“Busy …” Maritza speaks slowly. She doesn’t buy it, but I don’t particularly care.
“I’ve got a car to fix,” I clarify my statement, not that I need to prove anything to her.
Her hands grip the steering wheel as she sinks into her seat and stares ahead. “All right, that’s cool. Whatevs.”
When we finally pull into my mother’s apartment complex after an enjoyable bout of silence, I step out of her Prius and begin gathering grocery bags in my arms. It’s going to be at least three trips up and down two flights of stairs, maybe four.
“Let me help,” she says, loading bags before I have a chance to tell her no.
Maritza the Waitress follows me to apartment 3C and I tell her to place everything on the kitchen table once we’re inside. We get the job done with one more trip, only this time she lingers in my mother’s doorway, her hands slipping into the back pockets of her shorts.
I realize now she’s still in her work uniform, her white button-down shirt and little black shorts. Formal but not too formal, the kind of California cool the locals eat up in droves.
Lifting a brow, I shrug. “You need something?”
“Go to the concert with me,” she says. “I’ll buy your ticket.”
I frown. “No. And no.”
“Why not?”
“Told you. I’m busy.” I keep my voice down. If Ma is sleeping and she wakes up to the sound of some strange woman’s voice in her apartment, I’ll never hear the end of it. She’ll let me have it with her last fighting breath.
“My home is not a brothel,” she’d say, teasing but also serious. “Go have your fun somewhere else.”
“Fine. It’s just that you’re the only other person I know who’s heard of this band. Thought it might be fun. And I feel like I owe you after I smashed into your car today.”
I draw in a slow breath, studying her in the fading evening light.
She’s pretty with curves in all the right places, a sexy smirk, silky hair, and dark eyes that light up in the most fucking adorable way when she gets excited … but she’s not the kind of girl I’d want to spend one of my last nights with.
For one, she talks way too fucking much.
And she’s too philosophical.
Too optimistic.
Too opinionated.
No amount of pretty can make up for the fact that she’s not my type. Not even close.
“What, you think I’m trying to ask you on a date?” She huffs. “Please. I don’t even remember your name. What was it again?”
Exhaling, I drag my hand through my hair. “Isaiah.”
“Right. Isaiah.” She cocks her head to the side. “Anyway, don’t flatter yourself because even if I were looking for someone to date, you’re not what I usually go for, so …”
“Likewise.”
“Wow.” Maritza throws her hands up, turning to leave. “Okay, well … I … I don’t have anything else to say to you then. Congratulations. You’ve rendered me speechless twice in one day, and that’s a first.”
Thank. God.
But just when she’s almost finally gone, she stops in the doorway, turning on her heel to face me.
“You know … I meant what I said in the car. I say ‘yes’ to a lot of things now. To new people. To new experiences. Maybe you thought I was hitting on you, but I swear on my life, Isaiah … I wasn’t. I just wanted to have fun at a concert on a Friday night.” Maritza shrugs. “That’s what I get for forgetting some people are content being miserable assholes.”
With that, she’s gone, pulling the door closed behind her.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I exhale.
“Who was that?” My sister, Calista, asks.
Shit.
I had no idea she was here and now I’m about to get the Spanish fucking Inquisition.
I shake my head and begin unpacking groceries. “No one.”
She emerges from the dark hall next to Mom’s room. “That’s not no one, Isaiah. You brought a girl here and you’ve never brought a girl here. Who was it?”
“What are you doing here?” I change the subject.
“Brought Ma dinner.”
“A text would’ve been nice,” I say. “I brought her dinner a couple of hours ago.”
Calista waves her hand. “Oh, well. The woman needs more meat on her bones anyway.”
That’s one thing we can both agree on.
“She seemed nice—that girl,” Calista says, taking a seat on Mom’s weathered sofa and finger-combing her dark hair into a ponytail. “And she totally called you on your shit, which was hilarious.”
I grab another grocery sack.
“Ma needs her hair washed,” I say.
“Some nice, pretty girl asks you to go to the concert of a band you love and you turn her down like she was some kind of leper.” My sister chuckles, refusing to lay off the subject. “You would’ve had a nice time together, I bet.”
“Doubtful.”
“I love you, but she was right. You’re a miserable asshole,” Calista says. “That girl could’ve balanced you out a bit. Maybe made you a little more likable.”