It’s almost like he was intentionally distancing himself …
Maybe I came on too strong? Maybe he read into the care package thing and took it as I like him and I’m trying to move things to the next level? I don’t know. I don’t know what was going through his head because he’s a closed effing book and I knew him for all of nine days or whatever.
I allow myself to overanalyze for a solid ten minutes before snapping out of it and giving him the benefit of the doubt. Rising from my bed, I peel off my pajamas and head to the shower. I have to be at work in a couple of hours.
When I’m finished getting ready, I trek over to Gram’s to grab breakfast, only the second I slide the back door open, I find myself face to face with Constance’s grandson, Myles, seated at my grandmother’s kitchen table.
“Oh. Hi.” I stop in my tracks.
His thin lips curl. “Maritza. Hey. Haven’t seen you in a while.”
Yeah …
“How have you been?” he asks, pushing his thick-rimmed glasses up his long nose. Nothing has changed since the last time I saw him. With a plaid shirt cuffed at his elbows, black skinny jeans, and white chucks, he’s rocking the quintessential film studies major uniform.
“Good. You?” I head to the coffee bar off the butler’s pantry and he careens his body, tracking me with his narrow eyes.
“Great.” I grab a porcelain mug and turn my back to him. “Where’s Gram and Constance?”
“Around here somewhere.” He chuckles. “Probably polishing Gram’s Oscars or something.”
I don’t laugh. He isn’t funny. He’s awkward and obvious and gives off this intrusive, invasive vibe that I can’t fully explain.
Heading back to the kitchen, I don’t find Gram’s usual Saturday morning breakfast spread, no scent of bacon or steel cut oats, no buffet of fresh sliced strawberries and pineapples. She must’ve given her chef the day off.
“All right, well, I have to get to work,” I say, striding toward the sliding door. “Good seeing you, Myles.”
He stands. “You came all the way here for a cup of coffee?”
Pausing, I nod. “Gram has the good stuff.”
His thin lips meld together and he exhales through his nose. “I see.”
Reaching for the door handle, I give it a solid tug and embrace the mild morning air that hits my face.
Freedom.
Freedom from Myles Bridger.
I can’t get back to the guesthouse fast enough. The way he stares. The way he stalls. The way his energy just lingers and clings and makes me feel like I need another shower.
By the time I get back to my place a minute later, I chide myself for overreacting. We had one date. One. And he was weird and tried to kiss me and he wasn’t my type. He called me every day for two weeks afterwards and finally stopped when he got the hint.
He’s just a nerdy, awkward guy. And he’s nice. I don’t give him enough credit for being nice. He’s just … not for me.
I should cut him some slack. I shouldn’t fault him for having an innocent crush. The worst thing the guy ever did was try to kiss me after eating four pieces of garlic bread during a god-awful date at a horrendous hole-in-the-wall Italian place in South Gate.
Grabbing my apron and slipping into my work shoes, I find my keys and head out to my car, my mind returning to Isaiah’s letter.
I promise myself I’ll stop thinking about it. I promise myself I won’t read into it anymore.
But promises are fragile.
And sometimes they break.
Twenty-Two
Isaiah
* * *
The day we get back from the Syrian border, I find a letter from Maritza lying on my bed. Dropping my bag, I take a seat and tear into the envelope.
* * *
Dear Isaiah,
Please accept my sincerest apologies for the care package. I hope my kindness didn’t offend you. But seriously, get over yourself. We’re friends and I’m allowed to do nice things for you.
I hope you’re staying safe over there and I look forward to your next letter when you get back from your super-secret Army mission.
When are you coming home? Panoramic Sunrise is playing another show in five months in the Pacific Palisades. It’s outdoor/open air. Should be fun …
Oh. And I took your advice and slept with someone because you’re right … I am feeling a little tense lately. Anyway, it was awful. He was just some guy who was hitting on me at this bar I went to with Melrose. He had whiskey dick the whole time and I didn’t even come. The next day he tried to kiss me with morning breath before he left. Who does that?! FYI – last time I take your advice, Corporal.
Yours,
Maritza the Waitress
P.S. I hate you … because I blame you for the whiskey dick sex.
* * *
Her letter rests between my fingers and I read her words one more time—specifically the part about her fucking some random guy.
My blood heats, my body clenches. The thought of Maritza naked, some guy with his hands all over her body … it doesn’t sit right with me.
Yeah, I told her she needed to get laid. I pushed her in that direction.
But I didn’t know it was going to feel like this—like a punch to the gut, and now I don’t even fucking know how to process this or what to make of it.
I convinced myself she meant nothing, that she was just some smart-mouthed girl I hung out with for a week … but now I don’t know.
I don’t fucking know.
All I know is there’s this unsettled weight in my chest that wasn’t there five minutes ago.
“Corporal, you ready?” Lieutenant Harbinger stands in the doorway. “Time to roll out again.”
“We just got back.”
“Yeah,” he says. “And now we have to leave again. Another airstrike headed this way. Let’s move it.”
Twenty-Three
Maritza
* * *
I lied.
I broke one of my own hard rules.
But only by omission, which I don’t think really justifies it fairly, but that’s how I’m justifying it anyway.
When I told Isaiah I’d slept with some guy … it wasn’t just some random guy.
It was Myles.
And I’m not proud. In fact, I’m disgusted with myself. Melrose invited him to get drinks with us for some insane reason—I think she felt sorry for him or something. We were both plastered. It happened so fast and it happened without any forethought or thinking and as soon as it was over, I knew it was a mistake and I was appalled at my behavior.
Just thinking about that night, weeks later, makes me nauseous.
It was awkward, unsexy, and all around terrible, but it’s done. It occurred. I own it. And it’s never going to happen again.
“Someone requested you.” I finish pouring four ice waters and glance over at Rachael. “Some guy. Table eleven.”
My heart pounds, my face blanketed in warmth before turning numb. I don’t want to get my hopes up so I don’t allow myself to think what I want to think, to assume what I want to assume.