Say When

by Tara West

  Andrés tries not to think about the way she squirmed beneath him last night. He doesn’t want to get too distracted and burn Christina’s breakfast. He hopes she likes bacon and eggs. He hadn’t thought to ask her when he heard her stirring in his bedroom this morning. He pours another cup of coffee while he flips the eggs. He’s never made a girl breakfast, and he hopes he’s doing it right. More importantly, he hopes she’ll stay longer than breakfast. All afternoon if he can talk her back into his bedroom. And then maybe she’ll be willing to stay one more night.

  Andrés has to know if Christina is responsible for chasing away his nightmares. Because if so, then maybe he is ready for something more with a girl. That nagging voice in the back of his head tells him he doesn’t deserve her. He doesn’t even deserve to be alive, but Andrés does his best to push that voice back. His uncle has been telling him he deserves happiness. His Army doctors and family’s priest have told him he deserves happiness. Maybe just once he’ll let himself believe it.

  * * *

  I open one eye, and then the other. Daylight filters into the small room. I’m lying on top of a bed with disheveled sheets. My nostrils flare as I inhale a heavenly scent. Bacon. Someone is cooking bacon.

  Bacon?

  I shoot up as I survey my surroundings. My mom is a vegetarian. I am definitely not at home.

  Omigod! I had sex with a random stranger!

  Memories from last night come flooding back to me. We’d drunk beer. We’d danced. We’d fucked. Oh, gawd, did we fuck! Twice, and then we’d slept for a few hours and he roused me with oral sex. The best damn licking I’ve ever had. We’d fucked again. I lost count of my orgasms. I seriously lost count.

  And here I was, waking up in his bed. It had to be well past breakfast time, but Andrés…Wait, was that his name? Yes, Andrés. I remember moaning it several times last night. Anyway, Andrés must be cooking bacon.

  I shift uncomfortably, feeling the soreness between my thighs keenly as I swing my legs over the side of the bed. Ouch. I remember now. My Latin lover was built like a stud horse. No Ken doll anatomy to complain of. He definitely wasn’t “just right” (ahem, code for small dick). He was hung so very well, and he filled me, stretched me, so much that I am sore and bruised inside. But damn, I would do it all over again if I could.

  But I couldn’t, could I? This had to be it. Just a one night stand. No exchanging phone numbers. No second dates. Because I remember Andrés told me he was a mechanic. My mom would disown me if I brought home a blue collar guy. She will be angry enough to learn I’ve broken my engagement.

  My gaze sweeps the cramped room. It’s sparsely furnished but clean with a small computer table by the window, a nightstand by the bed, and an old dresser, the top of it lined with several framed pictures. I recognize Andrés’s boyish grin in a portrait of a Hispanic family, a middle-aged couple with four sons. Andrés looks to be no older than ten.

  In the next picture, Andrés is in camouflage, holding a very big and scary-looking gun while leaning against a large truck tire. He is surrounded by several other men with guns. The gleam in their eyes speaks volumes. They are proud and determined defenders of our country. I guess my hunch was right when I figured he was in the military. Though he is a mechanic now, he still carries himself like a soldier.

  I heave myself out of bed. My clothes and purse have been placed in a neat little pile on the nightstand. How thoughtful. If it had been Jackson, he would have left my stuff on the floor. I grab my things and hobble toward the bathroom. It’s small as apartment bathrooms go, but it’s got good enough lighting that I can see how terrible I look with smudged makeup and wild hair. Ugh. Unlike at Jackson’s condo, I don’t have spare makeup or clothes here. I don’t even have a toothbrush.

  I need to find a way to make myself look presentable before I go out there and face Andrés, but first I need to get a ride out of here. There’s no way I can allow Andrés to take me home. What would my mom say if she saw me in his truck? She’d probably die of a heart attack. I fire off a text to Grace.

  I had sex with a random stranger! Come get me!

  Much to my relief, she answers back right away. Where are you?

  The Whispering Oaks Apartments off East 32nd.

  Be right over, she answers.

