“Wow.” His hands rest at his hips and he takes a step back, glancing down the packed street.
“What?”
“If you don’t want to hang out, just say so. Don’t make up some bullshit excuse about your roommate’s dog.”
I laugh. “Wait—you think … no. I’m not making this up, Isaiah. I seriously need to feed her dog. She’s out of town and I’m supposed to be taking care of him. He’s probably starving by now, and I feel awful.”
His head tilts, like he still doesn’t believe me.
“I’m being honest, I swear. Rule number two, remember? No bullshit, no lies,” I remind him.
Isaiah exhales, lips pressed flat as he studies me for a moment. “All right. I believe you.”
“Good. You should. And I’ll see you tomorrow,” I tell him, cinching my purse strap over my shoulder. Mouth drawn into a smile, I say, “I had fun with you today.”
He nods. “I did too.”
“Liar.”
“I would never violate your rules, Maritza,” he says, rebelling against a hint of a smile. His gaze keeps dropping to my mouth then lifting back to my eyes. And while I didn’t give it much thought before, there were a few small moments today when I caught him staring at me … almost like he was wondering what would happen if he kissed me again.
And truth be told, I caught myself thinking that I kind of wouldn’t mind if he did …
… in the name of fun, of course.
“Text me tonight,” I tell him. “Tell me where to find you tomorrow and I’ll be there.”
With that, I turn, walking away, feeling the weight of his stare and wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
6
Isaiah
Saturday #2
“Santa Monica Pier, eh?”
She finds me on a bench next to a churro vendor, and her hands rest in the back pockets of her cutoff shorts. A white, v-neck tee shows off her tanned skin and a hint of the pale pink lace bra she’s wearing underneath.
Maritza the Waitress is a stunning work of art and the proud recipient of the Claiborne genetic lottery, but I have to remind myself to keep my eyes where they belong. Far too many times yesterday, I caught myself checking her out, letting my gaze linger on every square inch of her every time I knew she wasn’t paying attention.
Despite the fact that we christened our non-relationship that night at the concert, I’ve got no business turning this into any kind of a thing.
Aside from the fact that her bubbly and effervescent personality tends to grate on my skin half the time, I respect the hell out of the fact that she has no qualms about calling things the way she sees them, and she isn’t trying to impress anyone—certainly not me. Maritza is simply Maritza. She isn’t hiding behind layers of makeup, nervous giggles, or agreeable opinions.
But I would never tell her that.
She might get the wrong idea.
She might think that I like her.
“What made you pick this place?” Maritza takes the spot beside me, her thigh brushing against mine. The scent of fried dough, cinnamon, and sugar fills the salty air, and I’m immediately taken back to my younger days.
“My parents used to take us here when we were younger,” I say. “They’d let us run around, buy us anything we wanted.”
The memories of the better times are the only thing I really hold onto from my earlier days.
“Sounds nice,” she says, exhaling with a gentle hum. “So, you grew up in Santa Monica then?”
“Nah.” I shake my head and crack my knuckles as I stare toward the ocean. “Riverside mostly.”
“When was the last time you came here?”
I blow a heavy breath through my lips, shaking my head. “I wouldn’t even know. Ten, twelve years ago?”
I’m guessing I was sixteen or seventeen the last time he took us, which makes sense because that was right before he died, which was right after he walked out of his life and left behind his disabled wife and their six children.
“You’re quiet,” she says a few beats later, nudging my arm. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing worth sharing,” I say. And it’s true. She doesn’t need to know about my past. It has nothing to do with the here and now, with our week of Saturdays. It’s a part of me I no longer discuss and that’s all that it is.
“Everything is worth sharing.”
I shake my head. “Not this.”
Maritza leans forward, elbows on her knees and chin resting on her hands, watching the crowd. “Do you ever people watch?”
“Sometimes. Why?”
“When I was younger, my cousin Melrose and I would always people watch and we’d make up these stories … like we’d pick someone and then whip up their whole life story in thirty seconds,” she says. “See that guy over there? Posing by that Route 66 sign?”
Maritza casually points toward a man in jean shorts and a black t-shirt, a Santa Monica Pier hat on his head and a thick blond beard covering the lower half of his face.
“Yeah. I see him,” I say.
“His name is Collin Burke and he’s from Denver, Colorado,” she says, licking her lips as she studies him. “He’s the baby of the family, which is why he’s comfortable posing for pictures and being the center of attention. He’s a computer programmer by trade, and for fun he gets together with his friends and does some live action role playing stuff. And despite the fact that he’s clearly in his mid-thirties, he has a Star Wars comforter on his bed at home and a dog named Yoda. Also, he has a girlfriend. Her name is Samantha Robbins and she’s the one taking his picture. She doesn’t know it yet, but he’s going to pop the question this year at his family’s lake house on the Fourth of July, just as the fireworks begin.”
“Nerdy and romantic,” I say. “Killer combo.”
Maritza sighs. “And that’s exactly why she’s going to say yes. She’s crazy for him. Wants to have alllll his babies.”
I chuckle. “You’re so random.”
