He scratches the side of his nose, brows furrowed. “Wasn’t she in that movie …”
I nod. “Davida’s Desire.”
“Yeah,” he says.
“You’ve seen it?”
“No. But my dad had that famous poster in his garage growing up … the one with the white bikini.”
I laugh. “Yeah, I know exactly which poster that is. My grandma has a room full of all her old movie posters.”
Over the years, her poster for Davida’s Desire has gained cult status, kind of like Farrah’s red swimsuit cover. People recognize it instantly—Grandma’s thick, chocolate curls, round, babydoll eyes, elegant pointed nose, bee-stung pout, and curves spilling out of a tiny string bikini as she lies in the sand next to a turquoise ocean.
“Huh.” Isaiah’s palm drags across his jaw and I feel him staring at me, looking at me through a new lens. “You kind of look like her now that I think about it.”
Rolling my eyes, I say, “Yeah, I get that.”
I don’t like to make it into a thing, but my entire life people have pointed out how much I resemble my grandma in her younger days. And it’s true. We have the same abundant, coffee-brown mane. The same round-as-saucers, coffee-hued irises. The pinched nose and the full lips are another Claiborne trademark.
The only thing I didn’t inherit from her were her exaggerated curves.
My father (her son) saw it fit to marry a 90s runway model with straight hips, long legs, and no boobs. From the neck down, I’m all my mother … minus the breast implants of course.
The tour lasts a long and sometimes fascinating two hours before the bus returns us to Sunset Boulevard. Isaiah stands, letting me out first, and then I swear I feel his hand graze my lower back as he follows me.
A zing of something—not sure what—zaps through my middle, but it’s gone by the time I climb down the bus’s steps and hit the pavement.
Checking the time, I bite my lower lip.
“What is it?” he asks.
“We should probably call it a day,” I say, eyes flicking to his as my words are laced in an apologetic tone. A tepid Californian breeze kisses my skin.
“Really?” He checks the time on his phone.
“Just realized I forgot to feed Murphy this morning,” I say. “He hasn’t eaten since last night.”
“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.
Six
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?”