If I allowed myself to feel everything all the time, it might send me on my own personal warpath and that wouldn’t be good for anyone. Been there, done that. Can’t do it again. I hurt way too many people—people that I cared about more than anything in this world.
“Take a left,” I say.
“I dated this one guy for, like, three years. Took me that long to realize he was always going to love his garage band more than me.” Maritza chuckles. It says a lot about a person who can laugh about wasting some of the best years of her life on some self-centered prick. She clicks on her turn signal and cuts off a BMW.
“I’m sorry—why are you telling me this?”
“I’m just elaborating,” she says. “On the whole letting-yourself-feel thing. If I would’ve just numbed myself off, I’d probably be knee deep in some new, shitty relationship, repeating all my old mistakes. Negative emotions have a purpose, you know?”
“Sure.” I try to shut her out but her voice is so soft and soothing, annoyingly pleasant. She’s like a real life podcast that I’m being forced to listen to but secretly think it’s not all that bad.
“I told my roommate I’m swearing off relationships for at least a year,” she continues. “I just want to find myself—which I know is completely cliché, but I don’t care. I want to say ‘yes’ more and do things I wouldn’t have done before, meet new people, make new friends. That sort of thing. You probably think I’m insane, but it just feels like the timing’s right. I kind of just want to be solo for a while, you know? Party of one.”
My lips press together. If I were in a chatty mood, I could tell her how much I appreciate that we share many of the same sentiments. There aren’t a lot of girls, especially girls who look like her, who aren’t throwing themselves at every man they meet, desperate to try to pin them down so they don’t have to spend another New Year’s, spring break, or wedding season alone.
“You said you deploy next week?” she asks. “What are you doing until then?”
My nose wrinkles and for a second, I wonder if she’s using some kind of reverse psychology or bait-and-switch tactic on me. I’ve seen girls do that before … acting disinterested or anti-love one minute because they think it makes you want them more, and the second they have you exactly where they want you, they make a move.
Too bad for them that’s the kind of shit that doesn’t work on me.
In fact, it usually tends to do the exact opposite, leaving me turned off and disgusted. Insulting my intelligence is one of the worst things a woman can do.
“Don’t worry—I’m not asking you out. I just feel bad about your car,” she says. “I’m sure you had plans and stuff. I’d hate for you to be stranded all week. If you need any rides anywhere, let me know. My number should be on that paperwork the cop gave you.”
Adjusting my seat, I pull in a deep breath. It’s the least she could do for me—driving me all over LA like my own personal chauffeur, but I refuse to rely on anyone, especially not some chick I don’t even know.
“I’ll manage,” I say.
Ma has an old Mercury Sable in storage—granted, I have no idea if it still runs—but I’ve got my fingers crossed pretty damn hard. I’ll probably spend the rest of tonight tinkering around with it and once I get that running, I’ll head to Pasadena to start fixing my Porsche.
“You think your car will be okay?” she asks.
“Hopefully.” I’m ninety percent sure it’ll be fine, but I won’t know until I take a closer look. Until then, she can continue feeling bad about it for all I care.
“It’s a cool car. Love that it’s not flashy. It’s understated,” she says. “Very classic.”
That’s exactly what I love about it, too. “Thanks.”
I spout off the next direction and we linger in silence for a solid ten minutes—a new record—before she points to a billboard above a Taco Bell.
“Oh, look! Panoramic Sunrise is playing at The Mintz tomorrow night,” she says, bouncing in her seat. “How did I not know that? I love them.”
I chuff. Me too.
“Really? I swear whenever I talk about them people act like I’m speaking a foreign language. It’s like no one’s ever heard of them.”
I neglect to tell her the lead singer just so happens to be my brother-in-law’s cousin. “Look, can we stop the small talk? It’s nothing personal. I’m just not a fan.”
Maritza turns to me, expression falling. “Oh. Sure. I was just about to ask if you wanted to go to the concert with me but—”
I don’t have to think twice before answering her. “I’m busy.”