13. Miguel
MIGUEL
NOW
Like many people, my worries consume my thoughts.
I obsess over them and stress about them to an unhealthy degree.
One thing I’ve never done is sit around and ponder the meaning of life.
Philosophical debates are a waste of my time, but the college professor wearing a skinny tie and droning on about a specific literary classic has me questioning my existence.
And what I’ve done to deserve the worst attempt at seduction in the history of courtship.
“…which makes perfect sense. The Metamorphosis isn’t only about sexual repression. Kafka alludes to the more nuanced desires related to sex, including the taboo.”
My fingertips rap against the tablecloth as I glare at the forty-year-old with a blond crew cut and tweed coat. “So...kinks?”
He adjusts his wire glasses. On him, they look as out of place as the soul patch on his chin. I’m not convinced he’s a professor at all.
“If we’re using simplistic vocabulary, yes,” he says.
What a condescending prick.
Sighing, I fold the napkin draped over my lap. The Italian bistro’s atmosphere seemed promising in the online reviews, but the poor company I’m keeping has ruined the vibe. “Look, Bradley.”
“Bennett.”
“Whatever. When I read a book, I go for thrillers or suspense. I’m pretty smart and can usually solve the whodunnit in the first act.
” I set the napkin on my empty plate and twirl a finger in the air.
“This long, roundabout way of telling me you’re looking to get laid but have nuanced tastes?
I clocked your game the second you brought Franz into the conversation.
And I’ll tell you now, you’re barking up the wrong tree.
Save yourself fifty bucks, and let’s end the evening while we’re ahead. ”
He turns his nose up and sneers. “There’s no reason to be rude.”
Pulling out my wallet, I lay down a twenty to cover my half of the appetizer he ordered, plus tip. “If you think honesty and directness are unacceptable qualities, that’s a you problem. Good luck to you and Kafka.”
I’ve never fled a restaurant so fast in my life. My hands are shaking, a side effect of standing up for myself, as I speed-walk the one block to my favorite fabric store. If the professor had been direct about his intentions, I wouldn’t have met with him.
Maybe I’m the naive one who can’t read between the lines.
I need an expert to guide me through the process of using dating apps.
Someone to teach me how to spot the clues and translate the shorthand before swiping right or left or whichever fucking direction means I’m down for a coffee, a croissant, and that’s all.
The bell chimes when I walk into Linens & Lace and take a deep breath, inhaling the starchy scent of new fabric.
Ms. Darcy, the owner, looks up from the cutting table.
She’s a spry woman in her seventies with wrinkly skin and solid white hair tied in a low bun.
Her eyes light up behind thick lenses and large frames competing with her smile.
“Miguel! This is a pleasant surprise. What brings you in on a Saturday?” she asks.
“Only you, Ms. Darcy. I can’t stay away from such a pretty sight.”
She waves the shears in her hand. “Oh, hush. I’m too old and wise to fall for your charms.”
“You’re the only person who thinks I’m charming. Five minutes ago, someone called me rude.”
“Nonsense. Have a seat and tell me why you’re here. You raided my new stock three days ago, so I know you didn’t come to buy anything.”
Using the long ruler as a guide, she resumes her cutting. I’ve been shopping at Linens & Lace for years, and Ms. Darcy has learned to read my moods. Since she prefers the closing shift, I often pop in after work when there are fewer customers and we have time to chat.
I plant my butt on a round stool and swivel from side to side, eyeing a jar of tiny seashells. I’m also curious about the three bolts of velvet and what’s in store for the vivid colors.
“I walked out on a date before the waiter brought the appetizer,” I say.
She pats my arm. “Good for you. If something doesn’t feel right, never doubt yourself. Trust your instincts when they tell you to haul ass.”
I chuckle, sliding a scrap of purple velvet between my fingers. “I’ve been questioning my instincts for a while. They can’t be trusted anymore.”
“Your instincts are fine, dear. Your broken heart is the problem.”
“My heart definitely can’t be trusted.” Ditching the fabric scrap, I pick up the jar of shells and turn it in my hand. “What are these for?”
