I wink at him. With a smirk, he stands up and lifts his arms to stretch, yawning. His T-shirt rides up, exposing a taut stomach and the trail of hair disappearing into the band of his shorts. Curling my hands into fists, I look down at my laptop, my cheeks on fire. I remember my hands on his skin there. My thighs squeeze together as heat curls low in my stomach.
God. He’d felt so good.
“Ivan and MJ will meet up with us at Mike’s Bar on Wharf Street,” he says. “Wear something pretty.” Did his voice deepen at that, or is it just my imagination?
I look up and see Sol standing there, one leg bouncing as he watches me from under his cap. I wish his eyes weren’t hidden behind locks of hair and that hat. “Leave the cap at home.”
He laughs, giving me a two-finger salute before saying, “Got it. See you tomorrow, Gracie.”
He says my name like it’s a naughty little secret between us.
I bite down on my bottom lip as I watch him walk out of the diner, then focus back on the keyboard in front of me. I let the smile I was fighting so hard to conceal spread across my face.
Why must he become a priest? It’s like dangling an apple in front of a very hungry horse, knowing very well he can’t reach it. Eat it. That’s how I feel every time I look at Sol; like I can look or maybe touch and kiss him if I’m lucky enough. But in the grand scheme of things, he doesn’t belong to me. And to be honest, me and the Big Guy up there are on good terms. I wouldn’t want to piss Him off. He’s gotten me through some really tough times. Besides, Sol will leave eventually. And I still need to be right with God when that happens.
I sigh. At least I know what he tastes like. What his kisses and that almost-there smile feel like on my lips. The memory is imprinted in my brain forever.
Shoving the earbuds back in my ears, I force myself to focus on the work in front of me, trying to ignore the butterflies fluttering inside my stomach in anticipation.
My room looks like it was attacked by a tornado. Clothes and shoes are scattered everywhere in my attempt to find something to wear and from the frustration and anger that have been building since my mom and I argued. She approached me again on my way out of the diner. I could see how desperate she was to try and understand why Brown wasn’t my choice. Emotions were high, and words were wielded like swords, cutting deep and leaving gaping wounds in their wake. I said some really awful things to her; my mom, my best friend. I told her if she wanted me to go to Brown so badly, she could go herself. Maybe having me instead of following her dream had been a mistake. She winced with every blow, her face crumbling with every word I hurled at her. I don’t know what got into me.
God.
What am I going to do? Why am I ungrateful and self-centered? I wonder who I inherited those traits from. Definitely not from my mother because she’s the most selfless person I’ve ever known.
I feel like everyone is moving forward with their lives while I’m standing still, waiting for the world to nudge me in the right direction. Sometimes, I feel like I’m holding my breath, afraid that if I exhale, the world will slip from under my feet, sending me plummeting and I’ll never get up.
The thought of calling Sol and telling him I won’t be going with him tomorrow momentarily fills my mind, but that would mean spending the rest of the evening in my room with my wild thoughts, seething and pitying myself.
I groan and press the heel of my palms to my eyes, pushing back the tears of frustration threatening to fall. I want to punch something, tear something apart. What’s wrong with me?
I drop my hands from my face and inhale deeply through my mouth.
Sol. So determined and patient and good. But . . . is he really just a friend? I’m not so sure anymore.
I want to kiss him again, feel his hands on my hips, even though my brain keeps screaming that it’s not a good idea. I shouldn’t get my hopes up.
It’s just a little flirting and having fun. Nothing serious, I tell myself.
Do you believe your own lies? I inwardly ask, remembering how good it felt to come apart in his hands.
I shake my head. No more lustful thoughts of Sol today. Or at least for the next few minutes. I stop pacing and sit on the edge of my bed. Dropping my head to my hands, I wonder if:
a) My mom is right, and I was lying to myself when I told her Sol and I are just friends.
b) Maybe I could eventually enjoy and appreciate psychology and criminal justice and finally become a profiler.
Her dream.
I take deep breaths.
I need to get out of here. I glance at the clothes on my bed, but nothing seems appealing to wear. I need something new, something to perk me up a little.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and quickly text MJ, asking her if she has time to go dress shopping with me.
There’s one truth in my mind: I’m trying to impress Sol. I want to please him.
I can’t deny that and won’t even try.
We wind up inside a little boutique in Old Port. MJ asks me what I’m looking for, and I tell her I have no idea. When it comes to shopping, I wing it. My fashion decisions mirror my life choices. I can never settle on a specific style.
Subtly, I take in MJ’s outfit, admiring her sense of style. High-waisted black shorts, white tank top that shows off her flat stomach, and a pair of red and blue ballet flats. Her chestnut brown hair is tied in a loose bun at the base of her neck. It hits me how stunning she is. So stunning I feel self-conscious standing next to her.
She catches me staring and smiles confidently. I notice two of her lower teeth aren’t straight, and I’m stupidly relieved. At least she has a flaw.
“What?” she asks.
“You’re beautiful,” I tell her.
“Yeah?” she asks, with a pink tinge to her cheeks. “Thanks.”
I nod and feign indifference, but my lips are twitching, fighting back a smile. “It’s disgusting, actually.”
She blinks at me, probably gauging how serious I am. Then she laughs. “Bitch, please. You’re so sweet-looking it’s giving me a toothache.”
I snort out loud. “Come on, help me find something to wear.”
We head toward an aisle full of dresses. MJ plucks a few from the rack with efficiency as if she does this every day. She dumps them in my hands, then points me to the changing room. “Try this one”—she points to an olive green off-the-shoulder dress—“and put those beautiful shoulders on display.”
“Are you always this bossy?” I grumble, stepping into the room the size of a shoebox and stripping off my shorts and T-shirt to slip on the dress. I study my reflection in the mirror, tugging up the drooping neckline.
Hmm. If it were to dip any farther, I’d end up being the showstopper instead of part of the audience.
“You have no idea. Just ask Ivan.” She giggles, and from the mischievous gleam in her eyes, I’m certain we’re talking about completely different things.
I push back the curtain and step out, sweeping a hand down my body in flourish. She eyes me up and down critically, tugging the dress here and there.
“Not sure how I feel about this.” I point at my chest where the swell of my boobs is literally saying hello to MJ. “I’m trying to impress, not tempt.”
She laughs, ushering me back inside the room. “Let’s see the next one.”