  I breathe a sigh of relief as I set my phone on the narrow counter and slump over the sink. Grace is such a reliable friend. I remind myself she’s my new go-to girl whenever I’m in trouble. Screw Karri and her sleaze-ball fuck buddies.

  I wet a washcloth and wipe myself down. I don’t want to take a shower here and linger any longer than I have to. I plan on enjoying a long, hot soak in the tub when I get home. I slip into my clothes, wincing as I slide my feet into my heels. My toes are cramped and my arches ache, but I have no choice but to deal with it until I get home.

  There’s a brush on the counter. I quickly run it through my hair and then I wash off my smudged eyeliner with a bar of soap. I’d rather have no makeup at all than look like a hung-over raccoon. I squeeze some toothpaste onto my finger and rub it across my teeth and gums. After sloshing it around a few times, I spit into the sink and then clench the sides of the counter while I look at my reflection again.

  Not so bad, I decide. Luckily, my lashes are naturally thick and dark, and my complexion is relatively clear when I’m not getting my monthly visit from dear Aunt Flo.

  I have a tube of pink gloss in my purse, and I apply a thick layer to my lips. At least now my face has some color on it. This is the best I’m going to look under the circumstances, so I inhale deeply, slowly exhale, and try my best to shake off a wave of nervous energy. I can’t stay in this bathroom forever. My only consolation is that Grace will be here soon. I can march into the kitchen and explain to Andrés that I have to wait for my ride. I’ll go stand in the parking lot until Grace gets here and then I can put this one-night-stand behind me.

  Because that’s what I want to do, right? Put this night behind me. I can go home to my mother, explain I broke it off with Jackson, and promise her I’ll work on finding a suitable rich boyfriend to take his place.

  Yes, it’s for the best. Besides, Andrés was probably only looking for a one-night-stand, too. He doesn’t want to tie himself down to a girl who just got out of a serious relationship. A girl who has been taught since childhood that the only guy who can make her happy has a seven figure income and several vacation homes.

  I take several more deep breaths. Despite my trembling hand, I force myself to open that door and walk out of the bathroom with my head held high, as if last night was really no big deal. As if casual sex with random strangers is all the rage, and I’m a total pro at fucking guys I don’t know.

  Andrés is sitting at a small table in a breakfast room beside the compact kitchen. He is sipping coffee and scrolling through the newsfeed on his iPad. When he looks up at me with warm chocolate eyes and one corner of his mouth hitches up in that sideways grin, I think my heart will melt.

  There are platters of bacon, eggs and toast spread out on the table, and an empty plate in front of the chair facing Andrés.

  He stands and grabs a mug off the table. “Good morning, mija. How do you like your coffee?”

  My mouth falls open, and I don’t know how to respond, not to the question, but to his act of kindness. Did he really make this big spread just for me, or does Andrés eat these huge breakfasts every morning?

  “Cream and sugar,” I say, swallowing back a lump which has lodged itself in my throat.

  Andrés goes to the coffee pot on the counter. He’s got his back to me, so I exhale a shaky breath as I slump into the vacant seat. Considering all we shared last night, I have no idea why the boy is unnerving me now.

  Jackson has never made me breakfast. He can’t even pull himself out of bed until after I brew the coffee. I wonder why Andrés is being so nice to me, and then I’m suspicious that he must want something, which I know is wrong. I should just trust that he’s a nice guy. That maybe he’s trying t
o show his appreciation for last night. It was an amazing night after all. As the memories creep back, I feel a flush in my cheeks.

  Luckily, he’s still got his back to me as he stirs my coffee.

  I lick my parched lips, realizing how much I would like some warm, liquid caffeine to steady my nerves.

  He crosses over to me and hands me the cup. It’s large and blue with a chipped rim. The words “Cruz Auto Body and Repair” are engraved into the side in bold white letters. Even as vapors rise from the mouth of the cup, I take a sip, relishing the taste of the warm, sweet cream on my tongue.

  “Mmmmm,” I say, smiling up at him.

  But that’s all I manage to say, because honestly, I’m at a loss for words. After what we shared last night, I’m not sure I can start up a conversation about the weather or political unrest in the Middle East. So I sip some more and smile.

