I can’t say I settled for nursing, even though it sometimes feels that way. All that time spent in the hospital surrounded by nurses, I developed a deep and unwavering respect for them, and my dreams changed. The nurses who got me through the worst of times… they’re my heroes.
Mom wouldn’t be at all upset that I’m not following her footsteps to the letter, but sometimes it feels like another way I’ve let her down.
My hand strays from the bumps on my cheek to my chest. It could be heartburn from eating too many spicy potatoes or heartache from missing my mom. But either way, I’m verging on crying into my last remaining taco and that really would be kinda embarrassing. Eating alone, studying in a restaurant—I can live with both of those things. But crying into my virgin drink?
Oof. That’s certainly not a good visual for my first semester in college. Especially ’cause my glass doesn’t say it’s virgin, so I’ll look like a pathetic freshman crying into her drink.
I push all those thoughts and memories aside, leaving my last taco for a minute to let all the other food I’ve eaten settle in my stomach while I work through this knot in my chest, and take another drink. I’m about ready to go back to my books when my right side warms.
“Do you have the time?”
I answer, but so does the guy behind the counter. And now I want the ground to swallow me whole.
Tears in my tacos is one thing, but speaking to a stranger who wasn’t even talking to me… eek. I’ll never recover from this moment playing out in front of me.
The server gives me a small smile, and the guy to my right, who asked for the time, is staring at me. I know he is. Maybe it’s my pink hair. Maybe it’s the fact I inserted myself into his life when he asked someone else for the time, or perhaps he wants my last taco. I dunno. But either way the weight of his gaze is pressing on my skin, giving me no choice but to look up at him from under the pink curtains of my hair.
“Sorry. I thought you were asking me.” I swallow, not meeting his eyes, unsure of why I’m even apologizing for attempting to be helpful.
The smile tugging at his lips only serves to amplify my embarrassment, so I double down. “Have you tried the sweet patatas bravas? They’re…” I blow a chef’s kiss. A stupid frickin’ chef’s kiss… And a wave of kill-me-now heat engulfs my entire being.
Stop talking. Just, stop. Don’t let any more words come out of your mouth. Ask for a to-go box and get the heck away from these guys and this awkward situation.
“Have I tried the sweet patatas bravas?” He places an elbow on the bar and leans forward like he’s trying to peer around my hair and look into my eyes, or at my face.
Instinct kicks in, and I reach for the left side of my hair, making sure my scar isn’t visible. He crooks a brow, like I’m mildly unhinged, and he might be right.
He stares at me for a long beat as though he’s waiting for something. Since I’m not meeting his eyes, I can’t see what he’s thinking, and I’m afraid if I look, he’s going to either laugh at me or make me say something to further my mortification, so I go back to reading my notes.
After an even longer beat, he hits the counter and points at the chef in the kitchen. “I’dloveto try the sweet patatas bravas. Recommended by the resident nerd.”
It takes every ounce of strength not to reach into the bag at my feet and smack him with one of my textbooks. His voice drips with sarcasm and judgment. Is he intimidated by women, intelligence, or is he just an asshole? He could be a combination of all three.
He moves away from me, and I can take a complete breath again, but hints of his cologne linger in the air. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t tempted to lean into the space where he stood just to breathe it in a little deeper. He smells good enough to eat even though I have a full stomach.
I try to ignore his presence, but something about him has the air around me feeling charged, alive, so I track his movements in the kitchen.
He’s not wearing a uniform, so I don’t think he works here. Or at least, he’s not on shift, but he clearly knows everyone. He’s giving fist bumps or high-fives to everyone except for the little old grandmother. He stoops down and plants a kiss on her cheek. She grips him by both cheeks and levels him with a hard stare, saying something too low for me to eavesdrop.
He tips his head, but he’s grinning at her, and I can’t help but wonder how the cocky shit who made a throwaway crappy comment about me is the same guy being adorable with a woman who—from the striking family resemblance—has to be his grandmother. They have the same facial structure, the same chin, the same nose, and the same twinkle in very similarly set eyes. Her hair might be grey, but it also has the same thick wave to it as his. If they’re not related, I’ll eat my hat.
Not right now, though, because I can’t even finish eating my last taco. Turns out thereissuch a thing as eating too many potatoes. So I ask for a box, pay my bill, pack up all my things, and use the restroom before I make my way outside.
It’s cool, but not cold. Fall is my favorite season. Late September in Iowa when all the trees turn pretty colors, and I get to wear oversized sweaters and curl up under blankets with hot drinks like apple cider—but we don’t have to dig our cars out from under five feet of snow. I shudder, knowing that winter is coming, and that shoveling snow is most definitely in my near future.
As I’m walking to my car, grunts and pleasured moans drift from an alley to my left. Sex noises. Surely not.
Someone moans, pleading for more.
Yup. Definitely sex noises. Dangit.
I have to walk past the damn thing to get to my car. Another grunt and a low male voice demands “Harder.” Taking a step forward I try not to look. Wrapping my arms around myself, I make myself small, and hurry past. But curiosity burns like a beacon low in my stomach, and I can’t help myself.
Two guys are going at it pretty… uh… enthusiastically against the side of Guac ‘n Roll. Right when I feel like I’ve seen enough, more than enough, more than any outsider should witness of such an intimate act, I recognize the guy from inside the restaurant. The one who called me a nerd, the one who kissed his grandma—he’s the one doing the uh… giving.
Holy… cannoli.
He’s got one hand curled into the guy’s hair, seizing it in a tight fist. He tilts his lover’s head back and drags his tongue down the side of his face. His other hand grips the guy’s hip as he bucks his pelvis in strong steady thrusting movements.
