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But that's the thing.
It's our world. Not her world.
I swallow the thought. I help her with the pitcher and greet her with a hug.
"Fashionably late." She rests her head against my chest. "As usual."
"It's all that time at Mango."
"If you ever say Mango again—"
"You'll come instantly?" I tease.
"Exactly, yeah. Don't embarrass me in front of my mom."
"You don't want your mom to see your o-face?" I ask.
She looks up at me with that same I love you smile.
She hasn't said the words. Not since we kissed. Neither of us has, not exactly, but we both know it's there.
"You look sexy in this." She runs her fingers over the fabric of my collared shirt. "You're my dirty secret."
"How's that?"
"Your art." She runs her thumb over the inside of my wrist. "Like when you tried to talk me into the rib tattoo, saying it would be sexy, 'cause people would only know if I wanted them to know."
"It would."
"This too. I like that it's ours."
Ours. Of course. "Go. Have fun with your friends."
"You don't look excited."
"'Cause your mom is watching me."
"She is not." She looks to the kitchen. "Well, maybe she is. But don't take it personally. She was the same with all my boyfriends."
"You told her?"
"I did," she says. "Did you want to talk about it?"
"No. Have fun."
She nods, rises to her tiptoes, presses her lips to mine.
She tastes good, the way she always does. For a long moment, I'm there too, in our world, that place where everything makes sense.
Then she pulls back and I feel the change in energy in the room. Everyone looking at us like we don't belong together.
I pour a glass of sangria. I watch her work the room. I listen to her friends trade gossip on teachers, movies, the two of us.
Did you hear he's her next-door neighbor?
The boy next door. That's cute. But he doesn't look like a boy next door, does he?
He's a tattoo artist.
No, Val wouldn't date a tattoo artist.
Maybe she likes dumb guys, the way you do.
Maybe he's got a great dick.
He's hot. Why the fuck wouldn't she want to take a ride?
I shake it off. I pour another glass. Then another.
The pitcher empties. I sneak into the kitchen to find something stronger. This too, looks the same as it did. Somehow, it's organized and messy at the same time. There's this sense the place is well-loved.
Because, for all our similarities, we're not the same here. Val grew up with a parent who took care of her, who put her first, who cooked her dinner, took her to the doctor, and taught her to value her brain over her looks.
There's still wine in the pantry and an array of hard liquor in the fridge. Vodka, tequila, gin. Val's mom does love to entertain.
I fill a glass with ice, pour two fingers of gin, then two more.
Bottoms up.
I down half the glass in one swig.
Voices interrupt my attempt at inebriation. Val and her mom, coming from the party.
I sneak to the other door, the one that leads to the dining room, and press my back against the wall.
"You can't go kissing guys in front of your colleagues," her mom says. "They get ideas."
"What ideas?" Val asks.
"That you're that kind of girl."
"It's not the nineties."
"Things don't change as fast as you think," her mom says.
"Seriously, Mama? What kind of girl?"
"He's not a nice boy."
"How would anyone know that?" Val raises her voice. "And why the fuck should I want a nice boy, anyway?"
"Valeria."
"One that didn't do anything to protect me."
"You can't let one boy ruin your future."
"He is my future."
"He's like his father."
"And if people say I'm like mine?"
Val's mom replies in Spanish.
And Val switches to Spanish too. She speaks almost as quickly and with almost as much emphasis as her mom.
I don't catch much of it, but I catch enough.
Father.
Bad.
Love.
School.
"I want the best for you, Valeria," her mom shifts back to English, her way of lowering the temperature. "We both know he isn't it."
"Mama."
"Even if he was—is this really what you want? To be tied to him again?"
"I wasn't."
"You were. And look how it hurt you. You barely know your friends. You barely talk to anyone else. Your entire life revolves around him. He has that energy, the same energy as your father. Do you really want that? Do you want to be a planet in his orbit or do you want to be the sun?"
"Mama."
She shifts back to Spanish, some equivalent of drop it, and she leaves the room.
Val stays for a moment, then she murmurs something to herself, and she leaves, and the words bounce through my brain.
Do you want to be a planet in his orbit?
She's right.
She moves around me.
She melts into my life.
She hides from other opportunities.
And she'll never do anything to change that. I have to be the one to change it.
