“I’m just elaborating,” she says. “On the whole letting-yourself-feel thing. If I would’ve just numbed myself off, I’d probably be knee deep in some new, shitty relationship, repeating all my old mistakes. Negative emotions have a purpose, you know?”
“Sure.” I try to shut her out but her voice is so soft and soothing, annoyingly pleasant. She’s like a real life podcast that I’m being forced to listen to but secretly think it’s not all that bad.
“I told my roommate I’m swearing off relationships for at least a year,” she continues. “I just want to find myself—which I know is completely cliché, but I don’t care. I want to say ‘yes’ more and do things I wouldn’t have done before, meet new people, make new friends. That sort of thing. You probably think I’m insane, but it just feels like the timing’s right. I kind of just want to be solo for a while, you know? Party of one.”
My lips press together. If I were in a chatty mood, I could tell her how much I appreciate that we share many of the same sentiments. There aren’t a lot of girls, especially girls who look like her, who aren’t throwing themselves at every man they meet, desperate to try to pin them down so they don’t have to spend another New Year’s, spring break, or wedding season alone.
“You said you deploy next week?” she asks. “What are you doing until then?”
My nose wrinkles and for a second, I wonder if she’s using some kind of reverse psychology or bait-and-switch tactic on me. I’ve seen girls do that before … acting disinterested or anti-love one minute because they think it makes you want them more, and the second they have you exactly where they want you, they make a move.
Too bad for them that’s the kind of shit that doesn’t work on me.
In fact, it usually tends to do the exact opposite, leaving me turned off and disgusted. Insulting my intelligence is one of the worst things a woman can do.
“Don’t worry—I’m not asking you out. I just feel bad about your car,” she says. “I’m sure you had plans and stuff. I’d hate for you to be stranded all week. If you need any rides anywhere, let me know. My number should be on that paperwork the cop gave you.”
Adjusting my seat, I pull in a deep breath. It’s the least she could do for me—driving me all over LA like my own personal chauffeur, but I refuse to rely on anyone, especially not some chick I don’t even know.
“I’ll manage,” I say.
Ma has an old Mercury Sable in storage—granted, I have no idea if it still runs—but I’ve got my fingers crossed pretty damn hard. I’ll probably spend the rest of tonight tinkering around with it and once I get that running, I’ll head to Pasadena to start fixing my Porsche.
“You think your car will be okay?” she asks.
“Hopefully.” I’m ninety percent sure it’ll be fine, but I won’t know until I take a closer look. Until then, she can continue feeling bad about it for all I care.
“It’s a cool car. Love that it’s not flashy. It’s understated,” she says. “Very classic.”
That’s exactly what I love about it, too. “Thanks.”
I spout off the next direction and we linger in silence for a solid ten minutes—a new record—before she points to a billboard above a Taco Bell.
“Oh, look! Panoramic Sunrise is playing at The Mintz tomorrow night,” she says, bouncing in her seat. “How did I not know that? I love them.”
I chuff. Me too.
“Really? I swear whenever I talk about them people act like I’m speaking a foreign language. It’s like no one’s ever heard of them.”
I neglect to tell her the lead singer just so happens to be my brother-in-law’s cousin. “Look, can we stop the small talk? It’s nothing personal. I’m just not a fan.”
Maritza turns to me, expression falling. “Oh. Sure. I was just about to ask if you wanted to go to the concert with me but—”
I don’t have to think twice before answering her. “I’m busy.”
“Busy …” Maritza speaks slowly. She doesn’t buy it, but I don’t particularly care.
“I’ve got a car to fix,” I clarify my statement, not that I need to prove anything to her.
Her hands grip the steering wheel as she sinks into her seat and stares ahead. “All right, that’s cool. Whatevs.”
When we finally pull into my mother’s apartment complex after an enjoyable bout of silence, I step out of her Prius and begin gathering grocery bags in my arms. It’s going to be at least three trips up and down two flights of stairs, maybe four.