And I kind of like it …
“Okay, your turn. Pick someone and give me their life story,” she says, sitting back against the bench, her arm against mine and her hand patting the top of my knee. Normally I like my space, but for some reason being this close with another person isn’t giving me that grating, nails-on-a-chalkboard sensation that makes my teeth grind and my breath quicken.
Scanning the pier and examining my options, my gaze lands on a woman in the distance, wearing nothing but a peach bikini and sitting all alone on a green towel on the beach.
“Her,” I say, nodding in her direction. “The girl in the bikini, sitting by herself.”
“The one in the straw hat?”
“Yep,” I say, pulling in a deep breath. “Her name is Cadence.”
“Pretty name.”
“And she recently broke up with her boyfriend because he was screwing her best friend,” I say.
“Damn. You’re taking this in a Maury Povich direction, but okay. Keep going,” she says.
“She grew up in New Hampshire but she always felt like more of a west coaster, hence the bleach blonde hair and skin cancer tan.”
“Judge much?”
“Okay fine. It’s a spray tan and she’s extremely diligent about wearing sunscreen. That better?” I ask.
“Much.”
“Anyway, she dumped her boyfriend and came out here because she wanted to be alone with her thoughts but surrounded by people. She’s complicated like that, but that’s most women. They’re always wanting two completely different things at the same time and they have no clue why half the time.”
Maritza laughs. “Hashtag truth.”
“She’s also secretly hoping that some random, attractive guy will hit on her, give her his number, and make her forget about the guy who screwed her over,” I add. “But at the end of the day, she’s going to go home empty handed, call up some girlfriends, and head to their favorite bar for some drinks so they can talk about how fucking stupid men are.
And it’s true. We’re stupid as hell when it comes to women … and half of it is because we’re designed that way and the other half of it is because you guys are so complicated we can’t even begin to figure you out.”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa, Corporal. Don’t lump us all together,” she says, head cocked and eyes squinting. “I pride myself in not being complicated ninety-nine percent of the time. I’m a bona fide what-you-see-is-what-you-get kind of woman—except at work, of course. I have to be sweet and accommodating there or else I won’t be able to pay my rent.”
“Your grandma charges you rent?”
She nods. “Of course. What, you thought I was some freeloader?”
“I don’t know what I thought.” I lift a hand. “Anyway, so that’s peach bikini girl’s story.”
“You didn’t even go into her past. Like does she have siblings? What kind of car does she drive?”
“You’re taking this way too seriously,” I say. “Does it matter what car she drives? Her heart was just obliterated. Everything else is secondary at this point.”
“Fair enough.” Maritza exhales, and I’m relieved that my ‘turn’ is over. “Hey, are you hungry?”
I check my phone. It’s nearly noon.
“Do you want to get sushi or something?” she asks. “Do you like sushi? What do you like?”
“Sushi’s fine.”
She stands. “Everything’s always ‘fine’ with you.”
I rise, shrugging. “So?”
“Is anything ever not fine?”
I frown. Lots of things aren’t fine, but those things aren’t in the here and now. “When you’ve seen what I’ve seen, let’s just say it gives you a little perspective as to what’s fine and what’s not.”
She links her arm into mine and we head up the pier.
“That’s deep, Corporal. I like when you go deep.” Her hand cups her mouth. “I didn’t mean it like that,” she says. “I just mean, you’re so quiet all the time. I think it’s cool when you say something meaningful. You’re a man who only really talks when he has something to say, and I like that about you.”
“Anyway.” We head past vendors slinging corn dogs and popcorn and weave through yoga-pants wearing moms and squeeze past two bicyclists and not once does she let go of me. “Are you always this hands-on with people you hardly know?”
“Oh, sweetheart, I think we’re a little past that, aren’t we?” she asks, lashes fluttering as her lips bunch in one corner. “Anyway, does it bother you? You can tell me if it does.”
“Not yet,” I say. “But I’ll keep you posted.”
Maritza points to a place called SUGARFISH and leads us that way. The hostess tells us the wait is at least forty-five to fifty minutes, so we head to the bar to kill time.
“There’s only one stool,” she says. “You want it?”
“I’m insulted that you’d even ask me that.” I take a step back, pointing at the seat. “It’s yours.”
I’ll be damned if I’m some selfish tool who makes a woman stand while he gets to sit.
A minute later, we order drinks. The place is loud and packed as hell for a weekday afternoon, but I decide to enjoy this because this is heaven compared to where I’m going to be a week from now.
“I’m starving,” she says with a sigh, her full lower lip pouting. “I forgot to eat breakfast. At least I remembered to feed the dog before I left.”
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I slide it out to find my sister Calista’s name on the screen. She only ever calls about Mom, so I lift a finger. “I’m sorry. I have to take this.”
“Of course.” She smiles, turning to face the bar.
“Calista,” I answer. “What’s up?”
“Hey, I was supposed to bring Mom dinner tonight, but Evangeline’s got a fever and Grayson has basketball and Rod’s working a double.” Her voice is a mixture of exhaustion and surrender.
“It’s fine,” I say. “I’ll swing by and grab her something tonight.”
“Thanks, little brother. I owe you.”
