10. Arlo
I’ve never seen Hota so out of sorts. It’s like he’s nervous or something. The notion that he could be anything other than self-assured is endearing.
“Do you speak Japanese?” I ask, fighting a smile for the first time in too long. I don’t want to make him uncomfortable. I like that he’s sharing with me.
He showed me his vulnerability last night. A little of it. Not nearly as much as I showed. Still, it’s nice to be on an equal footing with him.
“Watashi wa nihongo o hanashimasu.”
“Wow!” I cradle my forehead. “That sounds a lot harder to speak than English or Spanish.”
“It’s a different set of the mouth, for sure, but spoken Japanese isn’t that difficult to learn. There are only thirteen consonant sounds and five vowel sounds. It’s grammatically regular, especially compared to English.”
“Spanish is harder to conjugate to me, but it’s not my native language.” I shrug. “Then again, I got a better grade in Spanish than English. So…” I grimace.
“You speak Spanish?”
“Mas o menos.” The glimmer of good memories warms my chest for a change. “Every year, my parents would drag us to a Latin American country to soak up the art, the food, the culture. My dad had a thing for art. My mom loved traveling. We went to Argentina, Ecuador, Mexico, Peru, and Chile.”
“Could you teach me?” He nearly hollers the question.
“Spanish?”
“Sí.” He beams at the one word of Spanish everyone in the world knows.
“Sí. Una condición.” I hold up a finger.
His head cants. He didn’t take the time to pull his long hair into the knot he usually wears at the top of his head. Several strands fall over the edge of his right eye. An eye that shines with interest. “What’s the condition?”
“You teach me Japanese.”
“Hai or sí or yes.” At the same time, he’s telling me he agrees to the deal in three different languages, and his hand shoots out to seal the agreement.
I stare at his hand and, for the first time since coming to this cursed land, I wish that I could reach out and touch his light caramel skin. When my uncle was coming after us, I reacted and shoved him toward safety, but that was his shirt. Since the horrors of my uncle, the thought of skin on skin makes me want to acid strip my own.
His skin looks smooth, kind, and beautiful. The immediate shivers don’t come, but I worry they will.
“Sorry.” Hota turns his proffered hand into a pointed index finger behind me. “This Macintosh desktop setup is the top of the line. It’s what I have at home. I love Macs, but their laptops suck. I got the iBook and Powerbook, and they only lasted a year. I hear they’re working to upgrade them. You know, make the next generation of laptops.” He moves past me to a row of machines. “Until then, I’d suggest this X41 or an Alienware if they have it and you have the cash for it.”
Hota turns back to me since I haven’t moved my feet. I’m too shocked that he’s not making a big deal out of my new phobia. “Come on.” He waves me forward. “Look at these two and see what you think.”
A well of emotion rises, stinging my eyes. I shuffle down, nod, and do as I’m told. Several minutes later, a slow-moving old man makes his way into the front of the store. He’s never heard of Alienware. We pretty much ignore him after that, and Hota runs me through the pros and cons of the available options.
“This one.” I grab a box from the shelf and head toward the register.
“You know that’s the most expensive option, right?” Hota whispers.
“Yeah, but you said it was the best one.”
He stops walking, so I stop too. His thick lips mash together.
“Just say it.”
“I don’t get the impression that your piece of shit, barely relative, is providing for you in any way other than torment. Hell, my parents…” His hand slaps over his mouth. He wipes the word away and tries again. “My dad has me on a tight leash. I can’t even afford that system. But I can help you if you need?—”
“I have it. Don’t worry.” I continue to the register and hand over the box.
The old man clacks some information into a desktop older than he is. Then he clacks some more. “That’ll be one thousand two hundred six pounds eighty.”
I pull a stack of bank notes from my pocket and begin to leaf through the thick stack of fifty-pound notes. After I pull the necessary amount and hand it over, the man goes to the back to print out my receipt and get my change. I stuff the remainder into my pocket, and Hota’s gobsmacked expression catches my eye.
