And truth be told, I caught myself thinking that I kind of wouldn’t mind if he did …
… in the name of fun, of course.
“Text me tonight,” I tell him. “Tell me where to find you tomorrow and I’ll be there.”
With that, I turn, walking away, feeling the weight of his stare and wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
Chapter Six
Isaiah
Saturday #2
“Santa Monica Pier, eh?”
She finds me on a bench next to a churro vendor, and her hands rest in the back pockets of her cutoff shorts. A white, v-neck tee shows off her tanned skin and a hint of the pale pink lace bra she’s wearing underneath.
Maritza the Waitress is a stunning work of art and the proud recipient of the Claiborne genetic lottery, but I have to remind myself to keep my eyes where they belong. Far too many times yesterday, I caught myself checking her out, letting my gaze linger on every square inch of her every time I knew she wasn’t paying attention.
Despite the fact that we christened our non-relationship that night at the concert, I’ve got no business turning this into any kind of a thing.
Aside from the fact that her bubbly and effervescent personality tends to grate on my skin half the time, I respect the hell out of the fact that she has no qualms about calling things the way she sees them, and she isn’t trying to impress anyone—certainly not me. Maritza is simply Maritza. She isn’t hiding behind layers of makeup, nervous giggles, or agreeable opinions.
But I would never tell her that.
She might get the wrong idea.
She might think that I like her.
“What made you pick this place?” Maritza takes the spot beside me, her thigh brushing against mine. The scent of fried dough, cinnamon, and sugar fills the salty air, and I’m immediately taken back to my younger days.
“My parents used to take us here when we were younger,” I say. “They’d let us run around, buy us anything we wanted.”
The memories of the better times are the only thing I really hold onto from my earlier days.
“Sounds nice,” she says, exhaling with a gentle hum. “So, you grew up in Santa Monica then?”
“Nah.” I shake my head and crack my knuckles as I stare toward the ocean. “Riverside mostly.”
“When was the last time you came here?”
I blow a heavy breath through my lips, shaking my head. “I wouldn’t even know. Ten, twelve years ago?”
I’m guessing I was sixteen or seventeen the last time he took us, which makes sense because that was right before he died, which was right after he walked out of his life and left behind his disabled wife and their six children.
“You’re quiet,” she says a few beats later, nudging my arm. “What are you thinking about?”
“Nothing worth sharing,” I say. And it’s true. She doesn’t need to know about my past. It has nothing to do with the here and now, with our week of Saturdays. It’s a part of me I no longer discuss and that’s all that it is.
“Everything is worth sharing.”
I shake my head. “Not this.”
Maritza leans forward, elbows on her knees and chin resting on her hands, watching the crowd. “Do you ever people watch?”
“Sometimes. Why?”
“When I was younger, my cousin Melrose and I would always people watch and we’d make up these stories … like we’d pick someone and then whip up their whole life story in thirty seconds,” she says. “See that guy over there? Posing by that Route 66 sign?”
Maritza casually points toward a man in jean shorts and a black t-shirt, a Santa Monica Pier hat on his head and a thick blond beard covering the lower half of his face.
“Yeah. I see him,” I say.
“His name is Collin Burke and he’s from Denver, Colorado,” she says, licking her lips as she studies him. “He’s the baby of the family, which is why he’s comfortable posing for pictures and being the center of attention. He’s a computer programmer by trade, and for fun he gets together with his friends and does some live action role playing stuff. And despite the fact that he’s clearly in his mid-thirties, he has a Star Wars comforter on his bed at home and a dog named Yoda. Also, he has a girlfriend. Her name is Samantha Robbins and she’s the one taking his picture. She doesn’t know it yet, but he’s going to pop the question this year at his family’s lake house on the Fourth of July, just as the fireworks begin.”
“Nerdy and romantic,” I say. “Killer combo.”
Maritza sighs. “And that’s exactly why she’s going to say yes. She’s crazy for him. Wants to have alllll his babies.”
I chuckle. “You’re so random.”
And I kind of like it …
“Okay, your turn. Pick someone and give me their life story,” she says, sitting back against the bench, her arm against mine and her hand patting the top of my knee. Normally I like my space, but for some reason being this close with another person isn’t giving me that grating, nails-on-a-chalkboard sensation that makes my teeth grind and my breath quicken.