Page 45 of Best I Never Had

My hands move to grip her sides just as she squeals to get away from me.

“Hayden! Stop!” she screams when my fingers start digging into her ribcage. Her hands claw at mine, failing at her attempt to pry them off of her. “STOP!”

“Take it back,” I threaten. I try to keep a straight face, but I fail miserably when I laugh at the way the redness in her face travels all the way to the tips of her ears.

“No!” She wriggles against me, squirming in my arms.

She turns her back to me in an effort to get away, but it only gives me the advantage to wrap my arms around her, forcing her to seek mercy.

“Take it back,” I demand.

She stays quiet, but her entire body trembles with laughter as she shakes her head against my chin. My fingers dig deeper into her waist, and her body jerks against mine.

“OKAY!” she finally shrieks. Her shrill voice echoes off the walls and sidewalk. “Okay! I take it back!”

My hold on her doesn’t release right away. Instead, it slackens just the tiniest bit. I don’t mean to, but when that comforting scent of warm vanilla hits my senses, I don’t want to let go. My fingers skim over the rough material of her coat as she turns to face me before I reluctantly let her go. She playfully shoves her hands into my stomach, pushing me and forcing me to stumble a step backward.

“Come on,” she says, laughing and turning to walk away. “I’m craving fried pickles.”

“Fried pickles? Where are we going to find fried pickles?”

She smirks over her shoulder. “I have my connections.”

I smirk back and follow willingly, falling in step with her. With Natalia on my left and the occasional buzzing of cars on the street to my right, this moment feels too surreal. Almost as if time has stood still and nothing has changed between us.

And while almost everything in the past eight years of our lives has changed to a great degree, some things remain the same. Like the warm vanilla Natalia’s carried with her this whole time.

Natalia is clutching on to my arm, desperately hanging on as she grasps her chest with her other hand. We’re both stumbling out of the small restaurant, our stomachs full of fried pickles and milkshakes, ube flavored for Natalia and chocolate flavored for me.

“You seriously have to watch your mouth when you’re in public!”

“Hey,” I defend. “It is way past that kid’s bedtime. That wasnotmy fault!”

“Di–did you see the mom’s face?” she says in between whimpered breaths.

“‘Mommy, what’s a dirty sanchez?’” I mock in a high-pitched tone.

Natalia’s laugh turns into a long, winded gasp. She turns red, and the muscles on her neck pull taut as she waves a hand at me, pleading for me to stop. “Stop! My stomach hurts!”

I’m laughing just as hard, cowering forward as Natalia leans her body against the nearest lamppost.

“I still can’t believe your mom thought it was a cocktail!”

“The bartender turned red to keep himself from laughing! And then we had to explain to her what it was!”

Our laughter comes back tenfold as we remember my story about the time Pat and I took my mom to a bar during one of my trips back home. It wasn’t long after I passed the legal drinking age, and she attempted to order a “dirty sanchez,” thinking it was some exotic flavored margarita while claiming she heard about it somewhere on Facebook.

As our laughter dwindles, Natalia sighs, making a happy, contented sound as we continue to walk back in the direction of her apartment.

“I don’t remember the last time I laughed that hard,” she comments, wiping the corner of her eye and bumping her arm against mine.

“I don’t either,” I agree, grinning like a fool while realizing I sincerely can’t remember the last time I had this much fun.

“Are you going to catch a cab home?” she asks, her hands stuffed into her pockets. She looks so comfortable, so content. And I realize that the thought I had during the moment outside on the fire escape at her apartment, when I thought she would look just as carefree and beautiful dressed down in something two sizes too big for her, is confirmed.

I shake my head. “I’ll just take the subway. But I’ll walk you home first,” I offer, our steps growing lazier. I watch as she flips her hair back, now loose from the bun she had it wrapped in, smiling and shaking her head as if recalling our run-in with an overly curious child and equally curious mother overhearing our very not-child-friendly conversation.

She leads the way through the chilly night as the both of us wrap our arms inward in an attempt to stay warm. And before I know it, we’re at the steps of her apartment. But before we say our goodbyes, Natalia turns to face me.

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