“Let me help,” she says, loading bags before I have a chance to tell her no.
Maritza the Waitress follows me to apartment 3C and I tell her to place everything on the kitchen table once we’re inside. We get the job done with one more trip, only this time she lingers in my mother’s doorway, her hands slipping into the back pockets of her shorts.
I realize now she’s still in her work uniform, her white button-down shirt and little black shorts. Formal but not too formal, the kind of California cool the locals eat up in droves.
Lifting a brow, I shrug. “You need something?”
“Go to the concert with me,” she says. “I’ll buy your ticket.”
I frown. “No. And no.”
“Why not?”
“Told you. I’m busy.” I keep my voice down. If Ma is sleeping and she wakes up to the sound of some strange woman’s voice in her apartment, I’ll never hear the end of it. She’ll let me have it with her last fighting breath.
“My home is not a brothel,” she’d say, teasing but also serious. “Go have your fun somewhere else.”
“Fine. It’s just that you’re the only other person I know who’s heard of this band. Thought it might be fun. And I feel like I owe you after I smashed into your car today.”
I draw in a slow breath, studying her in the fading evening light.
She’s pretty with curves in all the right places, a sexy smirk, silky hair, and dark eyes that light up in the most fucking adorable way when she gets excited … but she’s not the kind of girl I’d want to spend one of my last nights with.
For one, she talks way too fucking much.
And she’s too philosophical.
Too optimistic.
Too opinionated.
No amount of pretty can make up for the fact that she’s not my type. Not even close.
“What, you think I’m trying to ask you on a date?” She huffs. “Please. I don’t even remember your name. What was it again?”
Exhaling, I drag my hand through my hair. “Isaiah.”
“Right. Isaiah.” She cocks her head to the side. “Anyway, don’t flatter yourself because even if I were looking for someone to date, you’re not what I usually go for, so ...”
“Likewise.”
“Wow.” Maritza throws her hands up, turning to leave. “Okay, well … I … I don’t have anything else to say to you then. Congratulations. You’ve rendered me speechless twice in one day, and that’s a first.”
Thank. God.
But just when she’s almost finally gone, she stops in the doorway, turning on her heel to face me.
“You know … I meant what I said in the car. I say ‘yes’ to a lot of things now. To new people. To new experiences. Maybe you thought I was hitting on you, but I swear on my life, Isaiah … I wasn’t. I just wanted to have fun at a concert on a Friday night.” Maritza shrugs. “That’s what I get for forgetting some people are content being miserable assholes.”
With that, she’s gone, pulling the door closed behind her.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I exhale.
“Who was that?” My sister, Calista, asks.
Shit.
I had no idea she was here and now I’m about to get the Spanish fucking Inquisition.
I shake my head and begin unpacking groceries. “No one.”
She emerges from the dark hall next to Mom’s room. “That’s not no one, Isaiah. You brought a girl here and you’ve never brought a girl here. Who was it?”
&n
bsp; “What are you doing here?” I change the subject.
“Brought Ma dinner.”
“A text would’ve been nice,” I say. “I brought her dinner a couple of hours ago.”
Calista waves her hand. “Oh, well. The woman needs more meat on her bones anyway.”
That’s one thing we can both agree on.
“She seemed nice—that girl,” Calista says, taking a seat on Mom’s weathered sofa and finger-combing her dark hair into a ponytail. “And she totally called you on your shit, which was hilarious.”
I grab another grocery sack.
“Ma needs her hair washed,” I say.
“Some nice, pretty girl asks you to go to the concert of a band you love and you turn her down like she was some kind of leper.” My sister chuckles, refusing to lay off the subject. “You would’ve had a nice time together, I bet.”
“Doubtful.”
“I love you, but she was right. You’re a miserable asshole,” Calista says. “That girl could’ve balanced you out a bit. Maybe made you a little more likable.”
