Chapter 30
Olivia
Now
I’ve definitely made deductions based on how men keep their cars before—only to find the dumpster fire that awaited at their apartment.
I’m talking filthy with no toilet paper or hand soap in the bathroom type of living.
But like his car, this particular man keeps his house clean.
Simple things make me want to squeal—like knowing my socks will stay white when I leave my shoes at the door.
It’s bright in here from the big bay windows, homegrown basil and parsley sitting on the sills.
Save for One Piece’s toys scattered around the living room and Teddy’s on the couch, it’s not even what I’d qualify as messy.
I can’t say I’m that surprised. When we lived together at Celia’s house, his room was more organized than mine.
Still, ten years later, I didn’t want to have expectations.
But when I walk into his bedroom now, I decide that he tucks the corners of his sheets like they do in hotels without having to see them.
“It’s exactly like I’d imagined,” I say, turning to where he’s leaning against the wall in the hallway. “And just so you know, I’m not dirty by any means, but back at my apartment there are clothes I tossed around my room while deciding what to pack to come to Rhode Island.”
“Some things never change,” he teases. I’m still inside his room, just at the entrance, and something about the way he’s examining me makes my body tingle extra with his bed at this proximity. “Were you trying to pick the perfect outfits because you wanted me to stare?”
Mmpf. I wasn’t expecting us to go straight into flirting, but I can’t say I’m disappointed.
“Did it work?” I ask.
“Well, I haven’t been able to stop,” he says. “Actually, when that woman with the dog was crushing on you this morning, calling you stunning, I wanted to jump in and agree.”
I squint my eyes playfully. “Because you’re crushing on me, Carmello?”
“How could I not be, Olivia?”
“I like it when you call me O,” I say.
He smirks. “I know you do, Olivia.”
Damn. He’s so irritatingly fine.
The way he tugs on his chin hair tells me he’s considering stripping my clothes off right here and now and my body is thankful for whatever shifted between us in the last twenty-four hours. But then he nods his head toward a door at his left. “That would be the bathroom.”
***
Once I’m inside and the door is locked, I waste no time.
I pee like I’m in an Olympic race and use the wet wipes on top of the toilet paper holder.
I showered this morning. I can still smell coconut on my skin from Laniah’s handmade body butter, so should Carmello decide to lick any area between my legs today, I know I’m good.
I wash my hands and roll some perfume oil behind my ear, in the crook of my neck, between my forearm and elbow.
I use one of his floss sticks and gargle with his mouthwash.
I glide ChapStick over my lips and fluff my curly hair: another reason to be thankful for Laniah—it’s still shiny and soft, has a hint of lavender this time.
Three minutes later, I’m trying to catch my breath and look natural when I open the door.
Carmello’s in the kitchen heating oil on a skillet. He pulls a marinated bowl of chicken from his fridge. Points to the cabinet beside me. “Can you grab me a cutting board?”
So we’re really cooking, then.
My heart rate settles. Something I’ve learned about myself in therapy is that my impulsive nature might sometimes stem from the fear that I won’t get to experience whatever I desire. But I tell myself that Carmello clearly wants me like I want him.
It might be even better in the bedroom if we go slow.
I open the cabinet and see six different cutting boards, reach up to grab one that looks exactly like the one he likes to use at Celia’s. Even after what I just thought, I can feel his eyes on me from behind, and I hope he likes what he sees.
“What are we making?” I ask, letting my gaze track over the ingredients laid out on the counter. It doesn’t look like anything we normally make at the restaurant.
He doesn’t meet my eyes. The tightness of his jaw tells me he’s deciding how to approach this conversation. Finally, he says, “I was going to make a small picadera.”
That takes me by surprise. “For the event? A Dominican sample board?”
If he hadn’t already washed his hands, this would be when he scratched the back of his neck: a nervous tick.
I can tell he wants to. But contamination and Carmello don’t exist in any kitchen.
Despite his uncertainty, his voice is still steady and strong.
“Well, more like a picadera with some Filipino finger foods thrown in. Possibly shrimp panara. I figured adding some fusion-style dishes to the menu could be good for the more serious questions, the ones that really make you dig deep and evaluate your feelings.” He meets my eyes. “What do you think about that?”
