I hand him a dark-chocolate peppermint cookie, and he hands me a box to wrap.
We work in silence for a while. The movie provides ample entertainment after a tiring day, and the pleasing satisfaction of scissors gliding along paper rolls is soothing.
“Do you ever wonder what happened to Macaulay Culkin?” Hector asks. “Child stars must have to go through a lot of nonsense. But on the plus side, he’s probably still making major bank from this movie. It’s iconic and on almost every cable channel this time of year.” It must register to him that my own upbringing in the public eye may not have been Culkin level, but it was still very intense. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I say, taking a second cookie, hoping the sugar rush overrides my nervous system.
“What’s it like,the Big Apple? Is it everything the movies say it is?”
“It’s fabulous, lively. It’s actually better than the movies make it out to be.”
“I’ve never been. Between school and work and the other nine million things there are to get done, I don’t have the time or the money to travel. I’ve never seen the appeal per se, but I’ve always been curious.” He casts his eyes away, growing reserved.
I think about extending the invitation for him to come and visit me there once we succeed with this gala, once we’ve both fulfilled our ends of the deal, but is that what he’s insinuating? Our time together here has been wonderful; however, I fret over whether he’d fit in on that island. Jeez, why is everything aboutislands?
He’d hate the bustle, the crowds, the attention. My life is only bustle, crowds, and attention.
Here, I got to adapt to a different pace, but I don’t think I can stay moving this glacially forever, so I keep the offer to myself. For now.
“Could’ve fooled me. All those times you dismissed it as a cesspool of people in objectionable pink pants.” The joke acts as a buffer between this perfect moment and the real stuff to come. The inevitable juncture when I will return to the towering skyline and busy sidewalks.
“I’ve seen the error of my ways, dude,” he says with a snort. “First perceptions aren’t always right.” His eyes flick back to me with clear intention. “I’ve been pleasantly surprised before.”
I let that sentiment sink in for a second, happy in the knowledge that he sees me differently now. That I’m not the bitch behind the sunglasses who blew into town with no regard for anyone else.
“Does that mean you’ll try on the pink pants for me?” I ask, dying to see Hector in a piece so out of his comfort zone.
“You wish, dude,” he says, focusing again.
His nimble hands begin grouping the cards together and cutting them up, but his gold-flecked eyes keep glancing over at me. I tape with crisp precision, trying not to let him distract me too much from the task at hand.
“Did the present platitudes get done too?” I ask.
He nods, handing me a plastic-wrapped deck of calligraphy cards. They say things likeDrink in the moment like a cup of eggnogandThe Present is the greatest present of all. Corny, but in a cute way.
I pass him another cookie, a caramel one this time, and our fingers brush. A frisson of heat traps us there.
Wrap three boxes and then you can kiss him, I tell myself.Wrap six boxes and you can make out a little, I add.Slap the golden phrases on all six, and you can do even more if he’s in the mood.
I work fast with my new incentive system. The caffeine and my hormones mix into a dizzying cocktail coursing through my veins.
A little before the halfway mark of the movie, Hector’s hand inches toward my thigh. The heat of his palm through my jeans is titillating. We begin creeping our mouths toward each other. I’m desperate for him, so we kiss with an openness that thrills me.
One of his hands goes up under my sweater and onto the bare, sensitive skin of my stomach. The tickle causes me to balk, but on the exhale, I press into it. I allow his fingertips to trace over my belly button.
We recline so that he’s nestled into my side. He fits so well there.
I reach for the zipper of his pants, overeager to please. We begin to undress each other, piece by piece, really seeing each other this time, taking extra care to kiss and lick every inch of revealed skin. We’re both glistening in the low lighting.
That’s when I see it. The tattoo is on the inside of his left bicep. It’s a small depiction of Don Quixote riding Rocinante while holding a sword and a shield, done to look like one thin continuous line of ink. Hector flexes at my sudden touch, and I swear I watch the horse take life and gallop toward the crook of his elbow.
“It’s…” he begins, but I cut him off.
“I know.”
I’m overcome with the urge to absorb him. I kiss him hastier, hungrier.
We fumble awkwardly as the shiny cloth slips underneath us. Our heads crash together at one point, knocking our teeth, but it elicits nothing more than a laugh, a repositioning, and a further opening of ourselves to each other.