“I couldn’t give two shits about how likable I am.”
Calista rises, coming to help me with the provisions. She takes a can of Pepper Pot soup and examines the label. “Yeah. I know. And that’s your problem.”
“You can go now,” I say, brushing her aside. “Unless you want to stick around and give Ma her bath.”
“We actually just finished up before you got here,” she says.
“All right then. I’ve got this. You can go home.”
Calista’s mouth curls into a smart-mouthed snarl and she raises her hand, curling it like a tiger’s paw. “Who pissed in your cornflakes today?”
“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the nice girl who rear-ended my Porsche.”
She covers her mouth, fighting a laugh. “Is that why she gave you a ride home?”
“Yup.”
Calista shrugs. “Well, I still think she seemed cool.”
Her phone lights with a text, her fingers gliding across the screen at warp speed before she grabs her purse off a nearby console. One of her kids must need something. Or her husband. I can’t imagine what it would feel like to be needed like that, constantly.
Just the thought of it makes me feel as if I’m suffocating, and I’ve spent my entire life just trying to breathe.
“All right. Looks like you’re getting your wish. I’m getting out of your hair,” Calista says, sliding her phone back into her bag.
I give her a quick finger wave and stack the last can of non-genetically modified corn on the shelf before me.
“Text if you need anything,” she says on her way out. And then she stops. “And Isaiah?”
Glancing up, our eyes meet. “Yeah?”
“Stop being a miserable asshole and go to the fucking concert.”
Chapter Three
Maritza
“Next.” The woman at The Mintz’s will-call window waves me forward Friday night. “Name?”
“Maritza Claiborne,” I say, reaching for my ID before sliding it across the counter.
The woman, whose arms are covered in vibrant tattoos of naked women and whose pixie cut is dyed the prettiest shade of lavender checks my driver’s license before rifling through a stack of tickets to her left.
A moment later, she’s frowning … like it’s not there.
I bought the ticket online yesterday—it has to be there.
“I have the confirmation in my email if you need to see it,” I say, searching for my phone in the bottomless pit of my vintage Goyard tote—a hand-me-down gift from my mother before she and my father moved to New York City last year because apparently they’d lost their minds and grown tired of the sunshine. My breath quickens. If I can’t see Panoramic Sunrise I’m going to cry—and I’m not a crier.
“Found it.” She holds up a lanyard, examining the name on the plastic badge. “It was in the VIP pile.”
My chin juts forward and I press my lips together. I didn’t buy a VIP ticket. Those were five hundred bucks and included a special section in the front, a private bar, an all-access behind the scenes meet and greet, as well as a chance to have a beer with the band after the bar closes.
I bought a seventy-five-dollar general admission ticket.
I know I did …
“Here you go.” She slides the pass across the counter along with my ID and smiles before glancing over my shoulder. “Next!”
Grabbing my lanyard, I place it around my neck before anyone has a chance to declare this a grave mistake and yank it away from me. Making my way to the ticket taker, I’m fully expecting to have my bubble popped any second, only he scans my pass and waves me toward a less crowded area designated for VIPs, and as soon as I’m in, I find a spot at an empty high-top table for two a mere six feet from the front of the stage.
My pulse quickens and I can’t help but wear the dorkiest grin when I see the band’s guitars and mic on stage. Panoramic Sunrise is my drug. It soothes and comforts and relaxes and reinvigorates me all at the same time. Everything about their low-key, indie, folk-rock tunes resonates with the deepest part of my soul in a way I could never fully explain or even understand. Plus the lead singer looks like an even hotter version of Adam Levine, so there’s that.
“Can I grab you a drink?” A pretty cocktail waitress with a high ponytail and orange-red lipstick approaches my table.
“Amaretto and Coke would be amazing. Thank you.”
They always open with their number one hit, Flipside, which is my favorite song in the history of songs. It’s sad in parts, funny in others, but mostly it’s angsty and ironic.
