The Complete P.S. Series Page 8

  “Which friend?”

  Drawing in a heavy breath, I rise. “It’s hot in here. You want the fan on?”

  “No. Sit.” She waves for me to return to my post. “Which friend?”

  “Just … this girl I met a few days ago.”

  Ma’s face doesn’t light. She knows I’m not one for commitment and I haven’t brought a girl home in almost a decade, so anytime I merely mention hanging out with a woman, she assumes I’m referring to some piece I picked up at the local sports bar.

  “She’s nice,” I say, only to reassure her. “You’d like her. She’s funny.”

  My mother’s face softens. “Can I meet her?”

  “Nope.”

  Her head tilts and she crosses her legs, angling her body toward me, examining me. “You like her? This girl?”

  “Ma, your food’s getting cold.” I point to the Styrofoam container she hasn’t touched since I delivered it to her five minutes ago. “You know steak’s not good when you microwave it.”

  Sitting up, she reaches for a knife and a fork and begins sawing her meat, muttering in Portuguese under her breath.

  “She’s a good girl,” I say. “Respectable. But we’re just friends.”

  If you can even call us that …

  “You enjoy spending time with her?” Ma asks.

  “I do.”

  She takes a tiny bite, chewing, contemplating. “All I want for you is to have a nice girl to spend time with. Someone who puts a smile on your face. My dying wish, Isaiah.”

  “Ma, don’t talk like that.”

  “What?”

  “Don’t talk about dying wishes,” I say. “You’re not dying.”

  Ma’s mouth curls into a bittersweet smile. “Meu amor, you live in the land of denial and you have for quite some time. If you deny death, you’re denying life. Just promise me you’ll never deny your feelings.”

  Rising from her bed once more, I offer a humoring chuff before bending to kiss the top of her forehead. “I’ll be in the next room if you need me.”

  7

  Maritza

  Saturday #3

  “Let me get this straight.” My cousin-slash-best friend-slash roommate, Melrose, leans against my bathroom doorway as I get ready to meet up with Isaiah. “I’m on location for three days and I come back and you’re spending a week with a complete stranger?”

  Her jaw hangs as she gathers her messy blonde waves into an even messier top knot, gazing at her reflection via my mirror.

  “You’re crazy,” she says. “Not that you didn’t already know this. Do your parents know?”

  “Nope.”

  “Does Gram?” she asks.

  “Nope.”

  “Good God, Maritza, what if something happened to you? And no one would’ve known who you were hanging out with?” She clucks her tongue. If Isaiah thinks I’m dramatic, wait until he meets her.

  If he ever meets her.

  Which he probably won’t.

  “He’s in the army,” I tell her, as if that automatically makes him safe.

  “Lots of people are in the army.”

  “He’s a good person,” I add, because anyone who’s willing to sacrifice their life for complete strangers qualifies as “good” in my book even if they’re not exactly the warm, personable type.

  “And you know this because you’ve known him for a hot minute?” She pushes past me, taking a seat on my toilet lid and resting her elbow against my vanity. “I thought you were insane when you fostered those stray dogs last year. And then I thought you were even crazier when you changed your major to Gender Whatever Studies because up until then, you’d never so much as expressed a single interest in that topic, but this … this takes the cake, my love.”

  “We’re having fun,” I say, shrugging off her concerns.

  Melrose is an actress, trying desperately to follow in our grandmother’s footsteps. So far her IMDB is just small stuff. Minor roles. She’s still taking acting classes and looking for her big break, but last year she was in an episode of Law and Order: SVU and ever since then she’s become obsessed with shows like Dateline and anything related to creepy, twisted crimes and she’s suddenly adamant that everyone has an ulterior motive at all times.

  I decide to take her dramatic concerns with a grain of salt.

  Besides, I have pepper spray and a whistle in my purse should he try anything stupid, and I taught women’s self-defense classes my sophomore year at UC-Berkeley. Plus, if he were a serial killer, I feel like he would’ve had ample opportunity to murder me Friday night when he stayed at my place—a little detail I have no intention of sharing with Mel in the immediate future.

