Chapter 9 Maurice #2
Maurice stood, the chair scraping loud against the floor. The family at the counter turned to look. He didn’t care.
He caught up to her half a block down, near a closed shop with Christmas lights still blinking in the window.
“Monique.”
She didn’t stop. Kept walking, camera bag bouncing against her hip.
“Monique, please.”
“Go back and eat your food, Maurice.”
“Not until you hear me out.”
She spun on him. “Hear you out? You haven’t said anything worth hearing.”
The words landed, sharp and true. He deserved them.
“Everything’s complicated. And I want to tell you. I will tell you everything you want to know. But not—” He looked around at the street, at the people passing, at the noise and light and movement. “Not here. Not like this. Not now. Not with you already halfway to hating me.”
Monique scoffed. “I don’t hate you.”
“You should.” He stepped closer. Not crowding, just closing the distance she’d put between them. “I asked you to let me in. Asked you to show me who you are. Then locked my own door when you tried to do the same. That’s not fair. You’re right about that.”
Monique shifted her camera bag to her other shoulder, and looked past him toward the lights of the plaza. “So, what’s next?” She pulled in a long breath. “When?”
“Before this trip ends. Before we go home. I promise.”
“Promises don’t carry a lot of currency with me, Maurice.”
“I know. But that’s all I got right now.” He pulled his hands from his pockets, letting them hang at his sides. Vulnerable. Open. “I’m asking you to trust that I’m not trying to hide anything from you.”
A breath. Another. The lights kept blinking. The music kept playing. The city continued to vibrate around them while they stood there trying to figure out what they were doing.
“I don’t do one-way streets anymore,” Monique finally said. “I stopped giving pieces of myself to folks who won’t give back.”
“That’s fair. Can we start over?”
She nodded. Adjusted her bag again. “You hungry?”
“What?”
“Back there. We didn’t eat.” She started walking back toward the restaurant. “Come on. I paid for it. Might as well not waste it.”
Maurice followed, trying to process the shift. “Just like that?”
“Just like what?”
“You’re done being mad?”
She stopped. Turned. “I’m still mad. But I’m also hungry. Besides, you promised me later, and for some reason, I believe you. I can be mad and hungry at the same time.” She kept walking. “That’s allowed.”
Inside the restaurant, their food sat cold on the table. The woman with the grease-spotted apron saw them come back, shook her head like they were children, and took the plates away. Brought back fresh ones, hot.
“Gracias,” Monique said.
The woman patted her shoulder and said something in Spanish that made Monique laugh and say something back.
“What’d she say?” Maurice asked.
“She said lovers always fight on the first date.” Monique picked up her alcapurria. “I told her this isn’t a date.”
“What’d she say to that?”
“She said I was lying.” Monique bit into the fritter and chewed. “Maybe she’s right.”
Maurice stilled, turning that over. A date? So what did that make them? Make him? He’d spent years studying people but never thought to take notes on himself.
He picked up a fritter and bit into it. “This is good.”
Monique preened a little bit. “You betta recognize. I don’t play about good food.”
It was hot, spicy, greasy, and perfect. They ate in silence for a while. Comfortable silence this time. The kind that didn’t need filling.
“So,” Monique said, licking grease from her thumb, “Tommie’s your best friend?”
“Since we were eleven or twelve.”
“That’s a long time.”
“Yeah.”
“Knowing him, he saw you and he just decided you were friends.”
Maurice smiled. “Pretty much.”
Monique laughed—genuine, warm. “Tommie doesn’t take no for an answer.” She waved a hand over herself. “You see where I am right now.”
“So, you’re saying I should be thanking him?”
“Tomayto-tomahto.” Monique smiled around another bite of alcapurria.
They ate. The silence settled between them like the fritters, warm, uncomplicated, and satisfying. Outside, a group passed by singing, someone strumming a guitar.
“Can I ask you something?” Monique said.
“Yeah.”
“Why’d you give me that room? This morning. At the hotel.”
Maurice considered the question. “You were there first.”
“That’s it?”
“Should there be more than that?”
“Most people wouldn’t have.”
“I’m not most people.”
She studied him. “You don’t say much, do you?”
“I say what needs saying.”
“I respect that.”
He took a sip of his drink. “This is… interesting. What is it?” He tried it again. Sweet and sour and something else he couldn’t name. He made a face.
“Tamarindo.” She laughed—real laughter this time. “Hate it?”
“It’s not what I expected.”
“Nothing about today is what I expected.”
Maurice understood that feeling completely. His phone buzzed. The 2000 alert. It was already eight o’clock, and he hadn’t noticed the passage of time. He silenced the alert.
They finished eating and walked back to the hotel slowly, holiday lights and the ordinary streetlights illuminating their path.
The lobby was busy when they returned. At the elevator, Maurice asked, “What floor?”
Monique pressed the button for four.
“Oh.” He looked surprised. She did not.
The elevator doors opened. They stepped inside, and for a moment, neither spoke.
“I’m in 410,” Monique said, leaning against the wall, relaxed, casual.
“We’re neighbors?”
“Seems like it.” She was playful again, and Maurice was grateful.
The elevator was small, and neither of them worked to fill it with words. The doors opened on four, and they walked down the hallway together, stopping between their doors.
Monique pulled out her key card. “Thanks. For today. For walking with me.”
“Thanks for allowing me.”
The urge to touch her again, to pull her into a hug, set Maurice’s heart on a thunderous rhythm. He wanted to say something, to make this moment last a little longer so he could have more to remember.
She smiled, unlocked her door, paused. “See ya ’round, Mo.” She disappeared into her room.
Maurice unlocked his own door and stepped inside. His phone was buzzing. Multiple alerts. Missed prayer times. Maurice looked at the notifications.
0600 prayer completed. 1200 missed. 1500 missed. 1800 missed. 2000 missed.
In the thirty or so years since he’d chosen this practice, he’d never missed four prayers in one day. The wrongness should be overwhelming. The guilt should be squeezing at the base of his skull by now. Instead, Maurice just felt neutral, balanced.
He walked to the balcony. The city spread before him—Christmas lights competing with New Year’s decorations, music drifting up, celebration everywhere.
The season of joy. Of redemption. Of new beginnings.
Standing here, feeling nothing when church bells had rung earlier, realizing he’d chosen to miss prayer times, he felt only relief.
Maybe it had never been faith at all. Maybe it had just been another way to fill time.
Through the wall, he could hear water running. Monique in her room, probably showering, probably as tired as he was.
His phone buzzed again.
TOMMIE
You good?
His automatic response wouldn’t come—that shallow “yeah” he handed out like church candy. Was he good? The question pressed on him, demanding honesty.
MAURICE
I’m good. Needed some quiet.
TOMMIE
Bet. See you tomorrow. Beach day!!!
Maurice smiled and set his phone down.
Tomorrow was beach day and more of Tommie’s string pulling.
He would have to say something to him. But tonight, Maurice had chosen.
He’d walked with someone who understood silence.
He’d skipped a commitment without guilt.
He’d missed prayers without panic. He wanted to do something, and he’d done it. Well, almost…