I’m just not sure I’m ready for him to hear it.
♫♬♫
A chill crawls down my spine as my feet step over the threshold and land on my freshly-stained porch. It’s been happening all week. This uneasy feeling flutters in the pit of my stomach. The fine hairs on my forearms rise as my skin puckers in goose bumps. I scan my surroundings, but only find the usual suspects around.
Mr. Rodriguez, sixty-five, watering his flourishing fruit and vegetable garden while his husband of fifteen years (partner for forty) picks blackberries from their overabundant bushes. Undoubtedly for their mouthwatering wild berry pie that will most definitely make its way to my doorstep, as they always do, among other delicious pity dishes. That’s what happens when you’re nearing your mid-twenties, single, and living in a neighborhood that is about ninety-percent senior citizen.
Ms. Barbara ‘Babs’ Brighton, seventy years old, is also single, and doing all the mingling. She was a pin-up girl in the seventies and doesn’t look a day over fifty. She has a body that I am jealous of, and acts like she’s still in her twenties. Like every Tuesday late afternoon, the vintage firecracker is sitting on her porch swing with a glass of iced tea, a joint, and a bowl of popcorn as she salivates over Justin, a young Hottie McBody (her words, not mine) who mows most of the yards in our cul-de-sac for nothing but baked goods and set-ups with granddaughters.
I walk down my steps and wave at Babs, who throws me a wink before returning to her ogling. Justin looks over his bare shoulder, shuts off the mower, and takes out his earbuds. The smile he gives me would dampen any woman’s panties, but mine are surprisingly Mohave desert-dry.
He’s hot, like Scott Eastwood hot, but he’s almost too hot, you know? Like I’d be too afraid to touch him in fear that I would somehow tarnish his beauty. He’s too perfect, ridiculously charming, overtly flirtatious, and not to mention he just turned twenty a month ago. He can’t even legally drink. He’s sweet, though, harmless and relentless. He’s asked me out at least ten times over the last two summers. I don’t know how I’ve been able to stand my ground and not take him up on what he’s offering—dinner and no strings attached sex. From the way his lithe body moves as he saunters over—smooth, controlled, almost panther-like—and that unmistakable bulge in his gym shorts, I’m willing to go out on a limb and say that sex with Justin would be nothing short of orgasmic. Multiplied by three.
And yet…
Mohave. Desert.
What’s wrong with me?
Many things, but you know the real reason you turn down the poor, sexy-ass kid and any other man who asks you out. He has the name of a state no one is truly from and you’ve played his voicemails every hour since he left them…
“Damn, Zoey, you get more beautiful every time I see you. And that outfit…” Justin trails off as his eyes move from mine and travel the entire length of my body with barely-veiled hunger. I’m wearing a simple white blouse that flows from my body, but the straps are thin, as is the material, and my jean shorts on the shorter side, exposing most of my mocha legs. I’m not going to lie, I do look damn good today. I’ll own that. “Fuck, Zo. Are you ever going to put me out of my misery and go out with me? You’re killing me, girl.” He groans, and I can’t help but to smile.
It always feels good to be wanted, doesn’t it?
“Justin…”
He groans again, but it’s an entirely different sound. “I know what that means.”
“I’m sorry, you know I think you’re great.”
“I’m gonna wear you down eventually,” he says with confidence. It’s not cocky, just assured. Almost convincing.
Almost.
“We’ll see.” I reply as I push the kickstand of my yellow cruiser bike upward. “Bye, Justin. And put your shirt back on before you give Babs a heart attack.”
“Nah, you and I both know that woman gets more than you and I combined. She can handle a little bare chest.”
“And abs, Justin. Don’t forget the abs.”
“See, wearing you down. Slowly. But it’s gonna happen, Zo.”
I reply with a smile and hop on my bike. I unsling my purse from my shoulders and place it in the brown wicker basket, wave at Babs once more, and then begin to peddle down the street. I can feel Justin’s eyes on me the whole way down Cherry Point Lane.
That chill returns. Faint, but there nonetheless. The urge to look back is palpable. But my eyes remain forward.
It’s a twenty-minute ride to the little Mexican joint I love. They have the best tacos in the history of tacos, and cheap margaritas. What more can a girl want?
Sex?
Oh, shut up, vagina! No one asked you.
How about best friends who aren’t little information withholders?
Now, you’re talking. How about that?
I park my bike in the rack in front of the restaurant and lock it up. My burgundy crossbody wallet purse is slung over my squared shoulder and I make my way into Marisol’s with purpose. As soon as I enter the quaint but vibrant Mexican joint, my nostrils are assaulted with the most delicious smells, and my stomach instantly rumbles and demands to be fed some chips and guacamole. And tacos.
All the tacos.
Never forget the tacos.
But first, I have a man I need to verbally attack.
I spot him right away, sitting in our booth, already halfway into his margarita. He looks over the large, salt-rimmed glass, locking eyes with mine, and I know he knows he’s in deep shit. He opens his mouth to spew what I can assume would be complete and utter pigeon shit, but I open mine faster and create actual words. Not shit.
“How long have you known?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Blue says before taking a huge sip of his drink, not at all meeting my eyes anymore.
Pigeon. Shit.
I whip my purse off and throw it into the booth, plop down, snatch the margarita from his lying-ass mouth, and down the rest of it in one go. It was cold as hell, but worth it from the stunned look on Blue’s face.
“You know exactly what I’m talking about. Or rather, who I’m talking about. Don’t lie to me, Blue.”
Blue sighs heavily before calling out to Juan Carlos.
“We’re gonna need another round—”
I raise my eyebrows at him.
“Two. We’re gonna need two more rounds of peach margaritas. You know what, just keep ’em coming, Juan.”
“Blue!”
“Six months.”
“Six months!” I yell an octave or two louder than necessary. “Six months!” I whisper-scream at him. “You’ve known he was moving back for six months, and you didn’t tell me?”
“I…I wanted to. I tried, Zo. But there was never the right time—”
“Never the right time? We’ve seen each other at least three times a week, if not more in those six months, and there wasn’t a single moment in which you could have warned me that your brother, my—Delaware fucking King was coming back here?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying, Zo.” Juan drops off the margaritas and doesn’t even take our food order because he already knows it. We have the same thing every Taco Tuesday, leaving us to proceed with this awesome conversation. Both Blue and I take a sip before he continues. “You have a house that is HGTV-worthy, you have a job that you love, you have friends who would walk on Legos for you. You have your life together, Zo. You’re happier than you have been in a long time. I didn’t wanna fuck with that. Not until I knew that this was for real. That he was really sober this time.”