  Twisting my hair into a low chignon, I check my reflection one last time before reaching for a bottle of my Kai perfume and spritzing my pulse points.

  “We’re going to the Brentwood farmer’s market today,” I tell her.

  She makes a face.

  “What?” I ask.

  “Since when do you do shit like that?”

  “Since never,” I say. “But we’re trying new things this week, things neither of us have ever done before. It’s a week of ‘yes.’”

  Melrose sticks her finger down her throat, pretending to gag herself. Always so judge-y, this one. But I don’t take offense to it. Her idea of spending time with a man involves one at least twice her age, a sexy sports car, and a reservation at an exclusive LA eatery.

  She may be my best friend, but we couldn’t be more different.

  “All right, well … while you’re hanging out with your serial killer friend, I’m going to be lunching with Gram at The Ivy,” she says, teasing like I should be jealous. And then she cracks a smile. “Wish you could join us …”

  “Next time.” I hit the bathroom light and head to my room, grabbing my things and stepping into a pair of comfy sneakers. The farmer’s market is only six blocks from here, so I’m walking. But before heading out the door, I text Isaiah and tell him I’ll see him in ten minutes.

  He says he’s already there.

  I smirk.

  Those military boys and their punctuality …

  * * *

  “You stand out like a sore thumb,” I tell him when I find him.

  “Why do you say that?” he asks.

  “I don’t know. Can’t put my finger on it. You just do. You’re not a farmer’s market person, I can tell.”

  “Should I have worn my flax pants and straw hat today?” he asks. We begin to walk, our arms bumping into one another every few steps.

  “Smart ass.” We pass a flower stand and a bouquet of blue hydrangeas steals my attention. “Hold up. I want to buy some of these.”

  “Want or need?”

  “Blue hydrangeas are always a need.”

  A minute later, I walk away with a beautiful bouquet wrapped in brown paper and Isaiah stops at a breakfast burrito stand for some wrap made with local, cage-free eggs, organic cheddar sourced from Northern California, and free-range chicken sausage.

  We find an empty table next to a wine vendor’s booth and steal a couple of spots.

  “So what is a farmer’s market person?” he asks.

  I laugh through my nose. “I don’t know … maybe a Volvo-driving, organic-obsessed, Pilates-loving mom of four? Not to be, you know, stereotypical. I’m just going off of what I see here. There definitely seems to be some consistencies around us.”

  He glances toward a parking lot behind us and I count at least eight Volvo XC-90s, most of which are polished black or glimmering white. A woman pushing a double stroller and wearing $90 yoga pants yells at her two older kids, telling them not to run off.

  “See?” I point toward her. “Am I right or am I right?”

  “You’re right.” He inhales his last bite of burrito and wipes his hands on a napkin. “So what kind of person am I?”

  “What?”

  “If I’m not a farmer’s market person … how would you categorize me? What box would you place me in?” he asks.


  Sucking in a deep breath, I mull over my response. I promised him honesty, so honesty he’s going to get.

  “You’re still a question mark, Isaiah,” I say. “At first glance, I’d put you in some kind of military category because you’re so serious and clean cut and stoic. But these last few days, I don’t know. I think there’s more to you than you’re letting on. You’re closed off. So closed off I haven’t even attempted to figure you out. I tried, too. Laid in bed one night replaying our day together, trying to see if there were any things I missed. Then I got a headache, so I went to sleep.”

  He sniffs, shaking his head. “A question mark, eh?”

  I nod. “Yup.”

  “That’s a fair statement.”

  “You ever going to open up? You know you can tell me anything. We’re still basically strangers. You probably don’t even remember my last name, so your secrets are safe with me.”

  “I don’t really tell anyone anything,” he says. “It’s nothing personal. And I do remember your last name because I had to submit a claim to your insurance for the damage you did to my car.”

