22. Chapter 22
Before I have a chance to process the question and form an uncomplicated response, I tell her a half-truth.
”Oh,” I say. ”That was Tricia Duncan.”
”Now, I know why she looks familiar,” says Laila. ”She looks like her mother, the pastor, and his wife, Vanessa, right? That”s their daughter.”
”Yeah, that”s her.”
”She”s beautiful,” she says. ”I”d kill for her hair.”
”I love your hair,” I say, gently pulling a shiny strand from her shoulder and kissing it. ”Come here.”
She leans into me, and I kiss her.
”So,” she says, ”what did she want?”
”She was hounding me about why I haven”t been to church in seven years.” That was not a half-truth; it was a straight-out lie. Why did I lie? Because I don”t want my past, present, and future to collide. ”My future,” I think. This beautiful woman sitting next to me is my future. I can”t fathom it without her.
”Oh yeah?” she asks. ”I”ve been wondering the same thing.”
The rest of the afternoon goes well, except for me constantly looking over my shoulder, hoping Patricia steers clear of us.
I see her a few times, and she sees us, but she makes no attempt to engage us. Good.
”You seem quiet,” says Laila as we get ready to leave.
”I guess I”m suffering from a bout of nostalgia,” I say. ”Seeing everyone, remembering our youth.”
”It was only ten years ago!” says Laila, laughing. ”Let”s not come back for your twentieth.”
”Are you planning to be my date again ten years from now?” I ask.
When she doesn”t respond, I add, ”Now you”re the one that seems quiet.”
”Trying to picture what my life will be like in ten years is something that takes time to consider.”
”Whatever it is,” I say, ”or however it looks. Do you want it to be with me?”
”Yes,” she says. ”Yes.” There is no hesitation in her response.
I pull her into my arms and kiss her. I can”t help it. She said yes, and that makes me the happiest I”ve ever been.
Later, when we”re back home and getting ready for bed in our own separate bedrooms, I”m standing in front of the mirror, staring into the eyes of a liar. The ease with which I lied to Laila about Patricia”s identity makes me feel like a fraud. After all this is over, I vow to sit down with her and let her know that Patricia and Tricia Duncan are one and the same. I”ll throw myself at her mercy in hopes that she”ll forgive me for the lie of omission.
The next day, we go for a run in the morning and then make a simple breakfast of oatmeal and fruit.
”I”m going to deep clean the studio today,” says Laila, ”so I”ll see you in a couple of hours.” I watch as she opens some of the cabinets in the laundry room and pulls out several cleaning supplies.
”And what am I supposed to do with myself while you”re gone?”
”Maybe you can catch up on all the work you probably have piled up since you”ve been entertaining me for two weeks.” She leans over and kisses me before heading out the back door.
I make myself comfortable on the couch and open my laptop to get to work. I”m relieved when I see that I don”t have any more emails from Patricia.
For lunch, I decide to take Laila to one of my favorite Mexican food restaurants.
”It”s a tiny, unassuming place,” I say, ”but it has the best tacos.”
”Dos Pedros,” says Laila, reading the restaurant sign on the front of the building.
We stand in front of the menu for several minutes, deciding what to get.
”What do you recommend?” she asks.
”How about if we get one of each, and you try them all,” I suggest.
”That sounds good,” she says, standing beside me to let me order.
”I”ll take one of each of your tacos.”
”All of them?” asks the server.
”Yes, I say. We”ll take a carne asada, adobada, lengua, carnitas, pollo asado, pescado y uno de machaca por favor.”
”Woah!” says Laila. ”You lost me at ado, adobada?”
”Yes,” I say. ”I”ll explain them all to you when they bring them to the table. Do you want to try something different to drink too?”
”Might as well,” she says, laughing.
”To drink, we”ll take horchata and agua de jamaica. Also, please bring two bottles of water.”
”So kissing is not the only language you”re proficient at?” says Laila, getting close to me for a kiss. I oblige.
”He hem,” says the server. ”Will that be all?”
”We”ll also have some chips and salsa.”
”Okay,” he says. ”Do you want green or red salsa for your tacos?”
”Both,” I say.
We find a corner table and sit to wait.
”Where did you learn to speak Spanish?” asks Laila.
”I spent two summers in Guatemala, remember? I had no choice. It was either sink or swim.”
”So you turned into a fish,” she says.
I laugh. ”Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
”Did you go with your parents?” she asks.
I don”t like where this conversation is headed.
”Um, no,” I begin, ”I actually went with our church youth group.”
”The same church your family attends now?”
”Yep. The same one.”
”So you and Tricia have been friends for years.”
”We were friends until our lives took us in different directions.”
”How?” she asks.
”We have very different interests and points of view about life.”
”So you two don”t get along now?”
”I haven”t seen or spoken to her in seven years,” I say. ”So, no. We”re not close.”
”Hmm,” she says just as all the food is brought out.
We spend the next few minutes learning about the different types of meats and cooking methods.
”I”ll try them all,” Laila says, ”but please don”t make me taste the, leh, lengooah? Am I saying that right?”
”Yes,” I say, “lengua. It”s cow tongue.”
”I can”t do it,” she says.
”Eat whatever appeals to you,” I say. ”Just know that if you don”t try the lengua, you”ll be missing out. Trust me.”
”It”s good,” she says, taking the last couple of bites of the lengua taco. ”It”s actually really tender and flavorful. I really like it.”
”Tomorrow, I”ll take you to try menudo for breakfast.”
”Hmm, that sounds promising,” she says. ”What is it?”
”Cow stomach.”