  He sits across from me and scoops food onto my plate. I look down at the pile of bacon and then at the scrambled eggs, which have been cooked with onions and tomatoes. He’s even set out butter and jam by the toast.

  My shoulders slump when I realize what this all means.

  Damn. He must like me.

  Just then my phone buzzes in my purse. I’m relieved to see it’s from Grace. She’s waiting in the parking lot. I look over at Andrés, who’s eyeing me intently.

  “My ride’s here,” I say and flash an awkward smile.

  “Your ride?” he asks, looking stunned.

  “Yeah.” I shrug and slip my phone back into my purse. I struggle with what else to say. How do I end this? Thanks for the fuck. It’s been fun.

  But as he continues to stare at me, his mouth hanging open, and the silence stretching between us, an uncomfortable ache settles in the pit of my stomach.

  That’s when I realize I might actually like this guy, and I feel like a total heartless bitch for leaving him this way. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t want to bother you…” Total bullshit, and I’m hoping he doesn’t see through my lame ass excuse. “…so I texted my friend to come get me.”

  He doesn’t say anything but I can see the spark in his eyes dim as his smile fades. “Okay,” he says, but the way he says it makes my heart ache even more. Then he gets up and takes my plate to the counter.

  My legs wobble like bowls of Jell-O as I slowly stand and push the chair behind me. He doesn’t say a word as he bends over the counter and scribbles something on a piece of paper.

  I fight the urge to run for the door and make a hasty escape. This moment is awkward and heart-wrenching at the same time. Damn me for thinking I could have sex with Andrés and come away emotionally unscathed. I’m trying really hard to push back images from last night, but I can’t escape the memory of his soft kisses along my collarbone and breasts, or the sensual Spanish words he whispered into my ear while tunneling into my body.

  I clench my hands by my sides while repressing a shiver. And I keep thinking what I wouldn’t give for one more night in Andrés’s arms.

  He turns to me, his eyes dark and cloudy, and he tugs on my wrist. He pries open my fingers and hands me the paper. “It’s my cell number,” he says. “Call me if you want to.” Then he backs up a step and holds out both hands. The light in his eyes is totally gone now. “No pressure. It’s just I…” He averts his gaze for a moment and the muscles in his neck and shoulders tense up while he grinds his teeth together. “It’s just I really like you.”

  I bite my bottom lip as I look down at the paper. Andrés Cruz and a phone number.

  “Okay,” I say on an exhale, feeling like a balloon has popped in my chest. I like you, too, I think, but I don’t dare say it.

  Chapter Six

  I’m not ready to go home yet. Luckily, Grace is famished after her wild night with the rodeo chick, so we pull into an IHOP. Truth be told, I’m hungry, too. It’s amazing how much sex can work up an appetite, especially considering that during the past few weeks with Jackson, sex has had the opposite effect.

  Grace orders a huge stack of chocolate chip pancakes. I order eggs, toast, and a double serving of bacon. It’s not until after the waitress walks away that I realize it’s pretty much the same breakfast Andrés made for me. My food can’t come fast enough, and I place my hand over the hollow ache in my stomach while downing a tall cup of coffee, heavily loaded with cream and sugar.

  “So?” Grace is peering at me over the rim of her juice cup, lifting her pale eyebrows like she knows I’m harboring a dirty little secret. She’s wearing the same clothes I saw her in last night, which means she didn’t go home, either. Amazingly, her blonde hair is swept up into a neat ponytail and her makeup looks flawless. Then I realize Grace’s one-nighter probably had cosmetics in her bathroom.

  “So what?” I ask, averting my gaze. She wants to talk about Andrés, and I don’t know if I’m ready to dredge up memories from last night. I shift uncomfortably in my seat as I cross one leg over the other. My panties feel sticky and I’m really in need of a shower.

  Grace sets down her glass and lays both palms flat on the table while staring me down with twin lasers. “How was it?”

  I bite my lip and lean back in my seat. I shouldn’t be talking about this. It’s best if I just put Andrés out of my mind for good, but Grace is still staring at me, so I finally heave a sigh and relent. “Amazing.”

