by Ney, Sara
Little ray of brightness is what she is, and I hop out of my side to greet her at hers, pull open the door for her with a smile.
She gazes at me skeptically as she hefts herself up into the passenger side with a, “No funny business. This is just about food.”
“Sure thing,” I tell her. Shut the door. “Not.”
She should stop being so goddamn adorable if she doesn’t want me to harbor any illusions about changing her mind, because that’s my plan.
I need a girl I can bring home to my mother, and Hollis Westbrooke is perfect in every way.
Other than the fact that she hates me…
…but let’s be honest, opinions are meant to be changed, and I’m an eternal optimist, something few people know about me.
“Hope you brought your appetite,” I quip when I climb in and buckle up. “How many tacos can you eat?”
Hollis considers the question. “I don’t know, four?”
“Four!” I shout out an evil laugh, as if four is the funniest, most deranged number I’ve ever heard. “Amateur hour.”
“Um…are you trash-talking right now?”
Yes. “No, it’s just that four tacos, or four of anything, barely whets my appetite.”
She scoffs at my boasting. “Well you’re huge and I’m not, so.” Her chin tilts up and she ignores me to look out the window.
I’m huge? Huge in a good way or in a bad way? Tell me, tell me.
I’m afraid to ask for clarification, so I’ll just assume she means awesome and buff and move along.
“Are you pouting because I can eat more tacos than you?” It’s killing me, so I have to ask.
She turns and stares like I’m mental. “Are you being serious right now?” Laughs. Laughs and laughs. “Dare I ask, how many you can eat at one time?” She throws a hand up. “Don’t tell me, let me guess—an entire dozen.”
Well shit. “Thanks for taking the wind out of my sails.” I frown, deflated that she nailed it on the first guess.
“You are so ridiculous I don’t even know what to do with you.” Her chuckle is good-humored as she watches the houses turn into city blocks with shops and eateries, and finally—Taco Warehouse, aka heaven on earth.
It’s not easy to find a parking spot—this place is jam-packed every night of the week, and especially on Tuesday—but I manage to find one two blocks away, in a paid spot. It’s twenty-six bucks for a few hours, but worth it.
I fist-pump in the air for the sweet victory.
“Oh jeez.”
Hollis is watching me, but she’s smiling, amused.
Happily, I bound over to her side of the truck, reaching it before she gets the door open. Ever the gentleman, I help her get out, though she needs absolutely zero assistance.
“My lady.” I present her to the concrete sidewalk with a flourish, slamming the door behind her, zip in my step as we approach beans and rice and the delicious smell of corn and flour tortillas. Some people mock this sacred day of the week; I treasure it.
“Hola, Señor Wallace!” The owners are here, and Miguel greets us, his twinkling eyes trained on Hollis. I’ve never brought a woman here, if you don’t count Miranda, so I can see that he’s curious.
I wave and smile, scan the room; there are no tables available that I can see and no real places to sit in the entryway while we wait, but I manage to strong-arm my way in between two families against the wall, so at least we can lean while we wait.
“Sit tight, I’m going to put our names in for a table.”
Hollis nods.
It doesn’t take long to get us on the list, but we have quite a wait. The hostess, Rebecca, offers to create a table for us so we don’t have to stand around, which I politely decline before solemnly making my way back to Hollis.
By the look on my face, she knows the news is grim.
“It’s a 45 minute wait,” I announce when I slouch along the wall next to her. “We. Are. Going. To. Starve.”
Hollis rolls her pretty blue eyes sarcastically, but I like it. “Trace, were they going to bump you up on the waitlist?”
I shrug. Did she not hear me declare our impending starvation? Why is she changing the subject?
“And you wouldn’t let them?”
“No.” I sigh hungrily. “It’s not fair for me—us—to just walk in here and take someone else’s table when they’ve been waiting.” I pause. “Also, how did you know my real name is Trace?”
