Page 50 of Caught in a Bad Fauxmance
Julian lets out a muffled gasp, and for a second, I feel the warmth of his arm against mine, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared.
“Maya likes to wear one of Mami’s old jackets when she misses her. Black leather with roses printed on the back. If you lean in close enough, it still smells like her.” If I try hard enough, I can smell it now. Her favorite lilac perfume mixed with something we could never replicate. The one thing left behind that still feels like her.
The stars swim in and out of view as I fight back the tears that come every time I let my heart linger on her for too long.
“We don’t really celebrate the holidays anymore, but I still make tres leches cake. On her birthday, on mine…on the days when I miss her. The kitchen smells like cherries and cream, and I’ll blast her favorite salsa playlist, and it almost feels like she’s there. Just for a few minutes, but it’s something.Mysomething.” I exhale slowly, bracing myself before facing Julian. Our faces are too close, but the discomfort doesn’t feel scary anymore. “I know it’s not the same, my mom and your mom. But maybe that could be something for you too. When you miss her, I mean. I saw that note she left on that recipe, the fried rice one. You could make it on the days when you miss her.”
Julian doesn’t respond. My chest seizes up, my body going warm down to my core. That’s what I deserve for getting swept up in the moment, for trying to take a blow at the wall between us. For a foolish second, I’d let myself forget that wall was built for a reason. Even if that reason has a new meaning.
“It’s stupid, sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
“That’s really sweet.” This time it’s Julian’s turn to reach for me when I try to run. He waits until I’ve relaxed my shoulders to let me go. “Thank you. For telling me.”
I nod, unsure of how else to respond, and even more unsure if I should still try to leave.
Julian points to a bright spot in the darkness on the opposite side of the lake. “Allegheny Park does a fireworks show every night before the park closes, if you want to stick around for that.”
“Okay,” I reply. Strangely enough, Idowant to stick around.
My cheeks burn when I feel Julian’s eyes on me. I wait for him to say something, to make the prickle beneath my skin go away. When he whispers something about stars and light pollution, I can’t hear him over the thumping of my heart.
“You know how when you’re a kid you don’t like broccoli, and then you spend your whole adult life thinking thatyou hate it, even though you haven’t had it in years?” he says after a moment of pause.
“I’ve always liked broccoli.”
“It’s a metaphor. Work with me here.”
I gesture for him to continue.
“I think you’re my broccoli.”
Oh.
I can’t say I disagree. Hating Julian has always felt like second nature, but finding reasons to keep hating him is getting harder every day. I told myself I had to because that’s who we are, who our families expect us to be.
But who are we when no one’s watching?
“Maybe you’re my brussels sprouts,” I say.
He smirks but doesn’t say anything, and we turn back to the stars.
The sky erupts, painted neon green, gold, and red. Sparkles trickle down to earth, sprinkling the air with ash and a sense of wonder.
I’m so entranced by the display that I don’t notice Julian’s hand sliding into mine. I’d left my own palm upturned to the stars, my body inviting him before my mind could realize what I was doing. I don’t pull away when his fingers close around mine. Instead, I squeeze back, gentle but firm, and seal a wordless promise that I’m not sure I understand.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The memory of my night with Julian nestles inside my chest, hidden as deep as I can bury it as I cross all my fingers that Maya won’t ask me where I was.
“Where were you last night?”
Can justonething go my way?
I was already running on borrowed time. If she’d stayed up, she would’ve pounced on me the second I came through the door. I slid into my room unseen, hiding my flushed cheeks in my pillow and trying not to dwell on what last night meant. Or didn’t mean. Because it shouldn’t have meant anything.
“Learning how to ride a bike,” I reply staying focused on my sketchbook, brushing some toast crumbs off the page. My latest idea is as scrambled as I am. I’m not even sure what it’s supposed to be. The page is a mess of scribbled lines that look like a Picasso-inspired Pikachu. Turns out mycreative well is dry after all, and it’s taking a whole lot of self-restraint not to go into crisis mode.
Maya’s brow quirks, her mug of coffee stalling halfway to her lips. “Why?”
