I nod my head toward the hall. “This way.”
He follows me to my room, his eyes flitting around and taking everything in—my vanity, overflowing with beauty products; my bookcase, stuffed with books; my closet, bursting with clothes; my reading nook. I cringe a little, seeing it through his eyes. Too much stuff. Messy. Maybe weird? Do I have a weird room?
But Brian doesn’t say anything like that, just this: “Man, you really do love Beyoncé.” He points at a framed photo of I have of her on my bookcase.
“Do you not have a framed photo of Beyoncé in your room?”
“I mean, yeah, but yours is bigger.”
“I worship it every morning, obviously.” We laugh. I walk toward the bay window, saying, “I want to show you something.” Peeling the curtains back, I point outside. “There.”
Brian walks over to the window and looks out, breaking into a smile when he sees what I’m pointing to. He turns back toward me. “The birdhouse.”
“The birdhouse,” I say, looking at him. “From the first time we kissed.”
He keeps his voice soft when he responds. “Oh, I remember.”
Brian leans down toward me and I close my eyes to savor the just-before-the-kiss moment. Then, of course, I savor the kiss when his lips meet mine.
When we part, I press my forehead to his. “The first time was good. But it’s gotten even better since.”
Brian starts to nod, but something catches his eye, and suddenly he’s rushing away from me and toward my dresser. “Is that Mjölnir?!” He grabs the hammer that’s sitting on the dresser and pretends to use it to smash my lamp. I can’t help but laugh a little at how strongly Thor’s weapon has grabbed his attention.
“Of course!” I say. “I love Thor.”
“Iron Man’s better, but I get it,” Brian teases, sitting on my bed.
“Well, you’re wrong, but okay.” I take the hammer and set it back in its spot. “So Mjölnir is the reason we stopped kissing, then?”
Brian laughs. “I just got excited. We will be discussing fan theories at some point. But come here.” He pats the space beside him on my bed, and I sit.
We’re close, knees touching, facing each other. It feels like my skin tingles whenever I’m near him.
A silence falls between us and I break it by blurting out, “Who was your first crush?”
Brian gives me a look. “Not at all what I was expecting you to say.” He thinks for a moment. “I had a crush on one of the girls in my neighborhood when I was five. We played video games together. It was great. What about you?”
“I was in kindergarten, and it was Aaron Cyr,” I say.
Brian makes a face. “Aaron Cyr?”
I nod. “It was love at first sight. I even wrote him a love note, you know.”
Brian scoffs, then says, “He gets a love note, but I don’t?”
“You haven’t written me a love note, either!”
“Yes, I absolutely have!” he protests. “That card I gave you on Valentine’s Day?”
I think about the valentine that’s sitting in my wallet. I moved it there when I started having feelings for Brian because…well, because I liked him. “Don’t get me wrong. The valentine is beautiful and I treasure it, but I’m not sure it counts as a love note. We were just friends when you gave it to me.”
“Sure, but I wanted to be more.”
I feel my cheeks flush. Is it possible he was interested in me all the way back in February? And if so, what was I doing wasting my time not being interested right back?!
“But you gave a valentine to every girl in the class,” I say.
“Yeah, I did, because we talked about how Valentine’s Day makes people feel bad about themselves. I didn’t want anyone to feel bad about themselves,” Brian says. “But if I could only have given one valentine to someone in class, it would’ve been you. Yours was the only one that was even a little romantic.”
“I don’t know about that,” I say. I reach over to grab my purse, which is hanging from my bedpost, and dig the valentine out.
Brian looks surprised. “You keep it on you?” he asks.
“Of course. It’s the only valentine I’ve ever gotten,” I say. “And it was from you.”
He smiles at that, and I do, too.
“Here’s what it says.” I clear my throat dramatically before reading it aloud. “‘Just my type. To someone who makes my workday wonderful. Happy Valentine’s Day, Charlie—Brian.’ See?” I say. “There are no underlying romantic feelings in this.”