“This seat taken?” A man asks, standing behind me.
I glance over my shoulder to follow his voice, only by the time my gaze focuses on his chiseled face, he’s already taking the spot beside me.
“You again,” I say, sitting up straight.
Isaiah Torres’ fingers are wrapped around the neck of a Corona.
“You’re welcome for the VIP pass,” he says, taking a swig and letting his stare penetrate.
My head cocks as I try to wrap my mind around this. Minutes ago, I’d convinced myself the VIP thing was some kind of happy mix-up.
“How’d you know I was going to be here tonight?” I ask.
“Lucky guess,” he says. “And I know people who know people who could find out.”
The cocktail waitress returns with my drink, and I hand her my card to start a tab before returning my attention back to Isaiah.
“All right then. Thank you for this,” I tell him, clutching at the lanyard around my neck. Sliding off my chair, I eye a spot near the front of the stage as the opening act begins to take their places.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“I’m going to enjoy the concert. That’s where I’m going.”
I leave him at the table-for-two. Fun and relaxation is my only objective for the night. If he thinks I’ll overlook the fact that he was nothing but a rude asshole yesterday just because he does one nice thing, then he’s clearly smoking something.
From the corner of my eye, I catch him watching me.
I don’t understand him, but it’s okay because I really don’t need to.
The house lights come on three hours later and some six-foot-seven muscle head in a black t-shirt stands behind a velvet rope, telling us VIP pass holders to follow him.
Herded down a hallway with about fifty other people, I somehow wind up in the front of the line, waiting outside a dressing room with a heart that won’t stop thrumming and a breath that won’t steady.
I’ve seen them in concert at least a dozen times since high school, but never once have I seen them up close and personal. I’m not even sure what I’ll say or if I’ll end up foaming at the mouth, unable to form a coherent sentence, but the second the door opens and an older, gray-haired man steps out and meets my gaze, I clear my throat and straighten my spine.
“You first?” He points at me, speaking in an E
ast Coast accent.
I swallow the lump in my throat and nod, silently reminding myself to be cool.
“Get your phone ready if you want pictures.” The man swings the door open. “You’ve got one minute in there. Make it count.”
Case Malbec. Landon Spencer. Kieko Ayoshi. Alec Bastion.
I know all of their names. Their birthdays. Their Wikipedia life stories. I’ve seen every documentary, every music video, every interview.
And now they’re here, in the flesh, seated before me.
A few other people are in here as well, makeup artists, groupies, roadies …
But all I see is them.
Case, the lead singer, sits shirtless, a white towel wrapped around his shoulders. He smiles when he sees me, and while I’m sure he smiles at all his fans, his stare pierces through me, like he’s curious and studying me.
“I’m Case,” he says, reaching for me. He slips his arm over my shoulder like we’re just a couple of old friends who go way back. The rest of the band assumes their practiced, photo-ready positions around us. “And you are?”
“Maritza,” I manage to say, proud of my voice for not squeaking, cracking, or cutting out.
Case takes my phone from my hand. “Isaiah, can you take our pic?”
Glancing up, I watch as Isaiah Torres takes my phone from Case Malbec’s hand and points it at the two of us. I force a smile, my mind running a million miles a minute as I try to piece this together.
“You two know each other?” I ask, my finger pointing between the two of them once the picture is over.
Isaiah hands my phone over. “Yep.”
“You didn’t tell me you knew them,” I say.
“You didn’t ask.” Isaiah hooks his hands on his hips, towering over me.
“Is this the girl?” Case asks.
“What girl?” My gaze narrows at Isaiah.
Case smirks. “He called me this morning, asked me if he could get a VIP pass for some girl.”
This is all happening so fast it’s hardly comprehensible.
“Time’s up,” the gray-haired man says, motioning for me to head to the door.
“Dude, it’s okay,” Case says, “she can have more than thirty seconds with us.”
P.S. I Hate You Page 4