CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Grudges are Maya’s thing. She excels in many areas—hairstyling, dancing, knowing everything about everyone—but this is her specialty. One of the girls from her middle school clique accidentally forgot to text her an invitation to a sleepover; they haven’t spoken since. After the “girls can’t marry girls” incident with Titi Rosa, Maya refuses to acknowledge her existence.
Being on the receiving end of one of her grudges is daunting. She ices me out from training before the final crunch and avoids me in common areas as best she can. Usually I wouldn’t question getting out of physical activity, but it feels like the final nail in my coffin. I’m not on our team anymore.
Instead, I spend my morning researching how long I can survive without food or water. Maya practically bites my head off every time we so much as breathe the same air for too long, so my best bet is staying in my room for as long as possible. According to Google, I have four days to either suck it up and learn to coexist with her in communal spaces or find a way to harvest rainwater so I don’t die of dehydration.
My cavalry comes in the form of a text message from Julian.
We don’t usually hang out on Wednesdays, but anything is better than sitting in my room contemplating starvation. While heading to Julian’s doesn’t exactly help my case with Maya, I can’t bring myself to care. The past few days have been shitty, and I’m not walking away from the one thing that could make it worthwhile.
Julian’s waiting for me on the deck, leaning against the back door. While he’s not wearing his usual name-brand athleisure, his more standard jeans-and-a-button-down outfit is still more upscale than most of my wardrobe. His shirt does have tiny penguins on it, though. It’s really cute, and I feel very catered to.
He perks up the moment he spots me, pushing off the door to meet me halfway. “Hi!”
“Hi,” I reply, taking a second longer than I should to admire his bone structure.
He runs a self-conscious hand along his jaw. “Is there something on my face?”
“No,” I answer quickly, my neck growing uncomfortably warm. “You, um…you look really nice.” He always looks nice, and based on how hell-bent he is on proving that I think he’s hot, he knows that. But when you’re as perpetually nervous as I am, paying compliments always feels like pulling teeth.
Yet he smiles like he doesn’t know it, his cheeks the loveliest shade of pink. “Thank you. You do too.”
“Is there a reason you’re out here waiting for me?” I ask. “Didn’t think I could make it across the yard on my own?”
His left brow arches and the corners of his lips curl impishly. “There were some coyote sightings last week, and I’ve heard through the grapevine that you’re the slowest runner in your family.”
That should not be common knowledge. Leave it to Maya to spread the news that I’m terrible at exercise.
“I have a surprise for you, actually,” Julian clarifies before I can reply.
It’s my turn to raise a brow. “You have my attention.”
“It’s nothing super exciting, just something I thought might be fun—I mean, not fun—cool. Wait, not cool—”
I rest my hand on his shoulder, and he cuts short like a record scratch. “The last time you surprised me, you asked me to pretend to be your boyfriend.” When he doesn’t recoil from the touch, I press my luck, running my thumb along the collar of his shirt. “Anything will be cooler than that.”
He runs his hand along my arm, letting it rest on top of my hand, holding it down to his heart. His is beating faster than mine. My hands tremble as he takes them in his, losing the confidence that kept me afloat two seconds ago.
“Close your eyes?”
“O-okay.” Tentatively, I close them, leaving my lips slightly parted.
My heart echoes in my ears, pounding so loud I’m sure he can hear it, but all he does is take my hands and tug me forward. I close my mouth, pressing my lips into a tight, thin line, and let him guide me. We haven’t gone very far, probably not even past the kitchen, when Julian lets go.
“Don’t peek,” he warns, and I can hear his padded footsteps against the tile.
“If the surprise is that you’re going to murder me, I should warn you that my Fitbit has a GPS tracker. The police will know exactly where to go.”
His voice sounds farther away, likely from across the room. “If I wanted to murder you, don’t you think I would’ve done it by now?”
I rock on my toes, palms beginning to sweat. “You could be playing the long game.”
We must be in the kitchen, based on the sound of drawers opening and utensils clattering. His voice returns, whispering in my ear. “You’re too entertaining to kill off yet.”
I wipe my hands on my jeans. It’s the only thing I can think of to keep them from shaking. My eyes fly open the second he tells me I can look, scanning the room to confirm that we’re in the kitchen. Julian’s on my left, nothing on my right. He nudges his head forward, telling me to look down.
“Is this…” I can’t manage the last few words.
“It’s probably not as good as your aunt’s, and I know it’s a few days late, but I thought I’d take a stab at it.”
There’s probably something cool or eloquent that I could say, but I’m at a loss.
Julian, someone I hated with every fiber of my being three weeks ago, has made me a tres leches cake.
“W-why?” The cake looks so much like the one Mami used to make, down to the cherry smiley face, it makes me want to cry.
“You said Christmases are always hard, and…I thought it might make you smile.” His own falters when I look up at him. Tears cloud my vision, blurring him at the edges. “Oh God, I’m sorry. I thought—”
I don’t let him finish. Fuck caution, fuck sides, and fuck who we are and who we’re supposed to be to each other. I’ve spent long enough afraid of pursuing what I want, so I do the one thing that scares me the most. The one real thing I’ve wanted to do since I first saw him at the grocery store.
I kiss him.
And it is so much better than the aimless daydreams and 3:00 a.m. musings, because Julian tastes like espresso, whipped cream, and endless possibilities.