  I exhale. He’s going to be a tough one to crack, but I feel like he’d be worth cracking. Only problem is our days are numbered, our time together dwindling by the second, and I don’t see myself making much progress with him before he goes.

  “It’s okay.” I rub his arm. “Just know that if you ever want to vent about anything, I’m your girl.”

  “I don’t vent.”

  His full mouth lifts at one corner and he leans back in his seat, staring at me in a way he’s yet to stare at me until now. I’d give anything to know what he’s thinking, good or bad.

  “Should we do a little more exploring?” I ask, rising. He breaks his gaze and stands beside me, stretching his arms over his head. His shirt lifts just enough that I spot the chiseled muscles pointing down the sides of his hips as well as the hint of a rippled six-pack.

  My heart hiccups and I lose my train of thought for all of three seconds. I don’t remember fully appreciating those things that night at the concert.

  “I heard there’s a killer cinnamon roll stand here,” I tell him, scanning the booths. “First one to find it wins.”

  “Wins what?”

  “Wins at life, Corporal. Cinnamon rolls are everything, duh.”

  He follows me into the crowd, and it isn’t until we’re at the far end of the farmer’s market when I realize I left my hydrangeas back at the wine stand.

  “Shit,” I say.

  “What?” He frowns. “What is it?”

  “I left my flowers.”

  His gaze drags the length of me, like he needs to personally confirm that I did in fact lose my flowers, and then he exhales. “You want to go back and get them?”

  “I’m sure they’re long gone by now. Trust me, these farmer’s market ladies see an abandoned bouquet of hydrangeas and they’re going to be more than happy to give them a good home.” I swat my hand. I hate dwelling on negative shit for too long. It makes me crazy. “Oh, well.”

  Isaiah glances back from where we came, his hands resting on his hips.

  “Don’t,” I say. He turns toward me, feigning ignorance. “You’re thinking about doing the chivalrous thing and buying me some replacement flowers. Don’t do it.”

  “What are you talking about?” His nose wrinkles, but I don’t buy it.

  “I don’t want flowers from you,” I say. “Even if you’re replacing the flowers I bought for myself.”

  “I would never buy you flowers. That’d be breaking rule number one.”

  My head cocks to the side, and I examine his handsome face. “Don’t lie to me, Corporal. Don’t break rule number two just so you don’t break rule number one.”

  “For the record, I was thinking about getting another burrito,” he says.

  “Mm hm.” I’m still not sure if I believe him. “All right, whatever. Let’s get you another burrito.”

  I slip my hand into the crook of his elbow and we head back into the crowd, just a couple of SoCal salmon swimming upstream and stopping at the cinnamon roll booth on the way.

  After this, I’m taking him to the Vista theatre, a glorious, nearly century-old tinsel town fixture.

  Today we’re seeing Casablanca.

  Which is kind of fitting … because of all the pancake joints in all the towns in the world, he walked into mine.

  And no matter what happens after this week, we’ll always have Brentwood.

  8

  Isaiah

  Saturday #4

  “You need anything before I go?” I peek my head into my mom’s room, surprised to find her awake this early in the day.

  Rubbing her still-closed eyes, she shakes her head ‘no.’

  “I’m okay, Isaiah,” she says. “Though I’d love a cup of coffee if you have the time.”

  “Of course, Ma.” I head to the kitchen and return a few minutes later with her favorite hazelnut coffee, placing it on the coaster on her nightstand.

  “What are you dressed like that for? You going to the gym?” she asks when her eyes focus on my gym shorts and sneakers.

  “I’m going for a hike,” I say.

  “Oh, yeah? Where?”

  “By the Hollywood sign. Brush Canyon trail.”

  She chuckles. “No kidding?”

  I nod, but I don’t elaborate. She doesn’t know about Maritza and really there’s nothing to tell her. Maritza’s just a distraction. I wouldn’t even call us friends despite the fact that I kind of, sort of secretly enjoy her company.