“What are you talking about? The drawing is of a typewriter, which I specifically chose because you love writing and you’d done that charcoal drawing of one earlier in the semester, and it is telling you that you’re just my type—of person, that I want to be with,” Brian says, pretending to get worked up. “That’s some of my best work, Charlie!”
I start to laugh, tucking the valentine back into my bag. “I didn’t know! I just assumed everyone got something like this!”
“No! Everyone else’s puns were much tamer and less personalized. In fact, I’m pretty sure I gave Layla a valentine that just said ‘stay cool,’ with a drawing of a penguin, because I didn’t want her to infer any type of feeling whatsoever,” he says with a laugh. (He probably made a solid choice there given that everyone in art class knows Layla is kind of in love with him.) Then his voice softens and he looks over at me. “I liked you then.” He reaches out and touches my cheek.
“You did?” I ask.
“I did,” Brian says. “And I really like you now.”
My heartbeat quickens, and I lean closer to him and whisper, “I really like you, too.”
Brian kisses me, soft at first, which I think might be my favorite way to kiss, until we start to deepen the kiss, and I think no, this is my favorite way to kiss.
When we part, we’re both a little breathless, and I say, “You’re good at that.”
“So are you.” Brian grabs hold of my hand and strokes it with his thumb.
“That’s the kind of kissing I’ve dreamt about. The kind I write about.”
He breaks into a devilish grin. “Oh, yeah? You write about us kissing?”
“Well, not us. But people.”
“But people are us, right?”
“Sometimes, maybe,” I say. “And I don’t write about kissing all the time.”
“Sure. Of course.”
I playfully push at his arm. “I swear!”
“I believe you,” Brian says, and I still feel like he’s playing, but I don’t mind. “I really would love to read one of your stories someday.”
I feel shy at the thought. Like I’ve said, sharing my writing is a way of being vulnerable. It leaves me feeling exposed. But writing is such a big part of me that maybe I should share it with Brian.
“I think we can make that happen,” I say finally.
“Really?” he asks. When I nod in response, Brian grins. “And the main character will be a handsome Korean, right?” (I don’t dare mention that one of the main characters in my latest stories is already modeled after him.) “And there’s this smart and wonderful Puerto Rican girl, right? And they’re really into each other? And maybe there’s a dog? A golden retriever?”
I roll my eyes. “Oh my God.”
“Okay, fine, it doesn’t have to be a golden retriever, but let’s agree to some kind of dog.”
“What can I do to shut you up?” I tease.
He gives me a look and says, “I think you know.…”
So I kiss him again, stroking the back of his neck as I do.
He deepens the kiss, one hand on the side of my cheek, the other around my waist, pulling me to him. I feel myself trembling, but I don’t stop him as he leans back onto my pillow and I follow, leaning with him. I’m losing myself in this, in the feeling of his mouth on mine, his fingers on my skin, his arms wrapped around me.
There’s a noise. I push Brian away and quickly sit up, but it’s too late: my mother is in the doorway of my r
oom, looking livid.
“Mom, hi!”
Her eyes are narrowed, her hands are on her hips. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demands.
“Nothing,” I say.
“That”—my mom motions back and forth between me and Brian—“didn’t look like nothing!”
“We were just—”
“Just what?” Her voice is sharp. “Just making out with a boy on your bed? In my house? Under my roof? What’s wrong with you?”
“It was just a kiss,” I say.
Brian stands. “Mrs. Vega, I apologize.”
“Who even are you?” Mom asks.
“That’s Brian, Mom, you know that!” I snap.
“I don’t care who he is. Not in my house!” she yells. “Your behavior sometimes, I swear, Charlie. It’s embarrassing. You should be embarrassed!”
Now I’m mad. “Fine!” I yell back. “If I’m so embarrassing, then we’ll just leave.”
“Excuse me?”
I look at Brian and take his hand. “Let’s go.”
I stomp toward the front door, ignoring my mom calling after me, demanding I stay and fight it out. But I don’t have to. And I won’t.