Her shears slice through the fabric she’s cutting with ease. “Embellishments. If I’m forcing these tired bones to walk the beaches with my group every Friday, I might as well make some money doing it.”
“Genius.”
“It takes a while, but we all get there.” She folds the yardage and adds it to a bag with a hold tag stapled to the front. “I haven’t had dinner, and from the sound of it, neither have you. Help me close up, and we’ll go for soup and salad around the corner. Soup makes everything better.”
A quick peek at my phone confirms it’s seven o’clock and she’s not trying to close early on account of me. “Sounds like the perfect date.”
Standing in the entryway of my apartment, I groan. The lights are on, and my bedroom door is cracked. I’m certain I closed it before leaving for my disastrous date. As I hang my jacket and toe off my shoes, I reach the only logical conclusion. Cyclone Carmen has blown through my living quarters.
She has no issue with invading my tidy space and leaving a path of destruction when she borrows my expensive facial cleanser or a blazer. Sometimes I think she’s testing me to see if I can resist putting everything back in order before her next visit. I never should’ve given her a key.
My socked feet whisper against the hardwoods, much quieter than my exasperated sigh. There’s no telling what other disaster awaits me tonight. Bracing for the worst, I squeeze the back of my neck and push the door open wider. My jaw drops, and my blood pressure spikes to critical levels.
Colorful candies are sprinkled across the white bedding. Bottles of ice cream toppings wait on the walnut nightstand like little soldiers geared for deployment. But the most shocking sight is Graham, shirtless and standing by the bed.
He’s wearing only jeans and not looking the least bit guilty as his face lights up. “Hey! You’re home early.”
I prop an elbow next to his hat and sunglasses on the tall dresser. “Explain yourself.”
“I’m a candygram. Or I had planned to be. Thought I’d recreate one of your favorite memories.” Poems could be written about his sultry eyes and provocative smile.
One year, on Valentine’s Day, I’d come home to find him lying in bed with his arms stretched across a throne of pillows.
He was naked, aside from the whipped cream on his nipples and a caramel heart drizzled on his abs.
I’d give anything to reenact the scrumptious moment and attach my tongue to his sugary, lean muscles, but his timing couldn’t be worse after the evening I’ve had.
“Valentine’s Day is a month away,” I say.
“It’s never too soon to celebrate love.”
“And you thought a chocolate arrow pointing at your dick again would be a good way to kick off the celebrations?”
His smile turns sheepish. “Actually, I thought we could enjoy the candy part of the Graham this time, without the sex.”
“Then why aren’t you wearing a shir—never mind. I forget who I’m dealing with.”
He shifts on his feet, which draws my attention to the bulge in his jeans. I clench my teeth, my fists, and my butt cheeks, stalking across the room with all the fluid grace of a corpse.
Bending down to gather his clothes tossed in the corner, I steal a moment for three deep breaths and a prayer for strength. When I spin around, the situation becomes even more dire as he closes the caramel bottle and licks a drop off his finger. My balls tingle.
If Graham possesses a greater talent than acting, it’s giving head. He loves getting on his knees for me, and I love the sinful things he can do with that perfect mouth.
I look away. “How did you get in here? Last I checked, breaking and entering was illegal.” The answer comes to me quickly as I march to the window. “Carmen, that traitor. Is anyone on my side?”
“Don’t be mad at her. She wants to see you happy.”
I scoff and scan the street below. “She wants to watch the drama unfold. Don’t mistake her scheming for compassion.”
His warmth at my back envelops me before he touches my shoulders. As his nose grazes the shell of my ear, my eyes close.
“Please don’t do this,” I beg, though my body defies me and drifts backward into his chest.
“I miss you. I miss hearing about your day, holding you at night, and waking up with you every morning.” Pressing in closer, he whispers, “Give me this one night. For one night, we can pretend the past year never happened.”
“You’re good at pretending.” Silence drops like an anvil, and he steps away, allowing me space to turn and confront his wounded expression. “Put your shirt on.”
“You have to give it to me first.”
