But she can hardly focus on the meaning of his words.
He’s here.
And she doesn’t even know why it should matter so much.
“There’s two taquitos left. Better grab one while you can.”
“You closing up?”
“It’s late.”
“Too late?”
They stand awkwardly in the middle of the room. Practically strangers. No table to touch. No pillow to hold. Awkward arms. Legs. No way to cover them. Pretend. Hide. But she remembers the dance. The time they shared at Yolanda’s. The time that seemed so right. She reaches for a taquito. Dips it in salsa. Thrusts it out to him. “No. Not too late. It’s only”—she glances over to the ticking panther—“midnight. Too late for you?”
He takes the taquito. “No,” he says. She gets him a Corona from the refrigerator and takes another Dr Pepper for herself. She doesn’t want another soda, but she wants something for her hands. Something to sip in case she forgets how to talk. For the first time she notices the lack of seating in her room. One chair, and the bed. The window seat is so far from the chair, it would be awkward. All these things matter. She sits on the bed and motions to the chair. “Sit,” she says. He does.
“So this is your place?”
“No. I just rent it out on Friday nights.”
He laughs. “Yeah. Stupid question.” He looks around. “Nice,” he adds.
“Works for me.”
He sips his beer. She sips her Dr Pepper. Her fingers busy with droplets. Wiping. He should go, she thinks. It is late. The bargain-bin candle burns low. The circle of ceiling light will be gone in another twenty minutes, she guesses. She hates the void. Where does it come from? She has never lacked something to say around a boy before. Her hundred and eighteen pounds of mouth have always been adequate. She jumps up from the bed and grabs his free hand. “Come on. I have a garden. Let’s go for a walk.” She has released his hand before they even go out the door, but the touch lingers. The clammy warmth. The calluses, knuckles, angles. The largeness of his grip. A two-second exchange becomes a kaleidoscope of memory and want.
“A garden?”
It stops her. A garden. Yes. She has a garden. Bare dirt right now. Furrowed lines. You would never guess. But it will be something. In a few months. Rutabagas.
“Nice dirt,” he says as they stop and stare at her small plot.
Nice dirt. She loves that. She knows it is humor, maybe gentle sarcasm, but it doesn’t matter. It is shared. And his voice is true like he knows it matters. “It’ll be more,” she says. “It just takes time. New to me, too. I’ve never grown anything in my life. Never wanted to. But now that I have it…” She shrugs. “I check it every day.”
“Trying to hurry it up?”
“Not exactly. More like curiosity, wondering if I really can make something grow.”
His arm brushes close to hers. She wants to touch him. Feel him. “Carlos,” she says. And with his attention fully hers, she reaches up and pulls his face to hers. Opens her mouth, feels his tongue. His lips molding to her own. She memorizes the touch of his fingers on her throat. The burning. The pulling closer. And then his pulling away and taking a deep, startled breath. She pulls him back again and feels his mouth melt into hers, his hands at the small of her back, until they both have to step back for a breath.
He points through the trees to the black hole that leads through the elms. “What’s that way?”
He leads her deeper than she wants to go. Deep as she needs to go. To that place of deeper that never comes. That place she wants. The kaleidoscope turns. Splinters of color, light, darkness, and memory fracture their walk.
I thought you loved me.
You said.
I’ll call you. Sure.
It means nothing.
Nothing.
They go deeper into the darkness of the canopy, farther, beyond the elms. To the place the season has changed. Where a carpet of fallen leaves rustles beneath their feet. Where stars can be seen through naked branches.
They stop and press their mouths together again.