Of Hustle and Heart (14 page)

CHAPTER 24

ZACARIAS

T
wo days later, in haste, I buy the ring. I go to a little jewelry store in the mall without Whitney because I just want to get it over with. I pick out something I think she’ll like—what any girl would like. I’m a robot, simply going through the motions. Disturbing…

I bounce around the idea of taking her out to dinner and asking her to marry me, like they do in movies. She’ll take it anyway I deliver it. But then we make love, and I can’t believe I have the desire to touch her, because I’ve been so tuned out to what’s going on between us. Everything’s happening too fast. I can’t think past the next hour.

Whitney proved that a man will always be a beast at his core, savage and selfish, when it comes to fulfilling his own lust. I dirtied up the good-guy shirt I’ve always managed to keep clean.

I’ve never been so emotionless while making love with anyone—ever. It isn’t till after I’m done that I realize the only thing I felt was the throb in my penis. She stops before the climax. She says I am being too rough. I’m nervous that I’ve done something offensive to my child’s mother and don’t want to alienate her this early in the pregnancy. I tell her that I went shopping for a ring.

She rolls over and props herself up on her arm.

“A ring?” She smiles.

“Yeah.” We lie in bed together, not touching one another. I’m nervous, massaging my hands. “I bought it a few days ago,” I say.

She sits up in bed, and the sheet slides down, exposing her breast. She grabs it and pulls it over her exposed nipples.

“Don’t,” she says, holding out her palm. “Not yet.” I look at her wide eyed.

“Did I hurt you…during…” I whisper.

Her smile fades, but the amusement in her eyes remain. “No,” she says, “you didn’t hurt me…It was just different. I guess I’m not used to that with you.”

“Used to what? What was it? What did I do?”

She doesn’t know how to answer.

“I’m sorry…I didn’t mean…”

“No, Zack, it was fine…Don’t be embarrassed…” She pushes toward me and runs a hand through my hair.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me…” I breathe.

“I like it,” she says, kissing me on the mouth. The sheet falls to her waist as she maneuvers toward me. “I was surprised but…” she says, kissing me again, “I like the change. I like it rough.”

I stare at her. I didn’t know she liked it rough; she never told me. For two years, there has not been one complaint. She’s been pretending. I’m not rough, but I’m angry, and I’m heartbroken that she likes me better when I’m angry and detached. She likes sex with me more when there are no feelings involved. I can’t believe it. I can’t stand being this way, pissed off all the damn time. This mystic thing, this curse she’s cast on me, is killing my mother’s son.

But the next day, when Zina walks into Rico’s for a glass of tea and chicken nachos, she smiles at me, and the spell is broken. My anxiety disappears from the deepest parts of me. In its place is the girl who brings out the man I want to become. She makes it to the counter before I have time to collect myself.

“No one’s here,” she says as she hops onto a barstool. “Good, I like it like that.”

“Hey,” I say, smiling harder than I have in three weeks. “You’re back.”

“Yep, and I’m feeling way better.”

I nod, pleased to hear she’s found some joy since the last time we met. She props both elbows on the bar and takes a thorough look around. “I like the quietude,” she says.

“Why is that?”

“Because the noise in my head is enough racket for me,” she says. “Finally…some peace somewhere!” She puffs out her cheeks in an exaggerated breath. “I can breathe.”

“What about home?” I ask as I pour the glass of tea she no longer has to ask for.

“Oh no! Definitely not there! I got three brothers and my mama’s sorry ass boyfriend…” She clears her throat before she takes a sip from her glass. “Nah, it’s not quiet anywhere.

She traces small, steady circles on the countertop and seems to forget I’m even there. I go back to work. I have a schedule to finish. As I gather my forms from underneath the counter, she scoots her stool closer to the bar. She folds both arms on top of my counter and lays her head on them, her face sideways, watching me.

“You okay?” I ask, and her head shoots up instantly, as if she just remembered where she is.

“Yes.” She sits up straight, folding her palms in her lap. “I like being around,” she says, cocking her head sideways.

“Why is that?”

Her eyes beam around the edges and tighten as she tries to hold back a huge goofy smile. She shrugs, her head dropping a little. “I don’t know…you’re kinda, like, adorable or something.” She can no longer contain herself and explodes into a sweet-sounding laughter. I’m pleased with her.

