Chapter 4
jett
Music blasts from the built-in stereo system, the bass rattling the house’s foundation. I sing along while I lay out the food I had delivered. Serving trays of fruit, various appetizers, and small desserts cover the kitchen island in a smorgasbord of deliciousness.
The doorbell cuts through the chorus, and I dance to the entrance, leaving behind the slow cooker of mini meatballs begging to be skewered by a toothpick and popped into my mouth.
Sofía stands on my porch, a large canvas bag slung over her shoulder and a concerned look contorting her pretty face as I serenade her. Her long hair is pulled back into a tight Dutch braid, loose flyaway hairs framing her features.
My heart skips a beat when she shimmies past me and into the house, her shoulder grazing mine. The door clicks shut, and she spins, giving me a full view of her outfit.
“What are you wearing?”
“Good morning to you, too,” she says, examining her clothing. “A pantsuit?”
It’s not a simple pantsuit; it’s a bright-pink matching set with the business world’s modern-day version of hell: a blazer. She looks like Businesswoman Barbie.
There aren’t many hills I’d die on—mostly because things aren’t that serious—but I hate blazers. The way they constrict your arms. The bulky padding on the shoulders. How the buttons get all weird when you try to sit down.
I was forced to wear one to a wedding once, and I told myself never again.
What kind of boss would I be if I forced her to endure the same suffering? I’d never require Doug or Molly to wear that.
“Are you running for Congress?” I tease, poking the fabric. “This is a blazer-free zone.”
“This is a work meeting.”
“I’m wearing sweatpants. It’s still a work meeting.”
She scans my body, and I have to suppress a shudder. I like when her eyes are on me—revel in how her focus makes my cells buzz with electricity.
“Hmm” is the only response she offers me.
I think I won that argument.
Sofía examines the space, weaving through the main level.
Outside of Doug and Molly, she’s the first person in my new home.
Before I found this place, I was living in a tiny one-bedroom apartment.
With Molly’s help, we spent weeks poring through catalogs and websites to furnish each room.
Sofía pauses in front of the artwork—my favorite.
It’s an acrylic painting, the strokes thick and chunky, of a lone surfer waiting for the next wave.
A tiny dot in the massive expanse. I knew it belonged here the second I saw it online.
It expressed how I felt when I moved to LA—lost, hopeless, searching for the next wave.
We reach the best part of the house, and she stops in her tracks, hands falling to her side. Floor-to-ceiling windows make up the back wall, offering a panoramic view of the ocean, the deep-blue waves crashing against the shore. “Oh, wow.”
“Best view in the house,” I say, looking at her while she watches the ocean.
“What’s all of this?”
She peruses the selection of food, dropping her bag on a barstool.
“Snacks for the presentation.” I pull out the iced matcha latte I bought from the coffee shop down the street. “I also got this for you. Since I know you like them.”
Her cheeks pinken as she takes my offering, and once again, I’m struck stupid by how pretty she is, even in the blazer. She tosses back her braid before she digs through her purse, and I busy myself with making a plate of food to avoid staring at her.
I thought I had a shot once. When we were on the research vessel.
Hope soared when she drunkenly called me cute, then brutally crashed after she said You’re not like any of them.
I knew what she meant. I’m not like the men she dates.
Smart.
High-status.
Successful.
I’ve heard enough through Charlie, Amy, and Mateo to connect the dots on her ideal partner.
Grace’s parting words are stuck in my mind, ever repeating: I want someone who is going somewhere in life. Someone who didn’t drop out of college for a pipe dream. I want someone who will take care of me.
So I pocketed the silly thought and kept it to myself. The only person who knows is Doug, and he would never spill my secrets.
The nauseating sensation of inadequacy settles beneath my diaphragm as Sofía pulls up her presentation on the television. After a press of her slide clicker, the screen lights up, and a photoshopped image of our friend group standing on the Australian continent appears.
A laugh rips from my lungs.