I’d forgotten about the bundle I’m clinging to like a lifeline. The shirt smells like him—like earth and wild berries and the comforts of home. I relinquish it and lean on the wall with my arms crossed, staring at my feet while he gets dressed.
Fabric swishes before his voice punctures the quiet. “Look at me, darling.”
He’s spoken that phrase so many times over the years, I should get it stitched into my clothing labels. As intimate as we’ve been, sharing our secrets and bodies and dreams, I still have trouble looking into his eyes. They hold too much love. Too much reverence. And now, too many memories.
Even though it hurts to deny him something as simple as eye contact, I hug myself tighter and shake my head. White sneakers appear in my sight before his knuckle trails along my jaw and lifts my chin. His gaze stretches across the chasm I’ve placed between us, desperate for a way across.
“Please talk to me,” he says.
I want to tell him that I miss him too. Ask him to strip down and stay the night. But more than anything, I want to confide in my best friend, the person who held me through the lows and celebrated me through the highs.
Stepping around him, I sweep aside loose candy and sit on the bed with my hands wedged between my thighs. “The guy I met for dinner turned out to be an asshole. I left early.”
Graham’s fingers curl into fists. “Did he try anything? Give me a name, and I’ll—”
“Stop. I don’t need a hero, Graham. I need you to listen.”
A beat of indecision passes before he releases a slow breath and sits next to me, elbows planted on his knees.
“After I left the restaurant, I hung out with Ms. Darcy. She reminded me to trust my instincts, and right now, they’re telling me to give dating a try. Not to find someone, but as a test to see how well I can handle myself in uncomfortable situations.”
“To help with your social anxiety?”
I squeeze my hands together. “Yeah…exactly.”
The frown on his face deepens, like he’s remembering all the parties and other engagements I backed out of. Depending on the venue or the number of people attending, I’d have to force myself to go.
“What about us?” he asks.
“What do you mean?”
His posture straightens as the frown disappears, replaced by determination. “Can I take you on a date?”
“Might be kind of hard while you’re living a thousand miles away.”
“Distance was never an issue for us when I was acting. We made it work then, and I’ll make it work now. Charter planes exist for a reason.”
“Rich people solutions,” I murmur, brushing lint off my trousers. “Your focus should be on the movie, Graham. You’ve worked hard for it. Don’t risk your future by chasing the past.”
“Give me two months. I won’t try to compromise your dating life.
I’ll even help you.” He grimaces, like the idea of me being with anyone else tastes sour.
“If you find someone you like, I’ll back off.
But if you’re single when I’m done filming, will you consider giving us another chance? A real one, without any distractions.”
Chances are slim that I can last two months around Graham without falling into old ways and giving in to irrefutable desires. This could be a secondary challenge I set for myself, resisting my need to fulfill each of his needs and vice versa.
God, we’re a co-dependent mess.
“It’s too soon to make any promises, but I’ll consider it,” I say.
His hand finds mine, and like always, the gesture feels deeply meaningful in its simplicity.
“As much as it kills me to say this, I hope you meet someone who surprises you. Someone who offers everything you’re looking for.
Because I’ll know exactly what I have to do to steal you away from him and make you mine again. ”
I’ll always be yours is the instant response on the tip of my tongue, but I don’t set it free. We’ve had enough honesty for one night.
When his lips touch my head, I release his hand and slip my arm around him. He answers in kind, tossing an arm over my shoulders and drawing me closer. Nothing feels more comfortable and right than leaning into Graham’s side, and I chuckle at the situation we’ve found ourselves in.
“It’s kind of awkward having you here after I went out with someone else.”
“Not for me. You could let a thousand men buy you dinner, and I’d show up a thousand times with dessert.” He reaches over and tugs my bottom lip from my teeth, freeing the smile I’m trying to hide. “Don’t count me out just yet.”
My eyes sting as he retrieves his cap and sunglasses from the dresser. In the doorway, he gives me one last smile, touched by sadness, and disappears.
I rub my chest, where the pain burrows deepest, and wonder why things can’t be different. Why I had to fall in love with a man millions of people have claimed for someone else. And why I’m so afraid of them hating us if I were to claim him for myself.