I walk over and lean my back against the counter beside him so we’re facing each other.
“I think that sounds…perfect,” I say, and watch some relief show in his features.
“And with its savory flavor profile, I could definitely see a picadera going with a lot of the questions Debra and I came up with. But…can I ask why? Because I can only think of two reasons you’d want to incorporate foods from your other culture now that your mom’s not here. ”
He starts peeling the plantains in front of him. “And what are they?”
I turn around to slice the ones he just peeled.
“Maybe you want something at the restaurant that feels fully like you,” I say.
“It’s your place now, and you shouldn’t ever have to feel like only half of yourself comes through there.
Dominican and Filipino fusion sounds delicious, it wouldn’t be odd to find in Rhode Island, and it would complement the idea that date nights can bring different people together.
” A rush of excitement goes through my body at the prospect, and I hope he can hear it in my voice.
When our elbows touch, we stay that way.
“If that’s your reason, I completely support it.
But if it’s because you don’t feel secure serving only Filipino-inspired foods now that your mom is gone, well…
I’d have to say that’s bullshit. And if people judge you for that then they don’t need to eat at your restaurant.
If anyone knows the identity struggles that come with being mixed-race and living in America, it’s me.
I spent years in many states, combating the way I felt as a woman who never looked Black or Asian enough but definitely wasn’t white passing…
not anywhere in the world.” He presses his arm into mine a little harder.
“But Carmello, you are Filipino. And you are Dominican. You belong to that restaurant, and it belongs to you.”
He inhales deeply, and my belly squeezes waiting for his response. After a few seconds, he reaches over to take the knife from me. A shiver shoots up my spine when he places it down. My body is unsure what to anticipate but knows something is coming.
Then, Carmello Rodriguez spins me around so that my back is against the counter again.
He’s in front of me now and a breath catches in my throat and my heart is thrumming.
He tugs on my chin, tilts it for me to meet his eyes.
His touch is firm, and with him towering above me, our bodies nearly pressed together, I can’t think past how much I want him. Can he see it?
“Is this okay, O?” he asks, mirroring the words from last night.
“Yes,” I whisper.
He moves his hand to the side of my face and bends low so that our mouths are touching only slightly. It feels like there’s electric energy caught in the space between our lips.
“And this?” he asks, voice deeper, gruff. I shiver at the sound of a groan waiting in his throat.
“Carmello,” I say, his name coming out like a plea.
He smirks. “I’m trying to be intentional here, Olivia.”
I swallow and say, “Well, I want you to kiss me. Intentionally.”
And when his lips finally meet mine, it lights up my insides, sends sparks up and down my skin.
Something in me bursts, everything brightens.
I can’t believe I’m kissing Carmello. That this is how he’s kissing me.
So languid and sensual. As if he wants to savor me and this moment.
Like he can’t believe he gets to kiss me too and doesn’t want to waste it on anything but a soft exploration.
I’ve dreamt of us doing this. Fantasized about his fingers pressed to my face the way they are now and him shifting me where he wants me so that he can taste the desire on my tongue.
But the real thing, though tender, causes an explosion of sensations that I can’t describe save for this:
Carmello’s are the kinds of kisses that feel like firsts over and over again.
I’m floating. Moaning and reaching for him.
When he answers by leaning into me, I can feel him hard against my stomach.
Everything is muscle memory. Including how quickly that happens.
My body sings right before he breaks the contact with a groan.
We’re both panting as we stare at each other.
His eyes roam my face. He smiles and slides his thumb along my bottom lip.
“I had to do that,” he says, then drops a kiss on my forehead.
When he lets me go, I’m a mess of feelings. I miss him already. I want more. My fingers shake as I touch my mouth, wishing to memorize this in a way that means I won’t lose a single second of it to time.
And Carmello has the nerve to seem unaffected. He walks over to the stove with the cutting board to fry tostones like it didn’t happen while I’m struggling to catch my breath.
Okay, so maybe we won’t surpass the more make out–friendly K-dramas today, but of all of our kisses, that one had to be the most romantic.