“What?” I whisper, looking left then right for the cause of his concern.
“What?” he whisper-yells. His hands go up and out like I’ve lost my ever-loving mind. “I know you don’t do drugs, but do you sell them?” He points at my pocket. “I haven’t seen that much cash, ever. And my parents.” His hands form quick fists. “Fuck! My father is rich.” He waves his irritation away and points at my pocket again. “That was like several grand.”
“It was almost ten.” The damn wad almost didn’t fit into my trousers.
He gasps and then jumps, jerking himself into the air. “Why would you bring that much money with you?” His hands flare out again. “Why do you even have that much cash? How? Is it drugs?”
I hold my palm up. “I didn’t know how much I’d need. I’ve never bought anything except that clock radio a few weeks ago.”
“Do you have your receipt for it?” he grumbles.
“No.” I almost smile because I know how much he hates the radio, or more aptly, the music I listen to on it. “And no, I don’t sell drugs.” I mouth the last part because the old man is shuffling our way. “I sell school assignments.”
Hota’s shoulders go down hard. His chin goes up, and his mouth hangs open. He stares at the ceiling while I finish the transaction and collect my new laptop.
“I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.” He smacks the hair back from his eyes and heads for the door he was so reluctant to enter. He pushes out and stops in the alleyway, his mouth still agape.
A laugh sneaks out of my chest, works its way up my throat, and filters into the damp air.
Hota’s face jerks in my direction. A beat passes, and then a vibrant smile blooms on his cheeks.
“Don’t worry about it.” I bump my shoulder with his and head toward the main street. It’s not until he hangs back that I realize what I did. I touched him. Not skin to skin, but shirt-covered shoulder to shirt-covered shoulder. It’s a big fucking deal. And I did it without thinking.
He just makes me comfortable. When he’s not annoying me, purposely ruffling my feathers, or inadvertently plumping my cock, he feels like the safest place I’ve found since my world imploded.
He feels like my guy. Whatever that means.
My friend. My person. Integral to the beating of my heart.
As soon as I turn, he straightens his features and falls in line beside me. I’m thankful he didn’t make a thing of it. So thankful that the corner of my mouth turns up.
“If you think that’s a lot of money...” I pat my pocket. “Just think how much rich teenage boys will pay for porn access.”
He whoops, tossing himself into the air and basically stopping all forward progress. “You said porn.”
“Are you proud of me?” I can't believe I’m having this conversation.
“Yes.” His laughter is rich and boisterous.
It does something to my insides. It knits our souls a little tighter together. A thread that started the first day I saw him, though I didn’t want it to. A thread that grew thicker last night when he watched over me as I slept.
“You’re a genius.” His hands go palm up on either side of him. “I’m a genius too. Why didn’t I think of it?”
“They say necessity is the mother of invention.” I shake my head. “Desperation is.”
“Speaking of desperate.” He turns toward the main part of town and starts walking again. “Now we have to get you jerking off.”
“Who says I’m not?” I am not. I hate that he knows it. I mean, it’s something I was plenty familiar with before everything went to shit.
“Who’s the deviant now?” He looks over his shoulder at me. A grin is plastered on his face.
“You. Definitely, still you.”
His lips purse as he assesses me, as if he can tell by simply looking at me. “Nice try, but you’re not.”
“I don’t know how it’s any business of yours.” I walk a little faster, trying to pass him. Too bad he keeps up easily.
I’m not able to outrun my embarrassment. Hotaru has none, it seems.
“I’m your friend. Friends look out for each other’s well-being. A daily jerk is part of a healthy lifestyle.” He takes a breath to continue.
My hand comes up between us. “If you say one more word about it, I’m not buying you lunch, and you’ll have to eat cafeteria food on this dreary Saturday.”
“Fine. You bought my silence.” A smirk grows across his face. “For now.”