Page 68 of It Couldn't Be You
As I glanced down at his casted-up leg, I remembered writing on his cast in seventh grade when he broke his arm.Gabe drools, and Emma Ruleswas my clever little remark.
“Gabriel Hernandez,” I shouted, my mouth still sweet from breakfast. He was wearing a thick navy sweater with a beat up jacket overtop and dark blue jeans.
“Emma Brown.” His lips curled into that mischievous smile, and my whole body felt warm.
“You have a hot Valentine’s date?” I asked, arriving by his side. I felt the urge to touch him, to grab his sleeve or press my shoulder into his.
“Nah, just me.” He shook his head. “Which movie are you seeing?”
“That rom-com,Two for the Show,” I said. “Of course.”
“Fancy that, me too,” he said.
“Hey, want to sit together? I’ll share my popcorn.”
“Perfect, I’ll share my candy,” he said while we turned to walk into the theater. As the door closed behind us, he said, “Does that make me your hot Valentine’s Date?”
Then he dropped his voice lower as the cold air of the theater hit me. “Or you mine?” He winked.
After the movie, we wandered out into the humid afternoon. The sun was hazily peeking out behind the rain clouds here and there.
“I don’t know if the couple really liked each other,” he mused as we walked out of the theater.
“Why do you say that?” I asked, checking my phone absentmindedly.
“I think she was secretly into his best friend, honestly.”
“No, no, Gabe you are not going to ruin this movie for me.” I put my finger to his lips to hush him. They were soft and cool. He was quiet as I requested. I could feel his breath catching, like my own. I yanked my hand away, watching as he licked his lips.I bet they taste like butter.
I started walking. He tagged along.
“Are you hungry?” he asked, his pace meeting mine.
I had just eaten my weight in pancakes and then popcorn, but I said, “I could go for a drink.”
We found a little Mexican restaurant and decided to see if they had a table, pondering Valentine’s Margaritas.
“We are completely booked with reservations,” the hostess apologized. We went to a couple more restaurants until we found a little Italian place. The spot was crammed with guests, but they had open seating at the bar.
The restaurant oozed romance with couples everywhere, red roses, hand holding, low voices, Champagne bubbling, and jazz coming from the speakers. I saw one man putting a ring in a Champagne flute. I started to sweat.
The two of us felt delicate and fragile. This little buzzing we had between us was sustained with jokes and making light of any tension between us. How would we handle this under dim lighting? Last time we sat at a bar, we made out that very night. I swallowed hard. I kept thinking of my finger on his lips and his breath catching.
As we slid onto barstools, he tried to rest his crutches beside us without taking up too much space at the bar. Once we were both settled, I could feel our shoulders touching.
“What can I get you and your girlfriend?” the bartender asked.
I started to laugh, but before I could say anything, Gabriel turned to me and said, “I have an idea.”
We bought a bottle of Prosecco and took it to the park.
When we climbed out of his truck, I told him I was cold. He grabbed his sweatshirt from his car and tossed it to me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Here I was spending the fourteenth with Gabriel while wearing his sweatshirt. What was this territory we’re entering? Did it mean anything? But I reminded myself this was an accident. We just ran into each other.
I settled deep into his sweatshirt and thought how my fifteen-year-old self would’ve fainted at how good it smelled like piney aftershave, and mint gum, and him. Maybe my current self would faint.
The ground was muddy under our feet, and the picnic table was damp. But I was passing a bottle of wine back and forth with Gabriel, so I didn’t care.
