Tinfoil Heart

by Daisy Prescott

  “Smart. Then I guess I should thank you for your devious use of mayo. Thanks for coming to my rescue with condiments.”

  “As a waitress, it’s what I do.” I give him a nonchalant shrug. “I’m surprised you of all people needed to be saved. Did you forget to be grumpy and ignore the help?”

  He jerks his head back like I’ve slapped him. “Is that what you think I did to you? I was never rude.”

  I jab a fry into some ketchup. “I felt invisible to you for months.”

  “I was keeping things professional, being respectful. I always tipped twenty-percent,” he says, defensively.

  “And I appreciate that.” I cut my giant burger in half with my knife. “If I had to choose, I’d rather get the silent treatment and a good tip than have to suffer through sexist jokes and overly friendly touching to get a crappy tip.”

  With his forearms on the table, he leans forward. “Are you kidding me? Who does that to you? The oil guys?”

  I laugh. “You’re sweet. Oblivious, but sweet.”

  “Seriously? Give me names.” His eyes flash with anger, drawing out more amber from the green.

  “Stop. Wanda and I handle them. If anyone were to ever get out of hand, Tony’s there. He keeps a baseball bat in the kitchen. Wanda says he’s only had to bring it out twice.”

  “I can’t believe I’ve never noticed,” he grumbles around his burger.

  “Hard to see what’s going on around you if you’re staring at a screen.” I pick up my burger and take a huge bite. Today’s a good day and I don’t want to think about how horrible men can be. Not when Boone is being amazing and I haven’t laughed or smiled this much in a long time.

  I’m starving and the burger is the best thing I’ve ever had in my mouth.

  Until the heat from the hatch chile hits my tongue on the second bite. I barely manage to swallow around the sudden lava flow of heat.

  “Wow.” I drink half my bottle of Mexican Coke. It doesn’t help. My eyes begin to water and I try a fry to soothe the blistering happening on my tongue.

  “Too hot?” Boone bites into his own burger and swallows. I watch for beads of sweat on his forehead or a reddening of his skin color. He appears fine.

  “A little.” Would it be weird if I wiped off my tongue on my napkin? Or licked the outside of my Coke bottle?

  Our waitress drops off my random mayo and I dip a fry into it with my last hope.

  “You all right?” Boone’s expression switches from amusement to concern.

  “Fine, fine.” I wave my hand in front of my mouth. “Why isn’t your mouth on fire?”

  “I like it hot.” He shrugs and takes another bite. “You don’t have to eat the chile.”

  He’s calling me a wuss. And I’m fine admitting defeat.

  “You need milk.” He waves over the waitress and orders a glass for me.

  Her eyes flash with judgment when she drops off the order. “Some people can’t handle the heat.”

  Translation: she can.

  And by heat, she means a hot guy like Boone.

  Too bad for her we’re not on one of those awful bachelor dating shows.

  I happily drink the cold milk, letting it erase the oils from the pepper. With a satisfied sigh, I exhale. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. If you grew up eating chiles, you’d know that trick. Milk for your mouth. Butter for your hands. And never touch your eyes.” He widens his eyes and shakes his head. “Horrible.”

  “Speaking from experience?” I ask, opening my burger and using a fry to remove the pepper.

  “More than once. In some cases, I’m a slow learner.”

  I doubt that. He seems like the kind of guy who is naturally good at everything. Except maybe flirting with women. The thought intrigues me.

  “How’d you end up working at the Rig?” he asks.

  Sometimes I tell the truth about my dad and the aliens, passing it off as a joke when people laugh. Something tells me I shouldn’t bring it up to Boone.

  “I wanted a change of scenery. My parents met in college in New Mexico. What could be more different than New York than the desert?”

  “What about your family? Still in New York?”

  It’s a common question to ask when you first meet or start dating someone, but I don’t know how to answer it without spilling all my secrets. I bite into my chile-less burger and stall for time.

  “Mom and I talked about selling the house and moving someplace warmer like Florida or South Carolina as soon as she retired from the school district.”