It’s horribly executed, but the humor is top tier. She takes a sip of her drink, sighs, and positions herself beside the television like this is a board meeting and not my living room.
Shoulders squared, she inhales to start what is, without a doubt, a practiced speech. I raise a hand to stop her, and her plush lips pop open in shock.
“What are you doing?”
“Presenting?”
“Get some food, sit down on the couch. There’s no need for all this formal nonsense.” I chomp on a pig in a blanket while she gawks at me. “Seriously, this is casual.”
“I’m casual,” she counters.
Because I value my life, I do not laugh. But I want to.
“Come sit.” I pat the couch beside me, wiggling to the left to make room. “After you get something to eat.”
Based on the Jurassic-era sounds emanating from Sofía’s stomach, she hasn’t eaten all day. If I had to guess, I would bet my money she was too nervous to drop something on her outfit. One of the many reasons I hate fancy clothes.
A silent showdown occurs between us. She narrows her gaze.
I return the scrutiny with a beaming smile.
Eventually, I win our battle, and she sets down the clicker—that she brought because she’s casual—to make herself a plate of food.
With some veggies and dip and a massive serving of mac and cheese, she warily sits beside me, straight as a rod.
Oh, for heaven’s sake. She’s making this so much weirder than it has to be.
She flies off the couch in a panic, plate tight in her grip, when I rise. “Did I sit too close?” she asks.
“No.” I’d like you to sit closer, I think to myself before banishing it to the caverns of my mind. “You’re too…tight,” I say. “You need to shake it out.”
“I am not uptight.”
Captivating swirls of brown shift in her irises, and she lowers her gaze, focused on the ranch spreading toward her mac and cheese. She barricades the dip with a carrot.
“That’s not what I said. You need to dance a little. Like this.” I wave my hands and shimmy my hips. The tension in my muscles melts away. “Now you try.”
A wave of scarlet floods her cheeks as she stares at me. “I’m good. Really.”
“I insist.” I cue a song through the speaker system, allowing the music to capture my soul. “Shake it out, Sofía!”
It takes thirty seconds of my horrible dance moves for her to bob her head back and forth.
It’s a start, but we can do better. I skip around until we’re facing each other, then I snag her hand, wildly waving our arms up and down.
To her credit, she tries to hide her surprise.
The chorus hits, and she finally cracks, bouncing on her toes.
“There we go,” I cheer, chuckling once her energy increases and she’s jumping right alongside me.
I release her hand, and she spins in a full circle, her braid twirling as she moves. The song ends, and the energy in the room is finally lighter. She falls back into her seat, shedding the jacket of her pantsuit and revealing the silk blouse beneath.
“The vibe in here is wicked good now,” I admit, snagging a few more meatballs from the slow cooker.
Sofía devours the mac and cheese like her life depends on it. When she’s done, she collects her clicker but remains seated in the corner.
I’d call that a win.
“I’ve spent a lot of time researching Australia this week. What types of unique environments they have, the best places and times to travel to each, and what creatures we can reasonably see, given the time constraints. This is what I put together.”
She switches to the first slide, a map with tiny dots scattering up the coast. Arrows point to each one, along with a few photos of different animals.
“I don’t think it’s logistically possible to cover the continent. It’s too large, and a few weeks is not enough time. But we could hit most of the East Coast in four weeks.”
It’s on the fourth slide of her plan, the itinerary in Sydney, that I realize the presentation is heavy on photos and animations and low on text, and if there are words, they’re in a dyslexic-friendly font. Each slide is short and engaging. It’s clear the choice was intentional.
Every so often, the weight of her gaze lands on me, but I focus on the television, schooling my features to prevent the thoughts running through my mind from showing on my face.
Few people know about my learning disabilities, and even fewer have tried to make things easier for me.
I barely made it through high school, and I thought college would be easier once I was diagnosed with dyslexia and ADHD, but it wasn’t. Classes were fast paced, professors had less time for one-on-ones, and by the end of the first semester, I was so far behind I dropped out.