I remember the teenage girl getting shitfaced with emotion a few weeks ago. But now something has changed. Whether it’s good or bad, I can’t tell yet. She grins at me, a spark in her dark brown eyes. I’m stunned by the way she looks at me. I draw away from her for a minute because something very intense is happening.

“How old are you?” she asks, still smiling. At first, she doesn’t move; she doesn’t even blink. Her smile soon fades as the power between us shifts; I fall into her grace. And though I’m uncomfortable discussing my age with her, afraid it would worry her or scare her away, I want to tell her the truth. No secrets. Secrets are a bad situation. But I don’t answer. Instead, I leave the question in the air, because her high-school standing was terribly discomforting.

“Tell me how old you are,” she says quietly. “I want to know.” She demands my answer with the tenacity of a woman beyond her years. Her spark has returned, claiming my attention as she runs a finger up and down her sweating glass, watching me. My silence must make her uncomfortable, because she shifts in her seat, breaking the spell. “Twenty-two?”

I look up, startled that she’s broken the silence. “Twenty-two? What, you mean my age?” I ask.

She has the straw gripped between her front teeth, and she’s smiling, burning with an energy I’d yet to see in another female. She’s beautiful and so horribly sexy.

“Are you enjoying this?” I ask, smiling. I’m positive she is.

She looks at me with incredible dark eyes. Whitney’s first doctor’s appointment is at 2:30 p.m. today, and I promised to meet her. But I won’t leave while Zina is here.

“So did you dump your saliva-spewing girlfriend yet?”

I’m shocked she remembers or cares enough to inquire. She takes her glass from me and sits it on the counter.

“Well…you single yet or what?” she probes.

“Never mind me. I’m fine. What about you and the green-eyed jock?”

She loosens the grip on her straw. I regret asking. “Like
you,
he has a girlfriend. You still have a girlfriend, don’tcha?”

“Yes, I still have a girlfriend.”

“Typical,” she scowls, pushing the glass away. “Is my food ready yet?”

“Being with someone else doesn’t necessarily mean anything.”

“What the fuck?” she says. “That’s stupid as hell. Being with someone else means everything.” She stares at me as if she has found a new enemy. “You sound like an idiot, stuck with someone you don’t want.”

“I’m not stuck with anyone,” I say.

“Whatever,” she grumbles. “I don’t care. I’m outta here.” She hops down from her barstool, disgusted.

“What about your food?” I reach out, grabbing her elbow, but she jerks away. I run around the bar, blocking her exit.

“
Why
are you always chasing after me?” she asks.

“Because you’re always running away.”

“Well, it’s creepy as shit.”

“Wow…I didn’t mean to creep you out,” I say, my voice taut. “I’m not that kind of a guy.” She stares at me, confused. Her lips part as if she wants to speak, and her body is tense. “I apologize for doing way too much. I only wanted to help you—but you know what, Zina? You can’t get mad and shoot for the door
every time
you don’t like what’s going on or you don’t agree.”

My words hit like blows to her face. She’s stunned.

“You need to learn how to stick around and deal with the bullshit,” I continue.

I leave her standing in the dining room and walk back to the bar. Her trying to leave has annoyed me more than her calling me a creep. I consider leaving for Whitney’s appointment, but Zina comes back, climbs onto her stool, and sits like a reprimanded child.

I go on with my business, while she sits, waiting for the static between us to wash through. For a little while I’m able to ignore her, until glimpses of her sullen face dissipates my anger.

“Your food’s almost ready.” I don’t stand near her; she notices me purposefully keeping my distance.

“Thank you,” she says. She watches me from beneath lowered lids. I feel my power over her; it’s new, electrifying. I wait for her next move. “I’m graduating in a few weeks.” She whips her head up as if she has been dying to tell me this. “Are you mad at me or something?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“I was rude to you,” she says, studying me. “I think I was out of line. Way out of line.”

I narrow my eyes. “Graduation, huh? You’re not nervous about this being your last year?”

“Nah, I’m ready to go—to be an adult.”

“When I was your age, I was freaked out about graduating. You’re pretty confident about it.”

“I don’t have a choice. It’s happening, so I’m choosing to be ready for this shit.” She looks at me, embarrassed by her slip of tongue. “Excuse my language,” she says.

“Hasn’t bothered me so far.” I turn away for a second. “I have a birthday coming up,” I say.

“Really?”

“I’ll be twenty-five.”

“Twenty-five is pretty cool,” she says.

I consider asking her if my age makes her uncomfortable, if it changes the way she sees me.