  “Why didn’t you go? Those sound nicer than landlocked New Mexico.”

  I swallow down my rising emotions. “The doctors found a lump in her breast. Reassured of good survival rates and early detection, she kept working while going through chemo and radiation. And I stayed to care for her.”

  “I’m sorry.” His eyes deepen to green and I swear they turn glassy with tears. He can’t cry. If he cries, I’ll cry.

  “It’s okay.” There’s nothing to be sorry for now. Pretending I’m not suffocating with the memories, I shrug. “We did make it to Florida. Once. Two years ago, after she stopped all treatments, we took ourselves to Disney World for an entire week to thaw out from the snowiest winters anyone could remember.”

  “That sounds nice. I’ve never been.” He watches me intently as if sensing there’s more to my story.

  I focus on talking about Florida. “It’s flat, like here, but with swamps instead of lakes. Alligators instead of scorpions.”

  “You’re really hitting the highlights. Maybe you should write travel brochures. So your mom’s still in New York?” His dark brows draw up with hope.

  I manage to shake my head no. My voice is hoarse as I fight back tears. “She died six months later.”

  Instead of speaking empty words about how sorry he is, he joins me on my side of the booth. Wrapping me in his arms, holding me tight, he gently rubs his hand down my back in a soothing oval. Down, across, up. Repeat. The contact soothes me in a way a token expression of empathy never could. I can’t remember the last time someone held me like this. Not for sexual reasons, but to reassure me I exist and matter to someone in this world.

  “What about the rest of your family?” he asks.

  “Don’t have any.” I wipe a few stray tears with my fingers and feel the sting from the chile pepper. I swear its heat is going to haunt me.

  “What happened?” He dips his head to be in my sight line.

  “Dad left when I was a kid. Grandparents died a few years ago. No aunts, uncles, or cousins. We didn’t really know my dad’s family, and both his parents are dead, too. Now it’s just me. The last of the Hallidays.” I lift my bottle in a toast. “I know how to bring down the mood. I’m also available for kiddie parties.”

  “I’m sorry, Lucy.” He touches my arm; warm fingers wrap around my wrist. “You’re not a downer. It’s your life. Facts aren’t emotional.”

  “Said like a man,” I snark at him. “Sorry.”

  “My gender has nothing to do with it. I’m a man. Fact. Why should my gender make you upset? It has nothing to do with you and isn’t personal. It’s a fact. True?”

  I shrug. “True. You being a man doesn’t make me sad.”

  It is the truth. He makes me happy, which is worse. Sorrow is my friend. I know sadness. Happiness is a stranger offering me candy and hollow promises.

  “Your family dying is the same. They didn’t do it to hurt you. They would’ve stayed with you if they could have. True?” He softly touches my chin to get me to look at him.

  I nod, knowing he’s trying to comfort me in his own, strange way.

  “We all die. Everyone we know and love will die eventually.”

  “Okay, I may not be a downer, but you might.” I’m basically pulling the kid trick of twisting his name-calling back around to him. I know you are, but what am I?

  He smirks. “No, I’m not. Death is a fact. You decide how you react to the facts. You’re in c
ontrol of your emotions.”

  “What about falling in love? You think you can control that, too?” I tip my head, waiting for his answer.

  “Why not? Who says it’s impossible?” he responds with more questions.

  “Generations of love songs and poems? The entire history of humanity?” I ask, drily.

  “Romantic idealism isn’t based on facts.”

  I’ve found Boone’s major flaw, and the reason he’s single.

  The man doesn’t believe in romantic love. He’s too rational and reasonable to fall in love. This should be a welcome revelation, but my stomach sinks, and I lose the remainder of my appetite.

  “Have you ever been in love?” I ask, already suspecting the answer.

  “No. Have you?” he asks the same of me, curious, but matter of fact.

  “Thought so. Why not?” I use his trick of answering a question with a question.

