Her hand rests on my forearm. “You’re not staying?”
I park in her grandmother’s circle drive, beside a trickling fountain surrounded by strategically placed up-lights.
“Why would I stay? I just wanted to make sure you got home safely.”
“What’s with you all of a sudden?” She unfastens her seatbelt, angling her body toward me. “I thought we were having a good time tonight?”
“We were,” I say. “We did. But the night’s over.”
“Am I annoying you? Is that what this is? You can be honest,” she says. “I swear, Isaiah, I only had, like three drinks, you saw me. I didn’t mean to get like this. It’s just, I was so busy at work today and then I had to come home and get ready and I guess I forgot to eat?”
“It’s fine.”
“No.” Her full lips press together. “It’s not fine. I should’ve stopped hours ago or switched to water or something. I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t ruin your night.”
I reach for the ignition and kill the engine. “I’ll walk you in.”
Climbing out of the car, I meet her around front, by the hood. She’s quiet, studying me as she attempts to keep her balance. The front door of the guesthouse is cocked open. Guess Melrose beat us back.
“Come on. Let’s get you inside.” Hooking my hand into her elbow, I pull her against me and lead her inside, trying not to breathe in the way the warm Southern California breeze mingles with her grandmother’s flowers and Maritza’s citrus perfume.
Stopping outside the door, she stands to face me, squaring her shoulders with mine.
“I had fun stargazing tonight,” she says. “Thank you for showing me Leo.”
I nod. “Of course.”
Maritza lingers, like she’s waiting for me to cap the night off with a kiss, but I refuse. It was fun earlier this week, but somewhere along the line, shit threatened to get real and now I have to draw a hard line.
“Tomorrow’s our last Saturday,” she says. It’s got to be the second or third time she’s brought it up tonight, as if I could possibly forget. But as much as I want to spend another day with her, part of me thinks it might only make this harder … and it might defeat the entire point of spending the week with a girl I thought I could walk away from in the end.
After getting to know her and spending day in and day out with all of her idiosyncrasies, I’ve realized she’s funny and witty and sarcastic. She’s genuine and honest and kind. She’s unapologetic and charismatic.
If I were the committed type, I’d lock her down in a heartbeat.
I’d make her mine and never let her go.
But it doesn’t work that way. I’m leaving and she’ll be here. We’ll be worlds apart. And commitment was something I longed for a lifetime ago. It doesn’t mean a damn thing to me now.
“I had fun with you this week,” she says, voice soft and low. “I’m kind of sad for it to end.”
“Goodnight, Maritza.” Forcing a quick smile, I leave before it gets too deep.
Returning to my car, I fire up the engine and get the hell out of there before I say or do something I might regret.
It’s only when I’m several blocks away that I glance at my phone for the first time all night and find seven missed calls in a row, all of them from my sister.
Eleven
Maritza
* * *
Saturday #7
* * *
“Not hanging out with lover boy today?” Melrose is lying by Gram’s pool, removing the two cucumber slices from her eyes when I take a seat beside her. “Where’s your bikini? Why are you dressed like that?”
She squints at my getup, one of our grandmother’s vintage Pucci cover ups and an oversized, floppy hat.
“Does Gram know you raided her closet?” she asks.
“Haven’t you heard? The sun causes wrinkles.” I cross my legs. “I’m surprised you’re not more concerned. Your skin is your canvas, right?”
“Sweets, I’ve been using retinols since sixteen and getting Botox since twenty-one. Nothing’s going to crack this glass.” She reaches for an issue of Elle magazine and pages through it, skipping all the ads, and her oil-slicked skin glistens in the sunlight. “Anyway, why aren’t you with Isaiah?”
I bite my lip, trying to ignore that sunken-in feeling in my chest that’s resided there since he texted me this morning and told me he wasn’t sure he’d be able to see me today.
“Something came up,” he texted me several hours ago, nothing more, nothing less.
But I don’t know what to believe.
There’s not much about last night that I remember up until the time he took me home. And now, all I keep picturing is that look on his face as he stood across from me by the front door. It’s like he was placing this extra distance between us, and I’m not talking physical.
It was emotional.
And he didn’t so much as try to kiss me. Maybe part of that reason was because I was pretty freaking tipsy, but still. There was just something different in his eyes last night, something stiff and armored about his tone.
I grab a spare magazine and lean back on the rattan lounger. It's a balmy eighty degrees without a cloud in sight, weather that all but demands a good mood. But I’m nothing but sullen, riddled with emptiness. I wanted to see him today. I wanted our last Saturday to mean something. I wanted to go out with a bang.
Instead, he blew me off.
Like I mean absolutely nothing.
There's a chance he's telling the truth. And he should be. That was the agreement. But at the end of the day, I really don't know him. And at the end of the day he doesn't owe me a damn thing, not even the truth.
Maybe I'm naïve. Maybe he was looking for a week of sex and debauchery only to find himself sorely disappointed. Maybe he was hoping one thing would lead to another and I would be a crazy fling that he could walk away from, but somewhere along the line I think he realized that in a perfect world we would be good for each other.
Not that I'm in the market for a boyfriend.
But if the stars aligned and the opportunity was there and he wasn't about to leave the country, I might have been willing to explore the possibility of something more.
“So what are you going to do today?” Melrose asks. “I mean, you took the day off. I guess that’s what happens when you drop everything for a stranger with a pretty smile.”
Today of all days I'm not in the mood for her snide comments and signature snark.
“What are you going to do if he calls you and changes his mind? Like do you really think something came up or do you think he's just blowing you off?” she asks a moment later, tossing her magazine aside.
“I don't know what I think.”
“I don’t know why you’re feeling sorry for yourself. You knew he was just some charismatic ass like the rest of them.” She sighs. “Maritza, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but he just wanted a piece.”
I exhale. Melrose and her lack of compassion are getting on my nerves and I’m two seconds from going back inside the house, changing into sweats, and watching Netflix by myself.