Sitting up, she reaches for a knife and a fork and begins sawing her meat, muttering in Portuguese under her breath.
“She’s a good girl,” I say. “Respectable. But we’re just friends.”
If you can even call us that …
“You enjoy spending time with her?” Ma asks.
“I do.”
She takes a tiny bite, chewing, contemplating. “All I want for you is to have a nice girl to spend time with. Someone who puts a smile on your face. My dying wish, Isaiah.”
“Ma, don’t talk like that.”
“What?”
“Don’t talk about dying wishes,” I say. “You’re not dying.”
Ma’s mouth curls into a bittersweet smile. “Meu amor, you live in the land of denial and you have for quite some time. If you deny death, you’re denying life. Just promise me you’ll never deny your feelings.”
Rising from her bed once more, I offer a humoring chuff before bending to kiss the top of her forehead. “I’ll be in the next room if you need me.”
Seven
Maritza
* * *
Saturday #3
* * *
“Let me get this straight.” My cousin-slash-best friend-slash roommate, Melrose, leans against my bathroom doorway as I get ready to meet up with Isaiah. “I’m on location for three days and I come back and you’re spending a week with a complete stranger?”
Her jaw hangs as she gathers her messy blonde waves into an even messier top knot, gazing at her reflection via my mirror.
“You’re crazy,” she says. “Not that you didn’t already know this. Do your parents know?”
“Nope.”
“Does Gram?” she asks.
“Nope.”
“Good God, Maritza, what if something happened to you? And no one would’ve known who you were hanging out with?” She clucks her tongue. If Isaiah thinks I’m dramatic, wait until he meets her.
If he ever meets her.
Which he probably won’t.
“He’s in the army,” I tell her, as if that automatically makes him safe.
“Lots of people are in the army.”
“He’s a good person,” I add, because anyone who’s willing to sacrifice their life for complete strangers qualifies as “good” in my book even if they’re not exactly the warm, personable type.
“And you know this because you’ve known him for a hot minute?” She pushes past me, taking a seat on my toilet lid and resting her elbow against my vanity. “I thought you were insane when you fostered those stray dogs last year. And then I thought you were even crazier when you changed your major to Gender Whatever Studies because up until then, you’d never so much as expressed a single interest in that topic, but this … this takes the cake, my love.”
“We’re having fun,” I say, shrugging off her concerns.
Melrose is an actress, trying desperately to follow in our grandmother’s footsteps. So far her IMDB is just small stuff. Minor roles. She’s still taking acting classes and looking for her big break, but last year she was in an episode of Law and Order: SVU and ever since then she’s become obsessed with shows like Dateline and anything related to creepy, twisted crimes and she’s suddenly adamant that everyone has an ulterior motive at all times.
I decide to take her dramatic concerns with a grain of salt.
Besides, I have pepper spray and a whistle in my purse should he try anything stupid, and I taught women’s self-defense classes my sophomore year at UC-Berkeley. Plus, if he were a serial killer, I feel like he would’ve had ample opportunity to murder me Friday night when he stayed at my place—a little detail I have no intention of sharing with Mel in the immediate future.
Twisting my hair into a low chignon, I check my reflection one last time before reaching for a bottle of my Kai perfume and spritzing my pulse points.
“We’re going to the Brentwood farmer’s market today,” I tell her.
She makes a face.
“What?” I ask.
“Since when do you do shit like that?”
“Since never,” I say. “But we’re trying new things this week, things neither of us have ever done before. It’s a week of ‘yes.’”
Melrose sticks her finger down her throat, pretending to gag herself. Always so judge-y, this one. But I don’t take offense to it. Her idea of spending time with a man involves one at least twice her age, a sexy sports car, and a reservation at an exclusive LA eatery.
She may be my best friend, but we couldn’t be more different.
“All right, well … while you’re hanging out with your serial killer friend, I’m going to be lunching with Gram at The Ivy,” she says, teasing like I should be jealous. And then she cracks a smile. “Wish you could join us …”
“Next time.” I hit the bathroom light and head to my room, grabbing my things and stepping into a pair of comfy sneakers. The farmer’s market is only six blocks from here, so I’m walking. But before heading out the door, I text Isaiah and tell him I’ll see him in ten minutes.
He says he’s already there.
I smirk.
Those military boys and their punctuality …
“You stand out like a sore thumb,” I tell him when I find him.
“Why do you say that?” he asks.
“I don’t know. Can’t put my finger on it. You just do. You’re not a farmer’s market person, I can tell.”
“Should I have worn my flax pants and straw hat today?” he asks. We begin to walk, our arms bumping into one another every few steps.
“Smart ass.” We pass a flower stand and a bouquet of blue hydrangeas steals my attention. “Hold up. I want to buy some of these.”
“Want or need?”
“Blue hydrangeas are always a need.”
A minute later, I walk away with a beautiful bouquet wrapped in brown paper and Isaiah stops at a breakfast burrito stand for some wrap made with local, cage-free eggs, organic cheddar sourced from Northern California, and free-range chicken sausage.
We find an empty table next to a wine vendor’s booth and steal a couple of spots.
“So what is a farmer’s market person?” he asks.
I laugh through my nose. “I don’t know … maybe a Volvo-driving, organic-obsessed, Pilates-loving mom of four? Not to be, you know, stereotypical. I’m just going off of what I see here. There definitely seems to be some consistencies around us.”
He glances toward a parking lot behind us and I count at least eight Volvo XC-90s, most of which are polished black or glimmering white. A woman pushing a double stroller and wearing $90 yoga pants yells at her two older kids, telling them not to run off.
“See?” I point toward her. “Am I right or am I right?”
“You’re right.” He inhales his last bite of burrito and wipes his hands on a napkin. “So what kind of person am I?”
“What?”
“If I’m not a farmer’s market person … how would you categorize me? What box would you place me in?” he asks.