  “It’s never interested me.” He shrugs. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Once. Maybe. I thought I was head over heels in love in high school and freshman year of college.”

  “Thought?” He lifts an eyebrow in question.

  “Looking back, I now realize it was mostly hormones and peer pressure. He was nice enough, but we were better off as friends.”

  “Nothing since?” he asks, and I find comfort in his curiosity.

  “Nothing that came close to love. Or what I imagined love to be. So many people, who say they’re in love, are miserable. No thank you. I’ve had enough misery on my own.”

  “Guess we’re the same. Most women I know are consumed with falling in love and being in love. It’s refreshing to meet someone who’s more like me.” His happy smile tells me he means it as a compliment.

  Disappointment burns my throat more than the green chile.

  I should feel relief Boone Santos is emotionally off limits. I should feel better he’s not going to fall in love with me. Beneath its layers of protective tinfoil, my heart tightens.

  Crumpling my napkin, I place it over my leftover food.

  Pointing at his empty plate, I use my chipper waitress voice. “Ready to go?”

  “Did I say something?” he says, not moving to stand.

  I shake off the unwelcome wave of disappointment. “You’re right, facts shouldn’t be emotional. Life’s less messy when we stick to the facts.”

  Driving back to Roswell, Boone takes us a different route through the mountains. I’m mostly quiet, mulling over our lunch conversation.

  How different my life would be if my mother was able to let my father go instead of clinging to the love she felt for him like a life raft. If she was Rose on the Titanic, she wouldn’t have let Jack stay in the water. She would’ve pulled him on the door, willing to drown beside him rather than live a life without him.

  Is that what love demands? To give up our life for another’s?

  Some days I feel like I’m slowly drowning while trying to hold onto my mother’s raft.

  I wonder what would happen if I let go.

  NEEDING TO SHAKE off the melancholy from our conversation over the world’s hottest burgers, I invite Boone back to my apartment.

  When we arrive, I skip the pretense we’re going to spend the evening having polite conversation on my tiny settee and I lead him directly to my bedroom. Sitting on the side of my bed, I expect him to join me.

  Instead, he leans against the wall, gently dragging his index finger across the top of his lips, studying me.

  He hasn’t touched me. Yet my skin flames with heated anticipation.

  He approaches, slowly.

  On the outside I’m still. Inside, my heart gallops and blood races through my veins as my pulse quickens.

  He triggers my flight instinct with his slow, steady pace. Somehow I remain seated on the edge of the bed.

  “Lucy.” My name on his lips sends a shiver down my spine. “What am I going to do with you?”

  The tension between us is off the charts.

  Honestly, he could tickle me or kiss me. Either one and I’ll probably scream. I half expect him to pounce, closing the distance between us in a single move.

  Of course he doesn’t, because Boone never does what I think he will.

  A few feet away, he stops and yanks his shirt over his head. The soft cotton drops to the ground.

  Out of reach, I’d have to stand to touch him unless I use my foot.

  “Are you going to stare or get naked?” His low chuckle and wicked smile break some of the tension between us.

  After kicking off my shoes, I stand to rid myself of my shorts. I feel granules slide down my legs as I strip off my clothes. In the moment, I forgot about the gypsum.

  “I need a shower.” I shake and more white powder dusts my wood floor.

  He drops his shorts and the same thing happens by his feet. “Can I join you?”

  Leaving a trail of gypsum behind us, we strip off the rest of our own clothes and each other’s. He kisses my shoulder while undoing the clasp of my bra. It falls to the floor, spilling more white powder.

  I lean into the shower to turn on the faucets and Boone slowly peels off my underwear. Willing to do the same for him, I turn around and slip my fingers in the band of his boxers, bending at the waist to drag them down his thighs. Once free from its cotton confines, his thick cock bobs to attention. I give it a quick lick.

  Boone’s eyes burn a deep emerald before he closes them. Empowered by the effect I have on him, I sit on the edge of the tub and suck him into my mouth.

  His moan of pleasure encourages me. With my hand wrapped around the base, I lick and suck as much as I can, using my hand to stroke the rest.