She shrugs and pretends to inspect her nails. “I might have looked you up.”
“Whatttttttt! Hollis Westbrooke, you did not!” I’ll admit it, I sound like a Southern teenage girl. “You googled me! What did you find?”
God this is great news.
“Would you keep your voice down?” she murmurs.
People are starting to stare, not that I give a shit. A few of them seem to recognize me, but so far, none of them have approached us.
“I googled you after we ran into each other at the stadium, because you looked familiar but I couldn’t remember your name. So I looked you up—it’s not a crime, jeez.”
No, but it means she was curious enough to go searching for my name.
We stand and goof around for a few more minutes before Rebecca comes over. It sure as shit hasn’t been the forty-five we were told we’d be waiting, but I don’t want to cause a scene by insisting we wait longer, so we let her lead us to the far corner.
Chips and salsa are placed on the table almost immediately. Guac, too, and water. I don’t bother picking up the menu, because I always order the same thing, but Hollis has never been here, so she peruses the list of options like a skilled restaurateur.
“What are you having? And please don’t say a chimichanga.”
She laughs. “I’m getting two soft shells and two hard shells, thank you very much.”
“Beef, chicken, or pork?” I ask as I collect her menu.
“Um, beef.”
“Sides? Rice, beans, or both?”
She cocks her head at me. “Rice?”
I nod. “Would you like to add a quesadilla for a dollar?”
“Sure.”
“Anything to drink?”
“Um, this water is fine—wait, what is going on? Do you work here now?”
Now we’re both laughing, laughing until the actual server comes to take our order, and I repeat everything Hollis just told me, plus my order, and soon we’re alone again, laughing.
“You are so strange,” she says quietly.
“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
She’s quiet, and it’s loud in this place from all the people—plus the sound of myself eating chips certainly does not help—so I concentrate on what she’s about to say. What was it my mom calls it? Active listening?
“It’s a…it’s…” She seems hesitant to answer, and a knot forms in the pit of my stomach. I thought we were making headway here. I thought— “It’s a good thing.”
I slouch in my chair, tortilla chip dangling from my lips like a limp cigarette. “Thank fucking Christ.”
“Pardon me?”
Pretty sure I mumbled that under my breath, but apparently not. “I said, Thank god.” I’m going to hell for lying. “I’m glad you think it’s a good thing that I’m strange.” Wait… “How is that a good thing, exactly?”
I pound a few more chips down my gullet while she deliberates.
“It’s good because it’s unexpected. Not to fuel your ego, but you’re not what I was expecting. At all.” She takes a chip, dips it in salsa, and pops it in her mouth. I wish she’d stop eating because I want to hear what she has to say.
About me, ha ha.
“What were you expecting?”
“You to be more of a douchebag.”
You and every other decent female on the planet. “No, tell me how you really feel, Hollis.”
Am I imagining it, or did she just shiver when I said her name? She can’t be cold; she’s wearing jeans.
“Hollis.” I say her name again and—there’s th
e shiver. “Hollis.”
“Stop it!” She laughs, throwing a chip across the table. It hits me in the chest, and I pick it off my shirt and stick it in my mouth.
Chew.
“Crunchy and delicious,” I tell her with a full mouth, and I almost do say something douchey—something like, Crunchy and delicious like I imagine you’d be, but that’s the most idiotic thing to say and makes zero sense, and I have the wherewithal to keep my big mouth shut for once.
“Soooo…” she starts, holding another chip in her hand, breaking it into two pieces and setting them on her tongue, one at a time. “What else is going on? Besides work?”
I stuff three chips in my mouth at once, wash them down with water, and wipe my hands on a napkin before responding. “Other than seeing my parents and hanging out at Harding’s house, I don’t know. Reading and shit.”
Reading and shit? Real fucking eloquent, you tool.
But Hollis’s brows shoot up, and I see that I’ve managed to surprise her, yet again. “That’s right. You said you’re in a book club, but do you actually do the reading?”