“You owe me nothing,” I say.
“What am I going to do when you’re gone?” she asks, exhaling into the phone.
“You’ll do what you always do,” I say. The sound of rattling toys and a blaring TV in the background disrupts our moment and she tells me she has to go.
As much as the two of us butt heads, Calista hates that I’m in the military. She’s made that crystal clear from the day I enlisted. And it’s not that she has something against the army—she’s scared for me, that’s all. She’s scared to lose me. We were always so close growing up. Then she got married and had kids and I was overseas. Now our interactions are relegated to short phone calls about Mom and silent “love yous” that are never said but always somehow felt.
It’s really the closest I allow myself to get to actually feeling something.
Slipping my phone back into my pocket, I turn toward Maritza, only to find some emaciated jackass with a sleeve of tattoos and an ear full of piercings leaning up against the bar, wearing a jerkoff’s smile and looking at her like a shark about to devour chum.
I have to intervene.
She’ll thank me later.
Returning to her side, I slip my arm over her shoulder and give that tool a good, hard stare. He doesn’t get it at first. Almost scoffing and then laughing, like he thinks it’s some kind of joke.
“This guy bothering you, babe?” I ask.
She glances up at me before gently removing my arm from her shoulders. “Isaiah, stop.”
The guy scratches his temple, glancing around, fidgeting almost.
I make him nervous.
“Find someone else, all right, bud?” I say, flashing a pearly white ‘fuck off’ smile. “This one’s mine.”
“Isaiah.” Maritza says my name harder now, her brows meeting.
The guy’s shoulders slump, his confidence taking the shape of a deflated Mylar balloon, and he ambles away, disappearing into the crowd.
“Why did you do that?” She punches my arm. I think she’s actually mad.
“I was doing you a favor.”
“No, you were acting like a jealous asshole. Need I remind you that we are not a thing? That this is not a date? That you have no claim over me?”
“No need to remind me at all,” I say because we’re still very much on the same page. “I saw a situation that required an intervention and I delivered.”
Maritza rolls her eyes. “Un-fucking-believable.”
Our drinks arrive and she reaches for hers so quickly she nearly knocks it over.
“He just wanted a piece,” I tell her.
Her back is to me, and she lifts her martini glass to her full lips. “And you knew that how? Because you sized him up for all of three seconds?”
“I know men,” I say. “I know how we think, how we operate. I’ve spent the last damn near decade of my life around sex-starved men who treat bars like some kind of fucking feeding frenzy and that guy was fishing hard.”
She says nothing, only takes another sip. But I wish she’d reply because now I’m starting to feel like the jackass.
“Maritza,” I say.
A moment later, she finally turns to me. “You know, honestly? I’m offended right now. I’m offended that you think I’m too stupid to not know the difference between a man who’s genuinely interested and a man who just wants a piece. That guy was nice and we were talking about Aerosmith because he was wearing an original t-shirt from their 1993 Get A Grip tour, and you made him feel about ‘this’ tall.”
She pinches her fingers together before turning back around.
“I’m sorry,” I say, scraping my hand across the gritty stubble that peppers my jaw.
“What if he was supposed to be my future husband? What if he was the one?” she asks, back still toward me. “What if we were supposed to get married someday? And have two point five kids and live in a beautiful house in Temecula? But now I’ll never know.” Maritza turns back to me. “I
just hope you can live with yourself after this.”
“What?”
“You’ll have to live with the fact that you basically killed my future children by intervening in destiny,” she says, lifting her glass. “That’s some Back to the Future level shit, Corporal.”
I’m so fucking confused.
And then she bursts out laughing. “I’m fucking with you.”
Exhaling, I take half a step away. She got me. She got me good.
“I had no interest in that guy,” she said. “He was nice but not my type, so thanks for saving me.”
Our buzzer goes off, our table must be ready early.
“You’re so fucking dramatic,” I tell her, wearing a half-smirk. If I knew her better, I’d give her ass a good pinch right now. Instead, I shamelessly let my gaze drop as I follow behind her, considering this her atonement, her penance.
“It’s in my blood,” she says. “Literally.”
A moment later, we’re seated in a cozy corner booth and given two menus printed on linen paper. It’s broad daylight outside, but in here it’s dark and intimate, candles everywhere. And while this is the furthest thing from a date and getting attached to this woman is the last thing I need to be doing, the smallest—and I mean the most minuscule—part of me finds myself wishing I wasn’t leaving next week, that I could stick around and get to know her a little better.
Something tells me I could like her.
And that’s saying a lot because truly, I don’t like anyone.
* * *
“What did you do today, Isaiah?” Mom asks as she settles behind a TV tray that night and reaches for her remote.
“Just palled around.”
She glances at me. She might be tired and her brain might be foggy every now and then, but she knows me.
“Don’t get smart with me,” she says, chin tucked against her chest. “What’d you do?”
“Went to the Pier.”
Ma mutes the TV, lips pressed flat. Some days she doesn’t remember much, but she surely remembers the pier.
“Alone?” she asks.
Taking a seat on the edge of her bed, I shake my head. “With a friend.”
The Complete P.S. Series Page 7