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I pulled out a bar stool and sat down, placing Claudia’s drink across from me. She sat and we stared at each other, grinning as we sipped our sodas.
“Can I ask you something?” She put her drink down, brushing her fingers across the moisture on the glass.
“Of course.” Honestly, I was a little nervous at what might come out of her mouth. If she knew I had a girlfriend, she hadn’t let on. But if she asked, I wouldn’t lie to her. I knew I was already lying by keeping the truth from her, but I wouldn’t outright lie if she asked. I couldn’t.
“What took you so long to text?”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. She was straightforward, and I appreciated it.
“Why are you laughing at me?” she asked with a small frown.
“I’m not,” I said, still grinning at her. “I like that you say what’s on your mind.”
She pursed her lips and narrowed her brown eyes at me. “So, what’s your excuse, Fisher?”
“Which one will get me out of trouble?”
A loud ha! escaped before she covered her mouth, then lowered her hand. “Who says you’re in trouble?”
“I just figure you wouldn’t be asking me about it if I wasn’t,” I teased.
She stayed quiet for a minute. Hell, maybe it was longer. Reaching for her drink, she took a few sips, never pulling her soft brown gaze from mine. Finally, she lowered her glass and gave me a smile, signaling she was ready to talk again.
“I’m just trying to figure you out.”
“I’m not really that difficult. I am a guy.”
And that right there was the truth. Men aren’t nearly as complicated as women. Women often have a thousand emotions, a million reasons, and a billion different scenarios going through their minds at any given time. We men usually have about three, maybe four, max. Any more and our circuits might short out.
“But you’re a quiet kind of guy. Those are usually the most complicated. And dangerous.”
“You think I’m dangerous?” I couldn’t help but laugh again. I’d never been called dangerous in my life.
“I haven’t decided yet.”
“I think you might be the dangerous one,” I said, and she had no idea just how much I meant it. I wasn’t sure that even I had any idea how much I meant it.
Her cheeks flushed as she looked away for a second before bringing her attention back to me. “I am from Colombia,” she said with a wink.
Jumping at the topic, I asked, “When did you move here?”
“My mom and I moved when I was seven.”
“Why?” I sincerely wanted to know, curious about what it was like to be from another country and want to move to America.
Rather than answer, she sucked in a breath, making me wonder if she was weighing her options about how much to share with me. Instead of pushing, though, I waited. I wanted her to trust me.
“My dad had a girlfriend,” Claudia finally said. “When my mom found out, she asked him to leave, and you know what he did?” She raised her voice, her heightened emotions telling me how much this story still affected her, all these years later.
“What?”
“He left,” she said with a shrug. “He packed a single suitcase. It was brown and tattered, with a blue sticker on it. I don’t know why I remember that, but I do. So vividly. I remember him giving me a kiss on the forehead and then walking out the front door and never coming back. I was four.”
My heart sank, hurting for the little girl she once was and for the woman she had become.
“He didn’t even say anything to my mom. He just left. She waited for years, thinking that he would come back, but he never did. So we came here. It was like once she made up her mind to leave for America, there was no stopping her. I don’t even think my father could have talked her out of it by that point.”
God, Claudia was honest. It was as refreshing as it was damning. Guilt stormed my heart, reminding me that I wasn’t much better than her old man had been. How was what I was doing any better than what he’d did?