  “I’ll be back later. Call if you need me, all right?” I wait for Mom to sit up and get situated, and then I head out.

  * * *

  “Six and a half miles. Race you to the top?” Maritza assumes a makeshift starting line position before a sly smirk claims her pink lips. Her posture relaxes and she bends at the waist, stretching before glancing up at me. “I’m sure six and a half miles is nothing for you.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  Her eyes widen. “Um, have you looked in the mirror lately? You’re jacked. Ripped. Whatever people call it these days. Clearly you know what the inside of a gym looks like.”

  “Kind of you to notice.”

  “I don’t run,” she says. “And the number of times I’ve hiked, I can count on one hand.”

  “So why’d you agree to go hiking today?” I study her face, willing my gaze not to fall to the hot pink sports bra that hardly contains her cleavage or the black shorts that leave very little to the imagination.

  Maritza shrugs. “Because I’ve never hiked this trail before and we’re doing all these quintessentially Hollywood touristy things. It fit the theme.”

  I chuckle. “All right.”

  “Don’t you mean ‘fine’?” she teases.

  “Fine.” I stretch out for a minute before doing a quick jog in place. Taking a swig from the water bottle I brought, I eye the trail sign ahead and watch as a skinny, blonde-haired woman jogs by with a fit and lean yellow Lab.

  We head up the trail, and I stay a bit behind her because it’s the proper thing to do … and the view is killer. It isn’t until we’re a good mile and a half into our hike when Maritza stumbles over a boulder sticking out of the ground and goes flying.

  I try not to laugh despite the fact that it was fucking hilarious.

  “Don’t laugh.” Maritza reaches for her foot and moans.

  “Oh, shit.” I drop to her side, examining her left ankle.

  “Don’t touch it.” She swats me away.

  “I’m not going to touch it, I just want to look at it.” With gentle hands and barely any pressure, I examine her ankle the way I would an injured soldier’s on the battlefield. “You think you can stand on it?”

  “Um, no.” Her eyes brim with tears and she glances away. “And for the record, I’m not crying. It’s just … the pain is making my eyes water.”

  “Here. Let me help you up. If you can’t stand, I’ve got
you.” I don’t give her a chance to refuse, instead I slide my forearms under her arms and slowly bring her into a standing position.

  With her left knee bent, she taps her toe on the dirt before attempting to stand.

  “I can’t,” she says. “I swear, Isaiah, I’m not being a baby. It just really fucking hurts. I don’t think it’s broken, I think it’s just … really twisted.”

  “Fine,” I say, placing myself in front of her. “Hike’s over.”

  Draping her arms over my shoulders, I then reach for the backs of her thighs.

  “What are you doing?” she asks.

  “Climb onto my back. I’ll carry you back to the car.”

  “You’re going to carry me on your back for almost two miles?”

  “I don’t suppose you saw any wheelchair rentals on your way up the mountain, did you?” With her legs wrapped around my hips, I hook my hands behind her knees.

  “Smart ass.”

  She’s leggy but light and this is going to be a piece of cake. I’ve carried grown men farther distances than this before.

  Twenty minutes later, we arrive back at the street parking, and she carefully slides down my back, leaning against the passenger door of her blue Prius for support.

  “You going to be able to drive home?” I ask, examining her ankle, which is already starting to swell like a son of a bitch. “Damn. You got yourself pretty good.”

  Crouching down, I give it a closer look. Maybe she could drive herself home just fine, but she’s not going to be able to get out of the car once she gets there, not without some help.

  “We need to get some ice on that,” I say, frowning. “Give me your keys.”

  “What? Why?”

  “I’m taking you home. Unless you want to ride in my car … I just figured you’d feel safer in yours. You know, since we’re strangers.”

  Digging into a little zippered pocket in her tiny shorts, she hands me a valet key, which I use to unlock her passenger door. Helping her in, I get her seatbelt and tell her to keep her ankle elevated. Rounding the front of the car, I climb into the driver’s side.

  I’ll have to Uber it back here to get my car later.