“How’d you feel about coming to a twenty-five-year-old’s birthday party?”

“Excuse me?”

“You’re invited. I want you to come.”

“For real?” she asks, eyes softening. I want to be with her. No distance between us.

“Definitely.”

Nothing wrong with being friends, the kind of friends who talk and share details about each other’s lives.

CHAPTER 25

ZINA

I
t’s morning; Uncle Tony has already left. My eyes open to the sight of a BMW key chain. I blink, propping myself up on one elbow, and reach for the keys. I drive this to school.

After school, I stop by Rico’s for food. Zack is there, his hair pulled back into a ponytail, revealing his extraordinary face and distinctive bone. His skin is so even and pretty colored—lighter than mine, of course, but refreshingly ethic and tan, his Spanish-Mexican ancestry on full display. I look at him again, observing for the first time how pretty he is. He looks up, sees me staring, and waves, signaling me to approach.

I order my food with him; it takes forever to come, but I’m glad it does. He doesn’t treat me like a charity case, like something that would break if he said the wrong thing. He checks me hard and calls me out for being a brat. I’d mistaken him for weak, and little boring, but no.

He invites me to his twenty-fifth birthday party, and I cannot wait to tell Blanca. I am humbled by Zacarias’s thoughtfulness. He now takes me to a place that I had no idea I existed. So I stay to talk with him for a while.

I now get up to leave. In Rico’s parking lot, as I walk back to Tony’s BMW, a pair of stunning, go-light-green eyes catch the sun’s glare. I look up to see Shannon, alone, leaning on the hood of his black suburban. After catching my attention, he pulls his hat down over his eyes. I look at him, standing my ground, watching him, because I know he’s watching me. He looks at me from beneath the brim of his Seahawks snapback and waves. I doubt whether or not I should wave back, so I don’t. I get into my car as if he isn’t there. As if I don’t miss the long letters he used to write to me. And as if his eyes don’t shoot heroin through my veins. Neither of us can forget about each other. Shannon and I are such losers.

Blanca meets me at Uncle Tony’s after I leave Rico’s. I gobble down my food, while Blanca sits across from me, rambling on about how her dad’s overprotectiveness is killing her.

“When I turn eighteen, and he loses control,” she warns, shaking her head, “it’s going to be war.” She drums her French-tip acrylics on the table.

“You’re lucky to have a dad at all,” I reply. “Not every little girl in the world can say that.”

She sits up and looks at me. “You’re so right,” she says. “I’m stupid.”

“It’s all good, Bee. But hey—no snooping around his apartment,” I warn her.

“Why not?”

“Because he doesn’t want you roaming through his stuff. You know that’s like a total invasion of privacy.”

I leave the dining table, and Blanca follows. We plop down on the leather sectional, and Bee grabs the remote. I can’t wait until she leaves. I want to be left alone. I’ll call her later and tell her about Zack. She asks me what I want to watch on TV as my eyes droop. I open them to look at the cable guide displayed on the television.

“I don’t know. Watch whatever you like,” I say, before I fall asleep.

When I wake up, I don’t know how much time has passed or where Blanca has gone. I’m still tired, which tells me I’m not sleeping enough. I lie on the couch, drunk with exhaustion, waiting for Blanca to return.

“What are you doing?” I ask as Blanca pokes her head around the corner. I’m pissed that she’s been snooping around the loft.

Blanca hesitates before she speaks, as if she’s considering what she should say next. She glances behind her, as if something is calling her to come back. She has found something, and I can’t imagine what it could be. She plays with her fingers, rubbing them together as if she’s rubbing in lotion.

“Girl, what is it?” I frown as I drag myself toward her. She’s wearing a look of excitement and terror. I feel a tingle of worry, because I can’t read her expression, and this has never happened before.

“Is the door locked?” she asks, a look of paranoia on her face.

I turn around to check for her. “Yes.” I nod anxiously. “What’s going on?”

She grabs my hand and leads me to the laundry room. There’s a metal safe; the door is cracked open. It makes sense now.

“Oh, you found his guns,” I say as I gesture toward the massive platinum contraption.

“No.” She grunts and pushes the heavy door open with her Coach tennis shoe. There are multiple bags of molly, and three shelves are lined with huge bricks of saran-wrapped fluffy green dope. The smell is amazing, like earthy spices, piney and fruity; the bottom two shelves hold an array of pistols and assault rifles. As soon as the Kush smell fills the room, I want some.