More chips go in my mouth. I like the idea of making her wait for my answers, especially when she seems so intent on hearing them.
“Yeah. Of course I do the reading.”
“Because you like books.”
Why is she saying books like that? As if the sound of the word is turning her on—it’s so weird. And why is she leaning forward, with her boobs smushed into the edge of the table? Is she doing that on purpose?
“Yes?”
“What kind of books do you read when you’re not reading romance?” I hear her low chuckle over the sound of the mariachi band and the chatter of the people surrounding us.
Brat.
I rack my brain for the last book I’ve read that wasn’t a book club selection. “It was a World War II biography written by a fighter pilot whose plane went down. He lived in the jungle for a few months without any supplies, food, or weapons to keep him safe.”
“Was it a thick book?”
“Um. Yes?”
She nods. Nods again, watching me as she takes a few more chips and breaks them into pieces. “Uh huh. Tell me more.”
Okay, what the hell is going on right now? It looks like she’s turned on, but I know she can’t stand me, so is she having a hot flash? Or a seizure? Is she so hangry she’s hallucinating she likes me?
I’m so fucking confused.
The server appears as if by magic, bringing sustenance for this hungry woman sitting across from me, and I’m spared from her leering, glazed-over eyes as our tacos are laid out in front of us. Still, this doesn’t seem to excite her as much as the mention of books did. Or the sound of her name on my lips.
I test the theory again. “So, what genre are you most into reading for pleasure when you’re not working?”
Genre—nice one, Buzz.
I give myself a mental pat on the back.
Hollis raises her head, fork full of rice poised halfway to her mouth. “Romance.”
“Really. You read romance novels?” I bite into my first hard shell taco and moan. “What trope?”
Trope.
Another mental pat and I smile to myself when her eyes get soft.
“Um.” She brushes a strand of hair behind her ear. “Mostly the usual stuff. Uh, cowboy romance and…sports romance.”
What’s this now? Sports romance?
I sit up straighter in my chair. “That’s a thing?”
“Yes.”
“What kind of sports are you reading about?”
She ignores me for a couple beats, choosing that moment to bite into her taco—on purpose, probably!—chewing thoughtfully and not answering the question. Swallows. Takes another bite.
I swear to god she’s doing that to torture me.
“Baseball.”
“Like, baseball baseball? College or what?”
“No, professional baseball.”
“You’re reading a romance about baseball players?”
“I mean—the guy is a baseball player. The girl works as the nanny.”
The nanny? What the hell kind of book is this? “He hooks up with the nanny?! Is he married? Where’s the wife?”
Hollis laughs, covering her mouth with the palm of her hand. “No, he’s a widower—that’s why he needs the nanny.”
“Oh.” I think this concept through. “So his wife died, and now he’s banging the nanny. That seems fucked up and shady.”
She laughs. “It’s not like he just put the moves on her and took advantage. They fell in love—or are going to fall in love. He needed someone to watch his six kids.”
“Six kids! What the fuck?”
“It’s two sets of triplets.”
“That makes no sense.”
“Well the first set was IVF and they didn’t think they’d get pregnant again, but she did, and it was another set of triplets, and then she died in a car accident on their first birthday.”
That just sounds absurd. “And you’re into this shit?”
“Very.”
“Um…whatever floats your boat.” I can’t talk about this anymore without my brain exploding from sheer boredom and bewilderment. “In my opinion, that’s way too many plot devices and completely unnecessary.”
“Genre. Trope. Plot devices. Who are you?”
I smirk, knowing I’ve just wet her panties a little with my knowledge of literary terms. “I love reading—what can I say? Just a big old book nerd. Hashtag book lover.” I stuff more food in my mouth, chewing slowly, so as to drive her wild with suspense.
She doesn’t look desperate for me to say more, but she is smiling.
“I got banned from a library last year.” My declaration is matter-of-fact—and true—and between mouthfuls.