Instead of telling my parents and Grace, I gave myself six months to do what I love: make videos.
My mind quiets while I edit, like sliding puzzle pieces together until the larger picture becomes clear.
When my channel blew up and I met Doug, he helped me take it to another level; his camera experience and keen eye are far greater than mine.
He was one of the first people to view my learning differences as a strength, not a struggle.
My parents understood and supported me chasing my dream after they recognized higher education was their path, not mine.
Grace didn’t.
I want someone who can provide.
My head spins with thoughts while Sofía explains the second leg of the trip. “I was thinking this is when we could invite all our friends. There are hostels, and we can all share to save costs.”
A photo of the hostels she’s suggesting appears on the screen. Five metal bunk beds and a communal bathroom.
Nope. Not happening.
I can afford real beds with soft sheets and privacy. I am no longer suffering if I don’t need to, and neither are my friends. I’m not flashy—I don’t need fancy cars or expensive things—but I will spend whatever I need to so everyone is comfortable and the space has air-conditioning.
Australia is in the middle of summer. Hot, brutal summer. Molly and Doug would murder me if I put them in a hostel with an old air-conditioning machine.
“Real hotel rooms, please.”
At my interruption, she stumbles. “Well…that—the budget would change drastically.”
“I said there was no budget.”
God, she’s cute when she gawks at me.
“I know you said that, but I didn’t think you were serious.”
“No one sleeps in bunk beds on this trip. I forbid it. Consider it my decree.” I wave an imaginary scepter in the air. “Did you have issues accessing my accounts? Is that why you’re budgeting? I can talk to Molly.”
“No. I, uh, I saw them. I thought I would try to save money where I could.”
“Let me see this so-called budget.”
She pulls out a binder, complete with color-coded tags. I scan the numbers, far lower than I expected, and click my tongue. Sofía leans over my shoulder as I flip the page, dragging my finger along the lines to keep track.
I’m beyond impressed with her ability to plan a trip on a tiny budget, but we don’t need to do this. I don’t want to do this. Sleeping in hostels and cooking every meal can be fun for a short stint. We can’t do that for four weeks while working, though.
“I love the vision,” I say, offering her praise before critique, “and how organized and precise the numbers are, but—”
“Thank you.”
“But I think there are some things we can change here, like hotel rooms for each person and couple. We can also increase the food budget by”—I glance down at the number—“three hundred percent. Oh, and can we pencil in some time for shenanigans?”
A notebook appears from her bag—what else does she hide in that thing?—and she scribbles down notes. “What shenanigans?”
“Well, I don’t know yet.”
“Then how will I know to pencil it in?”
“You can’t plan a shenanigan. It’s a spontaneous event fueled by curiosity.”
A deep V forms between her brows. “Are you making fun of me?”
“No?”
Now it’s my turn to be confused. Why would she think I’m making fun of her? We share befuddled looks, Sofía scanning my face before her features soften.
“Sorry, I know I can be a bit…neurotic.”
“I don’t think that at all.” I lift the binder. “This is wonderful. Organized. Thorough. I couldn’t pull off this planning in such a short time. I just have some suggestions.”
Sofía is many things, but I would never use the word neurotic to describe her. No one should hold shame about the way they operate as long as it doesn’t hurt or harm anyone else.
She offers her input on what’s possible until we narrow down a list of “must see” creatures—she draws a hard line at spiders—and we compromise on renting cars to drive instead of constantly flying, which drives up the budget and the carbon emissions.
“We make a pretty good team,” I say while she packs up. “This was great work, Sofía. Truly.”
“It’s not a big deal,” she says, diminishing her effort. I don’t like how natural it seems for her to do. “I’ll send you the final details later this week.”
“Bye, Sofía.”
“Later, Ulysses,” she replies, her laughter carrying all the way to my porch.