“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.”
“Which friend?”
Drawing in a heavy breath, I rise. “It’s hot in here. You want the fan on?”
“No. Sit.” She waves for me to return to my post. “Which friend?”
“Just … this girl I met a few days ago.”
Ma’s face doesn’t light. She knows I’m not one for commitment and I haven’t brought a girl home in almost a decade, so anytime I merely mention hanging out with a woman, she assumes I’m referring to some piece I picked up at the local sports bar.
“She’s nice,” I say, only to reassure her. “You’d like her. She’s funny.”
My mother’s face softens. “Can I meet her?”
“Nope.”
Her head tilts and she crosses her legs, angling her body toward me, examining me. “You like her? This girl?”
“Ma, your food’s getting cold.” I point to the Styrofoam container she hasn’t touched since I delivered it to her five minutes ago. “You know steak’s not good when you microwave it.”