  “Lucy,” he murmurs. “I want to be inside of you.”

  I release him to say, “I’m still sandy.”

  “Then let’s continue this in the shower.”

  He grabs a condom and sets the foil packet on the shelf next to my bath products.

  We rinse and then he spends a long time lathering me with body wash. I do the same for him, paying special attention to stroking his shaft with my soapy hands, letting them wander to his balls. He grows even harder in my hand until the tip is an angry deep red. We rinse again before he pins me to the wall, lifting my arms above my head and grinding against me.

  I want to live in this shower with him forever, as long as the water stays hot.

  After teasing him with my mouth and hands, I expect him to be fast and rough, but once again, he doesn’t do what I assume. He makes love to me with slow, steady thrusts, drawing out my pleasure quietly and deliberately until I’m a writhing, slippery mess before finally taking me over the edge with him into simultaneous orgasms. The unicorn of orgasms, and before this moment, completely mythical to me.

  Still warm and damp from our long, hot shower sex, we collapse on my bed.

  “What happened to your tattoo?” He sweeps his tongue around my nipple, then places a open kiss to the swell of my breast over my heart.

  “Huh? I don’t have any tattoos.” My stomach drops. Is he confusing me with another lover?

  “I thought I saw one here.” He kisses my skin to mark the spot. “The first night we ran into each other at Pete’s.”

  “Are you sure it was me?” I ask, squirming under the tickle of his breath over my nipple.

  “Yes. It looked like a sun.” With his tongue, he traces a circle and then lines on my skin.

  I swear my heart stops beating. He saw the symbol. That’s why he was doodling it on the napkin.

  “No idea.” My voice cracks with the lie.

  “Hmm,” he hums around my right nipple. “My mistake.”

  In spite of having his mouth against my chest, he doesn’t notice the erratic thumping.

  My breath shudders when I inhale and I hope he misinterprets it as passion.

  Fear mixes with relief.

  If he drew what he thought was my tattoo, he probably has no clue about the symbol’s deeper meaning to me. Or its possible connec
tion to aliens.

  “How old are you?” I ask to change the subject.

  He peers up at me from where he’s kissing a path to my stomach. “Thirty. Why?”

  “No reason. I’ll be twenty-eight in December,” I tell him even though he didn’t ask.

  “My birthday is in May.” He places kisses around my belly button. “Am I doing this backwards again?”

  “Driving me crazy with your mouth? No, I liked the direction you were going before.” I run my fingers through his dark waves, confused by my sudden need to chat.

  “I meant the dating business. We’re naked and about to have sex, I hope, but we’re also having a conversation. Should we talk first? I’m not sure how good I am at multi-tasking.” He drops a kiss to my hip, then crawls up my body and places a soft, sweet kiss on my mouth.

  “You asked a question, I answered.” Blinking, I try to focus on his eyes when he’s so close.

  “Then you asked me how old I am, and I told you. That’s what I meant by conversation. The back and forth. You talk, I talk.” He drops a kiss on one cheek and then the other.

  “I like your way better.” I kiss his chin. “We say something, and then follow it with a kiss.” I kiss the soft skin behind his jaw, below his ear.

  His body jerks and he moans. “That tickles.”

  I nip his earlobe. “What about that?”

  He rolls his hips, rubbing the tip of his erection against my thigh. “Doesn’t tickle.”

  I kiss or bite various places on his body and he tells me how it feels. His inner elbows are surprisingly ticklish, as is the skin between his thumb and forefinger. Not ticklish over his ribs or his ankle.

  Losing ourselves in the exploration of each other’s bodies, we forget to ask more questions about each other.

  And that suits me just fine.

  “MY BROTHER WILL be late to his own funeral.” Shari sighs and presses her phone’s screen to check the time.

  We’re hanging out in her kitchen waiting for the guys to show up. Took us two weeks for our schedules to all align with a free evening. I don’t mind Boone being late because it gives us time to catch up.