Chapter Thirty-Six
In Brian’s car, all I can do is apologize. “I’m so sorry about her,” I say for what feels like the twentieth time.
“Please don’t worry about it,” he says, reassuring me for what’s probably the twentieth time, too. “We weren’t doing anything.”
“I know!”
“I mean. Not technically anyway. But maybe it looked a little bad,” he admits.
I bite at one of my nails. “Yeah,” I say. “Maybe. But freaking out like that? Pretending not to even know who you are? She takes it too far.”
“I’m sorry,” Brian says.
“No, it’s fine, and not your fault.”
We’re quiet for a minute before Brian asks, “Will you be okay when you get home later? I mean, will she calm down?”
“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll be all right. She’ll probably be over it and everything will be fine.” It’s a little white lie, but I don’t want to freak Brian out. The last thing I need is for my family drama to push him away.
And honestly, maybe I did cross a line. It’s not like there’s a playbook for how to behave under your mom’s roof when you’ve got your very first boyfriend. Are you really not allowed to kiss your boyfriend a little?
I don’t know. I’m seventeen and things will happen. But if she doesn’t want anything happening under her roof, fine. We can find other places.
“Does she always talk to you that way?” Brian asks.
“Oh,” I say. “I mean, not always.”
“Well, she shouldn’t. Yelling should not be someone’s preferred way of communication, even when they’re mad,” he says. “It was like she was trying to humiliate you.”
“Are you saying your parents don’t try to humiliate you on the regular?” I joke.
“Don’t do that, Charlie,” Brian says. “I’m being serious. It’s not cool.”
I nod. “I appreciate that. But that’s just how she is.”
He shakes his head. “Doesn’t make it right.”
“Amelia says the same thing, but it’s like, what am I supposed to do about it? That’s my mom.”
Brian gnaws on his lip, deep in thought. After a moment, he says, “I honestly don’t know. I don’t have a good answer. I just—I need you to know you deserve better. Okay?”
I give him a small smile. Because hearing that is equal parts wonderful and painful. It’s something I occasionally need to hear, while also serving as a reminder that this relationship with my mom is…a challenge.
“Thanks,” I say. We drive for a bit in silence and then suddenly Brian pulls the car over, startling me. “What’s going on?”
“I just realized it’s finally nice enough out to do this.” He loosens the handles on the roof of his convertible, then presses a button, and the top slowly starts to fold itself into the backseat. I can’t help but smile as a breeze rustles around us. “A long time ago, I said I thought you’d enjoy the feeling of the wind in your hair. So. You ready to go for a drive?”
“Yes!”
“Where to?”
“Someplace far. Someplace like…” Then an idea strikes me. “You know how you took me on that amazing date to the art museum?” I ask. Brian nods. “Well, if that was one of your favorite places, I think we should go to one of my favorite places.” I plug the address into my phone. “Let’s go!”
We do, and the combination of the sunshine on my skin and the wind whipping through my hair (just like Brian once said) feels great. I look up at the sky and let out a laugh. “This is amazing!” I yell.
“I knew you’d like it!” he yells back.
We bask in the sun and turn up the music and sing along to the Smiths as we cruise. It’s a joyful ride and I feel lighter because of it, savoring how sweet and simple this is.
As we reach our destination—the quaint center of a perfect New England town—Brian turns down the music and finds us a spot. I fix my windswept hair by tucking it back into a quick braid while he perfects his parallel-parking job.
“Ready?” I ask, and Brian nods.
I hop out of the car, holding out my hand for him to take. The town is, admittedly, a little earthy-crunchy, with stores that sell kombucha and tie-dye shirts, vegan eateries as the norm, and a lingering smell of patchouli oil. But I’m not mad about it, not when there’s a rainbow flag proudly displayed in the center of town and posters affixed on storefronts proclaiming FEMINISM IS FOR EVERYONE. Plus, they have the best thrift stores here, as evidenced while we walk along the sidewalk, passing several—as well as a record store and a pot shop—until we get to a used-book store, Page Against the Machine.