This gets her interested, and she seems to perk up. “I’m listening.”
I set my napkin on the table, push my chair back a few inches, ready to dig deep into the dramatic story. Cross my arms and consider my first few words. The hook, if you will.
“It was a dark and stormy night…”
Hollis laughs and rolls her eyes.
“Kidding. It was cold and snowy. Off-season. And I like to hit the library near my house—they have an amazing audiobook selection.” Her eyes do that glistening thing. “I love listening to them on my way to the stadium, or while I’m pounding nails at one of the properties.” I flex and kiss my bicep—kind of douchey, but she doesn’t seem to care. “Anyway, I see this woman at one of the tables who looks familiar, and I’m convinced she’s the author of one of my favorite series. She had her laptop out and was pounding away at the keys. I swore I’d met her before because I’ve gone to a book signing or two.” Pause for effect. “Signed books are my kryptonite.”
Hollis is hanging on my every word, and if she were wearing a bib, she’d be drooling.
Or so I tell myself.
“I don’t want to bother her, right? She’s busy, and I can only imagine being interrupted while I’m perfecting greatness would piss me the fuck off. So I go to the circulation desk, grab a piece of paper, and write, I like your books. Then I slip it to her as I walk by, which, in hindsight, was creepy as fuck and a terrible error in judgment.”
“Why?”
“Because I have abysmal penmanship.” I grab a paper napkin and ask Hollis if she has a pen—she does—then write I like your books. Hand it to her.
“I like your boobs?”
“It says books.”
“It says boobs.”
“See? Do you see now where this all went wrong? Do you see now where this story is headed?”
“Don’t say another word or I’m going to choke on this taco.” Her skin is bright red and she’s about to burst out laughing; I can see her holding it in. She is about to freakin’ explode.
Obviously I say more words. “So she thinks I’m telling her I like her tits—er, boobs—which were probably sagging down to the ground, mind you.” I shiver at the
memory. “Instead of confronting me about it, the lady goes and tells the librarian there is a pervy sexual harasser on the premises. She goes and tells the security guard, and he yanks my audiobook selections out of my viselike grip and escorts me out. God, I was so humiliated—Betty from non-fiction and I made eye contact, and I’ve never felt so ashamed.”
“Stop it.” Tears are welling up in her eyes.
“No. She told her friend Ethel, who is a member of the Bellmont Readers, who told my mother.”
“This is too much.” She’s swatting at the air between us. “You’re making this up.”
“They took my card away, Hollis! You don’t joke about this shit. I’m no longer welcome at any library within the tri-state area, thanks to my shoddy handwriting.”
“Oh my god Buzz, you deserved it!”
I act like the innocent party here. “It’s not like I was looking at porn on one of the free computers! I gave her a note. I was complimenting her!”
“On her BOOBS!”
“No, on her books!” I push some shredded lettuce around on my plate. “It wasn’t her, by the way.”
“Stop.”
“Nope. Wasn’t her. Just some random lady listing all her weekly coupons in a spreadsheet.”
“How do you know?”
“I could see it when I walked past the window.”
“Sooo…you were creeping on her through the window?”
“I was walking past the window! What was I supposed to do, not look?”
“Yes! You could have simply not looked.” Hollis is shaking her head like she’s disappointed in me. “Were you trying to get another glimpse at her tatas?”
“Dear god. No. Don’t even suggest such a thing—I’m lonely, but not desperate.”
Shit, did those words just come out of my mouth? I can’t take them back, but I can pray she doesn’t latch onto them beca—
“Lonely?”
Ugh, she would mention that. Why is she like this? Why does she have to be so nosey?
“So you’re an editor?” I do my best to deflect.
“Don’t change the subject.” She pins me with a pointed stare, biting into a taco and crunching at the same time. Her eyes narrow.
“Did I say lonely? I meant busy.”
“You said lonely—what did you mean by that?”