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Thinking about it, I’ve never been someone to do wild and crazy things. I’ve always tried to do the right thing. I’ve stayed in my lane; I’ve tried to make my family proud of me. The only thing I can even remotely think of is the one thing I hate thinking about, so I push it away. Plus, it’s not like that was something I chose to do—it was something that happened to me.
I’m thinking about what to say when he squeezes my hand.
“One time, I made a fake dating app profile just so I could talk to this guy I had a major crush on,” I tell him, knowing it’s not that wild, but it sure as hell is crazy.
He bursts out laughing and looks at me like I have four heads. “Seriously?”
“Yep.” I nod, looking out the window, feeling my cheeks grow warm.
He glances over at me and then focuses back on the road, a devilish smile spreading out across his face. “I can’t imagine you couldn’t have just talked to him yourself, but whatever worked.” He pauses and then adds, “Do you want to do something insane with me? Something we probably shouldn’t do, but something I really want to do? I’ve been thinking about it since I woke up.”
“Color me intrigued.” I lace my fingers through his again, thinking about the fact that only a few days ago, I wouldn’t have even imagined I’d be hanging out with B, let alone holding his hand.
“I have a friend who’s a tattoo artist.”
I laugh nervously, not knowing what he’s about to say. “Okay… go on.”
“Do you remember last night when you said fuck love and fuck expectations?” He waits a beat. “What if we go get those two sayings tattooed on us? To remember this weekend, the good parts. And honestly, fuck love and fuck expectations. That’s genius.”
I don’t allow myself to think about it because if I do, I’ll end up talking myself out of it. What the hell am I doing, getting semi-matching tattoos with a famous rockstar who will probably forget all about me once he leaves on his next tour?
“I’m in,” I say, because really, is there any better way to commemorate my fake date with this beautiful man? “Let’s do it. I’ll have a damn good story to tell. A new craziest thing I’ve ever done story.”
Twenty-Five
Bordeaux
Trouvaille (n.) something lovely
discovered by chance.
___________
A few hours after we get back into Chicago, Isla and I walk up her parents’ sidewalk, hand in hand. I don’t know if we’ve stopped touching from the moment we kissed last night. And I also don’t know if I ever want to. I like the feeling of my skin pressed against hers.
When we reach the door, she turns to me. “No talking about these tattoos,” she says, rolling her sleeve down to cover where she got fuck love tattooed on the side of her wrist, while I got fuck expectations. It seemed appropriate for me because I need to remind myself not to expect shit from people. And fuck love, she said, felt right to her because so far, love hasn’t gotten her anywhere.
Maybe I’ll change that.
I don’t know who I am, having thoughts like this. Thinking about Isla in this way, hell, thinking of any woman this way doesn’t come with the territory when you’re me. But for some reason, it doesn’t feel wrong.
When we left for the weekend, Isla and I met up at work and drove from there, so I didn’t see where she lived beforehand.
The house is smaller than I expected, though I’m not sure why or what I even expected at all, really. It’s still a hell of a lot bigger than my dad’s place. White siding with a tiny cobblestone walkway and cabernet-colored shutters. It has a quiet beauty to it, and I like it.
We walk into her home and the smell of warm apple pie fills the air. There’s a candle burning on the entryway table, and it makes my stomach growl. If I had one of those in my penthouse, I’d be permanently hungry.
“Mami?” Isla calls out as we step into the house. She takes her shoes off and kicks them behind the door, so I do the same before following her down a hall.
The hallway is narrow with a couple of doors off to one side. We make our way to a large open-concept kitchen and living room area. The walls in the living area portion are decorated with countless school photos, as well as dozens of smaller pictures in hanging frames surrounding them.
“Hey.” Isla’s face lights up when she sees her parents. Her father sits at the table drinking a glass of white wine, and Mrs. Robles is already in her apron, grabbing ingredients out of her kitchen cabinets in what looks like dinner preparation.
“Dude!” a voice calls out from somewhere behind us. “What the hell happened?” The voice approaches and another young woman steps out from behind me, hugging Isla before turning and covering a cough.
“Bordeaux, this is Veronica. Veronica, this is—”
“Oh, honey, I know who Bordeaux Daniels is,” Veronica says as she recovers from a slight coughing fit. “He does not need an introduction.” She smiles at me and scrunches her nose up just a little like I’ve seen Isla do. “Hey, Bordeaux.”
