Page 82 of Caught in a Bad Fauxmance
Old Bob, Mario and Luigi, and the Martinezes work together to keep the food and drinks flowing throughout the night. A task made easier thanks to Dad’s latest revived project—amotion-activated champagne dispenser. Well, it’s more of a champagne sprayer at the moment, blasting spurts of Chandon at anyone who gets too close. But it’s only a prototype, as he’s made sure to remind everyone who’s gotten soaked.
Our modest contribution of the last of our tres leches cake is quickly devoured, though we make sure to set aside a heaping serving for Old Bob and Janine.
We can’t walk five feet without someone shouting “Congratulations!” in our ear or offering to buy us celebratory drinks. Local fame has its perks. Every few minutes we’re being toasted to, drinking more than we probably should because victory champagne tastessomuch better than enemy champagne.
Maya takes center stage, having changed out of her games attire into a red satin jumpsuit and matching wig so bright it could stop traffic. She takes every opportunity to recount the dramatic final moments of the games to anyone who’ll listen. I don’t bother telling her that Julian had pushed the flag into my hand. Not when it might make her think the win is cheap. She can believe what she wants. Her storiesnever quite stick to the truth anyway. Case in point, the pepper spray plays a much bigger role in her version of events.
Occasionally, she’ll tap me in to tell my side of the events. I indulge her and play along, making the story seem more dramatic than it actually was. I leave out the part where Julian kissed me, though. That part’s just for me.
There’s no telling if the Seo-Cookes will show up, or if we’ll be able to spot them in the huge crowd if they did. Same goes for Liam, who I doubt will make an appearance tonight. His dad didn’t seem too pleased today. Your son getting caught cheating in front of potential clientele isn’t a great look.
Fulton Drive becomes a mass of dancing bodies once Dad moves the stereo out front, taking over the role of DJ for the night. Isabel had been wary when he first hooked up his phone to the speakers, but it turns out everyone loves salsa music. Every few minutes, I take a lap, peeking over the tops of heads for any sign of the one person I want to see tonight.
“Stop being mopey and come dance with me!” Maya shouts over the beat of a Héctor Lavoe song. She tugs at the strap of my first-place medal, dragging me onto our makeshift dance floor. We miraculously make it over in one piece, stepping around spilled cups of champagne and abandoned paper plates. There’s not much room, but I manage to twirl her at least once.
“He’ll come,” she whispers, resting her head on my shoulder.
“How do you know?” I tease, letting her take the lead.
At first, she doesn’t respond, gripping my waist and dipping me dramatically. It’s tipsy and messy and beautiful, like something straight out of a Lifetime movie.
“I’m a genius. I know things,” she says once she’s lifted me up.
Well, I can’t argue with that. Instead, I return the favor and dip her as low to the ground as I can before spinning her again and again until she’s tripping over herself and laughing so hard tears stream down her cheeks.
“Guys!” Andy shouts as he stumbles toward us, double-fisting cups of champagne, with most of it sprayed onto his shirt. “I love this place, and I love you two, and I never wanna leave,” he slurs, confirming what we’d always suspected: He’s a very affectionate drunk.
“Love you too.” Maya throws her arms around him, hugging him as tight as her tiny body can. She leans back, attempting to hoist him into the air, but a slight misstep sends them tumbling to the ground in a pile of giggles and limbs. Their knees are skinned, and their elbows bruised, but we laugh it off, leaning on one another until they’ve stumbled back onto their feet.
I don’t think much of the tap on my shoulder. There have been hands on me throughout the night. Usually, I’d snap at anyone who got that close to me without permission, but tonight I welcome everything. The praise, the congratulations, the joy. We’re so well past tipsy I don’t even recognize Stella and Henry at first, their somber faces blending in with the crowd.
“Oh…hi,” I say once I realize who touched me.
Stella murmurs a greeting that I can’t hear over the music. “We wanted to talk to Maya,” she shouts this time, leaning in closer to me.
I see that Maya and Andy have started dancing, their arms flopping around. “You can try,” I respond, stepping out of the way.
Stella bites her lip, gesturing for Henry to follow. As they brush past me, I notice the box of choco pies in Henry’s hands and the bag of celebrity skincare products in Stella’s. I could tell them that bribery won’t get them very far, but they can learn that one for themselves. Besides, I’m sure Maya won’t turn down food and free swag. I watch from a safe distance as the two of them approach her cautiously, heads hung. Andy heads off in the opposite direction, giving the three of them space. Once I’m sure they’re not going to claw at each other, I step away, too, in search of a different Seo-Cooke.
Another two laps around the block and there’s still no sign of Julian, but I spot someone just as intriguing.
Mr. Cooke lingers at the edge of the celebration, closer to the lake, for a full ten minutes before he finally makes a move. He’s swapped out his usual business casual attire for linen pants paired with a guayabera, an ensemble even Dad can appreciate. His foot taps along to the beat of the music as everyone around him sways. No Latino can resist the allure of old-school salsa.
Once Celia Cruz’s voice begins to fade, he heads into the crowd. A few feet away, Isabel leaves Dad with a parting kiss before heading toward the drinks table. I hold my breath asI watch Mr. Cooke approach Dad, the tap on the shoulder almost startling Dad out of his board shorts. I’m too far away to hear what they’re saying, but close enough to know the tension is as thick as a brick.
Whatever Mr. Cooke opens with, it’s enough to get Dad to listen. His expression is unusually earnest, while Dad’s is as puzzled as mine. The conversation stalls when Mr. Cooke hands over a piece of paper that makes Dad’s mouth hang open—whether in shock, or outrage, I’m not sure.
Before I can find out more, a hand closes around my wrist. I smile, and let Julian drag me into the darkness.
“One day someone is going to kidnap me, and my Pavlovian response is going to be to kiss them,” I say once I’m pressed up against the wall of a nearby alleyway.
Julian grins, raising an eyebrow. “You want to kiss me?”
I tap his left ear and give him a cheeky grin. “Selective hearing.”
He presses a soft kiss to the inside of my wrist. The simple touch leaves goose bumps blossoming along my arms, but when he leans in for a proper kiss, I stop him with a hand to his chest.
As badly as I want to kiss him, he’s not getting off that easy. “So, why are you late to the party?”