  Her lips twist into a subtle smile. “No barfing?”

  “God, no,” I exclaim as I set down my drink and rub my hands down my face. “He was perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

  There. I said it. Andrés is perfect. Which means I’m a total idiot for walking out on him this morning. I could have taken a shower in his bathroom, feasted on mouth-watering bacon and then spent all day having more mind-blowing sex. Instead, I’m pining over Andrés while dreading the moment Grace will take me home to my overbearing mother.

  Grace leans forward as her eyes narrow to slits. “So why’d I have to come get you?”

  I pick up my coffee and frown into the mug, choosing to focus on the swirling cream rather than look my assessing friend in the eye. “You know my mom.”

  “You know how everyone thinks I became a lesbian because I was fed up with guys?”

  I glance up. Grace is still looking at me with that determined expression. “Yeah.”

  “That’s not why I’m a lesbian.” Grace slants a smile before biting on her bottom lip. “I’ve always had a thing for girls. Always. I just could never show it because I knew my parents would freak.”

  I remember Grace’s parents did freak. Even though they live five states away, they cut her off financially, demanding she admit her thing for girls was just a phase. When Grace refused, her parents drove to campus and took back the car that was still in their name. Luckily, Grace had funds saved up, a small inheritance from a great aunt who died last year. She bought herself a new car, took on more hours at work, and has been supporting herself ever since.

  I wonder if my mom will be as irate when I tell her I’ve called off the engagement. I shudder when I think how far my mom will go to try and get me back together with Jackson. I know she’ll stop at nothing to make sure I marry into one of the richest families in Texas.

  “It’s my goddam life, Christina,” Grace says as she pounds her fist on the table. “And I’m tired of doing what everyone else wants me to do. It’s time I live my life the way I want to, and you know what? One day you’re going to have to do the same. If you like this guy, then go for it.” She leans over and stabs her finger in my chest. “This is your life. Not Jackson’s, not your mom’s. Yours.”

  Much to my relief, the waitress shows up with our food. Grace and I don’t talk during the meal. She’s very serious about me living my life the way I want. Message received. Luckily, she’s also serious when it comes to chocolate chip pancakes. She digs in, occasionally stopping to shoot me a pointed look.

  Despite the knot of tension which has coiled around my neck and shoulders and the lead ball which has settled in my gut, I devour
my food, stopping only to reflect on our conversation.

  I think back to the Christina who asserted herself with Jackson and broke off the engagement. The Christina who asked Andrés to take her home. I think maybe I can do this. Maybe I can tell my mom to back off and let me live my life. I remember the piece of paper Andrés slipped into my hand this morning and smile.

  Chapter Seven

  We’ve lived in this house for nearly ten years, four-thousand square feet of wall-to-wall white. White furniture, white carpets, white tile floors. I should be used to mom’s obvious derision for color, but every time I walk through the door, I feel blinded. Something about my home just doesn’t feel like home. Maybe it’s because I know I can’t touch anything, for fear I might break it. I’m even afraid to leave a butt dent on her white sectional sofa. My bedroom is the only room in the house which I decorated. Up until I turned fifteen, it was my sanctuary, but the room has too many bad memories in there now.

  Most days I tiptoe through my house like I live in a museum. I feel the need to tiptoe around my mom’s moods as well. She’s like one of her crystal vases, pretty to look at, but don’t dare touch her or she may break. And once she breaks, picking up all the pieces is a bitch, which is why I cringe when I see her. I wonder if Jackson has called and told her of our breakup.

  “There you are!” Mom waves her skinny arms wildly at me when I walk through the front door. She’s wearing a peach rayon skirt and a black rayon top, cut low enough to reveal abnormally large and perky breasts, compliments of her favorite surgeon, the same guy who shrunk her nose and engorged her lips. The same guy who tucked that loose skin beneath her chin all the way behind her ears. “Take a shower and get dressed. Hurry up.” She shoos me with the tips of her manicured fingernails like she’s trying to get rid of a stray dog.