I look over at Brian, who grins and touches my cheek, a gesture I have come to anticipate and love, and says, “This is perfectly you.”
“Isn’t it?” I ask. “Come on.”
The moment we push open the door, the smell of the used books greets me like an old friend. I’ve spent many mornings, afternoons, and evenings here after fights with my mom, licking my wounds by treating myself to a bunch of new additions (as if my collection needs more).
“The best books have inscriptions in the front or notes in the margins,” I say as we meander through one of the aisles. “Some people think writing in books is like an act of desecration, but I think it’s kind of sweet. You get to see what other people think. For that moment, you get to share the story—just the two of you.”
“That is pretty sweet.” He reaches for a book. “What are the odds this one has an inscription in it?”
“Pretty cocky of you to assume the first book you select is going to have an inscription. They’re like the four-leaf clovers of the used-book store.”
Brian waves the book in front of me dramatically before opening the first page. Then the second. Then the third. And then he pouts. “No inscription.” He puts it back on the shelf. “You try.”
I look at the shelf and run my fingers along some of the spines of the books before settling on a copy of Little Women. I pull it off the shelf and open it up. Then I clear my throat and say, “‘To my darling Marilyn—You are my Jo. I love you always.’”
Brian’s eyes go wide. “Really? You found a four-leaf clover, just like that?”
I turn the book around to him and show him the empty page. “No. But I made you think I was lucky, huh?”
He grabs the book from my hand and snaps it shut, putting it back on the shelf. “You!” he says, grabbing at my waist and pulling me close to him. We both laugh, and he gives me a kiss. “I’m really the lucky one.”
“No, me,” I say, meaning it, and giving him another kiss. “Hey, did I mention there’s a whole comic book section upstairs?”
His face brightens. “Really?”
“Yes!”
Brian gives me a quick peck on the cheek. “Adore you, but the comics section
calls. But you do your thing. Be whimsical. Wander.” Brian disappears upstairs and I go back for the copy of Little Women, which I’m totally going to buy.
My purse buzzes and I dig out my phone to see a text from Amelia.
Hey, it says. What are you up to?
I take a photo of the book in my hand and text her back with it. In my happy place.
I would have gone with you! she writes.
Next time! I type. I’m with Brian.
Enjoy, she writes, and then I tuck away my phone in my bag.
I spend some time meandering up and down the aisles, adding more and more books to my pile: Lotería, Alex & Eliza, The Book of Unknown Americans, The House of the Spirits, The Poet X, another notebook (this one with a holographic cover) to add to my collection. Already, I feel much calmer after the fight with my mom. Eventually, I make my way to the second floor and find Brian, who’s sitting on the floor with a pile of comic books beside him and one open on his lap. I smile to myself, pleased that he’s enjoying himself in a place that I love, too.
I walk over to him and sit down. “Hi.”
He looks at me, wide-eyed. “This. Place. Is. Awesome!” He holds up two comic books, one in each hand. “You have no idea the treasure I’ve unearthed here.”
“Told you!”
“You undersold how great it was. There’s even a cat in here! Did you see the cat?!”
I nod. “His name is Chap.”
“Chap?”
“Short for Chapter.”
“Short for Chapter. Of course.” Then he asks, “How’d you even find this place?”
“Gem from my dad. He used to take me here back in the day,” I say. “Want to show me what you found?”
“Absolutely,” Brian says, patting the spot next to him. I scoot closer to him, our legs touching. “But just so you know, we’re going to be here awhile.”
At that, I grin. An afternoon of books and Brian? Yeah. I don’t mind.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
It’s a good thing Brian and I have a great time out because when I get home, my mom is pissed. Obvi.
She’s sitting on the couch holding her phone, but she puts it down when I walk in and looks directly at me. “It’s about time,” she says before I can even sit down. “You can’t just leave whenever you feel like it.”
Fat Chance, Charlie Vega Page 23