Before I can doubt myself, Julian loops his arms around my waist and kisses me back with everything he has. The force of it knocks me back, so I wrap my arms around his neck, and trust that he won’t let me fall.
“Hi,” he whispers when we pull apart, as giddy and playful and smitten as I am.
“Hi.” I would kiss him again, but I want to keep looking at those eyes.
This time, he kisses me. His fingers curl at the base of my neck and his thumb tilts my chin up until my lips meet his. “I’ve wanted to do that for a while now,” he says against my lips.
The hesitation is gone when I take the lead, kissing him again, and again, and again, spelling the words I didn’t get to say with lips and fingertips. Me too.
We kiss until the bitter tang of espresso on Julian’s lips fades into the sharp sting of my peppermint lip balm. From slow to fast to too much to too little until all that’s left is the thrum of our hearts and the hitch of our breath. When breathing becomes too necessary to put off, we stop and hold still. We’re the type of people with the worst kind of luck, so I brace myself for the sound of footsteps or a jingling doorknob.
When we’re left with nothing but silence, Julian pulls me back in. He presses soft, chaste kisses to my shoulder, up to my neck, and settling in the curve of my jaw. Lips on bare skin is very different from what I imagined it would be like, and six hundred times better. My lips part in a silent gasp when his teeth graze my skin, sharp but gentle. Like the start of our story.
There are so many games we still have to play, but it’s enough for me to win this one. Our game was the longest, and our reward the sweetest.
“Do you want to—”
“Yes.” I don’t need to know what it is. I want everything Julian has to offer.
He rolls his eyes, but there’s no malice behind it. “I was going to ask if you wanted to go to my room.”
“Fuck yes,” I amend, pulling him in for one last bruising kiss. “And bring the cake.”
Julian’s room isn’t all that more private than the kitchen had been. We can hear the rumblings of a baseball game coming from Henry’s room and the bass of a pop song from Stella’s. The bedrooms are all big enough to do backflips in, but no one thought to soundproof the walls. Where’s the logic in that? But the door locks, and the air is thick with the scent of cinnamon and Earl Grey tea and something distinctly Julian, and that’s all I can ask for.
Julian sets the cake on the edge of his desk, pushing aside a stack of books and laminated recipe cards. “We…uh…we don’t have to do anything just because we’re in here, but I figured it might be a little quieter.” He’s as red as the cherries. “We could eat cake, if you want.”
Of course I want cake—if I didn’t, I’d be concerned—but there’s something I want more.
I close the distance between us, cradling that immaculate jaw before leaning in for a kiss as sweet as the smell of the room. My body speaks its own language—shy smiles, trembling hands, and longing glances that say what I can’t. But Julian meets every push with a pull and every tug with a touch like this language was made for him too.
When I lean back, it’s not because I want to stop—I’d gladly give up breathing if it meant kissing Julian longer—but because I really do want to try the cake.
I make myself at home on the edge of his bed, holding my greedy little hands out. “Cake, please.”
Julian’s too kiss-stunned to respond, blinking rapidly and shaking himself off before grinning. “As you wish.”
He cuts two pieces, handing the bigger one to me. A man after my own heart. I can hear him suck in a breath while he watches me take my first bite. Having an audience while you eat hasn’t gotten any less intimidating, but my confidence in Julian’s abilities makes it easier.
It’s amazing, obviously. Better than amazing. And while I may be evolving and all that, I still can’t turn down an opportunity to tease Julian, so I scrunch up my nose and shake my head.
“Oh God, it’s terrible. I’m sorry, I knew I added too much condensed milk. I can—”
“Julian.” He stops apologizing, but I wait until his eyes meet mine.
I’ve had hundreds of tres leches cakes in my life, and even if Julian’s still has the classic flavors that taste like childhood nostalgia, there’s something special about knowing that this one is just for me. It makes the whipped cream lighter, the coconut smoother, the cherries sweeter, knowing that this only exists because Julian wanted to see me happy.
The familiar taste still brings back memories of Nochebuenas at Titi Rosa’s, barbecues with my cousins, and the sound of Mami’s laugh, but there’s something new now too. Lying on the edge of the hidden pier, secrets whispered against cool night air, the glow of Julian’s eyes as he watched the fireworks.
“Titi Rosa is going to be so pissed, because this is the best tres leches cake I’ve ever had.”
Watching Julian’s smile blossom puts every sunrise to shame.
“You’re just saying that,” he replies bashfully, staring at his own untouched plate.
I shake my head, taking our plates and setting them down on the nightstand. Kissing is great and all, but I’m not about to ruin a perfectly good cake because of it. “I don’t just say anything,” I whisper, then kiss him until he believes me.
“You’ve made a very compelling point,” he chokes out when we come apart for air.
I know I have, but I can still drive this point all the way home. I lean across him to grab my plate, holding up a spoonful to his kiss-swollen lips. “See for yourself.”
He doesn’t seem to like being fed, wrinkling his nose in protest, but I don’t give in. This is what he gets for how many times he’s fed me. “Not bad,” he says before he’s done chewing.
I poke him with the spoon. “It’s better than not bad and you know it.”
He shrugs but accepts the second bite I offer him. “Should’ve used less condensed milk.”
“Shut up and accept the compliment.”
He drags the spoon out of his mouth with a pop that shouldn’t be allowed to sound so sinful. “Make me.”
Finally, a challenge that I will gladly accept.