ill. My hangover had its own hangover, knowing the marks could only have come from me. From me, when I was with him. I watched him breathing, his back moving up and down, up and down.
I felt my waist, below my waist. My underwear was on, thank God. But what if they’d been off at some point? Judging by the claw marks I’d left like red wings on James’s back, the pleasant achiness between my thighs, all evidence pointed that they had definitely been off.
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