Her eyes grow wide, and she starts shaking her head. I start laughing out loud, and so does she. Then it happens: She breaks into uncontrollable bouts of giggles, including snorting every time she tries to say anything. God, I love her. She”s my world.
Afterwards, we walk to the pier. As we hold hands, the cool breeze blows through Laila”s hair. I brush aside a few strands to kiss her. Her lips still taste sweet, like hibiscus from the jamaica drink she had for lunch. I wrap my arms around her and gently push her against the guardrail until there”s no space between us. When I deepen the kiss, she responds with sweet surrender. In this one kiss, she”s clearly conveying that she”s giving me everything without reserve.
When we return to the house, we have only a couple of hours to prepare for the reunion. I shower and shave the beard I”ve been letting grow out for a week. I”m ready in less than an hour. I go into the den and sit to wait for Laila. I log into my emails to address some pending work items and see two emails from Patricia. I choose to ignore them and delete them without reading them.
When Laila walks in, all I can do is gape at her. Since I met her, I”ve learned that she doesn”t need to wear elaborate outfits to look good. Her simplicity of style only adds to her breathtaking beauty.
”So, what exactly do you call this style of dress?” I ask, thinking I should”ve paid more attention to my sisters when they dressed up.
She twirls a couple of times, holding the flowy skirt with her hands, showing off her long, athletic legs.
”This is an A-line, scoop, knee-length chiffon lace cocktail dress with beading.”
”You look gorgeous,” I say, standing to my feet and walking towards her. ”Let me see those earrings,” I say.
She pulls her curls behind one ear and shows me, ”These are diamond drop earrings. Do you like them?”
”Yeah, I like them a lot,” I say. ”Let me get a good look.” I touch her ear and trace a line down her neck with my finger before nuzzling her throat, inhaling deeply, trying to memorize her captivating scent.
”You look good, too,” she says. ”Your face is clean-shaven, and it feels nice against my skin.”
”Right here?” I ask, kissing her neck.
”Yes,” she says. ”Right there.”
When we walk into the venue, heads turn, and they”re not turning for me. Laila”s beauty commands the room, and what makes her even more beautiful is the fact that she doesn”t even realize it.
”I”m nervous,” she says. ”Are you sure this dress is okay? I feel underdressed.”
”Trust me; they”re not staring because they”re judging your dress,” I assure her. ”They”re looking because you”re drop-dead gorgeous.”
We find a few of my buddies sitting together, and they”ve saved us some seats.
”You look beautiful,” I hear one of the women say.
”Thank you,” says Laila, instantly relaxing her grip on my arm.
”See,” I say. ”I told you so.”
I watch Laila relax and let her guard down as time goes by. The women at our table are friendly and seem to have a lot in common with her. Within a few minutes, they”re all engrossed in conversation, exchanging stories about love, life, careers, and children. Laila gushes about Tori, Jon, and Holly. She shares that she”s looking forward to being in the room with Katherine when baby Adam is born. I watch in awe how her sweetness draws people in.
During dinner, the friendly chatter continues. I”m talking to my friends about the perks of freelancing in my chosen career. I tell them about Greece, the art studio in New York, Emma”s wedding, and how my family is doing.
When the dancing begins, I reach for Laila”s hand, ”May I have this dance?”
It seems like everyone”s on the dance floor—one song after another. No one goes back to their seats.
Laila is laughing and enjoying herself as much as I am. I dance with some old friends, all of whom love Laila, as soon as they meet her.
I”m dancing with Kim right now, and I can see Laila from the dance floor. She”s sitting at our table, talking to my friend, Jim, who I know is divorced. Then, they approach the dance floor and begin dancing to a slow song.
”Have you seen Tricia?” Kim”s question refocuses my attention back on her.
”No,” I say. ”I didn”t realize she was here.”
”She”s sitting over there,” Kim says, ”Look. She”s giving us the evil eye.”
I look over Kim”s head and lock eyes with Patricia. She”s cross-legged, wearing a long red party dress that slits up to her thigh.
When I saw her at the park, she wanted to talk. I told her I was there with my date and there wasn”t anything to talk about.
”You owe me that much,” she said.
”I owe you nothing,” I replied.
”Does she know about me?”
”I haven”t seen you in seven years. Why would I tell my current girlfriend about an old relationship?”
”Because I was your fiancée. We were going to get married.”
”Sounds like you”re rewriting history. We were never engaged.”
”When are you going to forgive me?” she asked. We can be good together—the way we were before you left and never returned.”
”Goodbye, Patricia.”
”It”s Tricia!” she exclaimed as I walked away.
”Thank you for the dance,” says Kim, returning me to the present.
”It was good to see you,” I say, giving her a hug.
When I look back at our table, Laila”s gone. The next song has started, but I don”t see her on the dance floor either. When I return to our table, Patricia walks up to me.
”Did you save me a song like I asked?” She reaches for my hand. ”Just one song, Sam.”
She pulls me back onto the dance floor. It feels like all eyes are on us. Everyone in this room knows our story. We were high school sweethearts, after all. We begin the slow dance, and I have no choice but to be a gentleman and finish this one dance.
”Your grandparents think you”re in love with… what”s her name?”
”I am in love with her,” I say.
”Then why are you trembling under my touch? You still want me.”
”It”s not desire, Tricia,” I say, emphasizing her new name, ”It”s—.”
”It”s need,” she says. ”I feel it too. I miss you. I miss us. I miss your lips, your touch. No one has ever made me feel the way you did. I want to feel that again.”
”I”m sorry,” I say, ”but that”ll never happen.”
”If I could go back in time, I would say yes,” she says, ”Ask me again, Sam. I want to be your wife and the mother of your children.”