My mouth isn’t even allowed to twitch in rebuttal.
“Iknowthe Garcias.They’re good people.Theydogood people shit.They would welcome his person with open arms, tequila, and a plate ofFeijoada.”
“What the hell is that?”
“This slow cooked, Brazilian beef stew.”He slurps up another bite of his ice cream to prevent it from dripping onto my hand that’s still lingering on his thigh.“His mom’s got roots there.She likes to cook the shit up around her birthday.”
Another effortless grin wriggles onto my face.
Why is it throughhimI’m learning so much about Garcia, instead of from Garcia himself?
Why can’t Garcia let people in like this?
Even if for an afternoon?
Or a night?
Fuck, I’ve learned more about the knee knocking counselor via his best friend and thirst trap IG captions than I ever have fromhim.
It shouldn’t be this way.
It doesn’thaveto be this way.
Hemakes that choice.
Hechooses that defense.
I don’t have to.
I won’t.
With the reminder of how else we’re total opposites back in the front of my mind, I procede, “Ultimately, Garcia and I are twocompletelydifferent walks of life.I’m water.He’s fire.I’m sunshine.He’s cloudy.I’m a scoop of pistachio with a pinch of cinnamon on a chocolate dipped waffle cone, and he’s Mexican Vanilla in a paper bowl with a metal spoon.”
“Boring?”
“More concerned with what the outside world thinks than what he actually wants.”
The man beside me lets loose a grunt of agreement.
“And the trench deep truth is…life’swayyyyyyyy toooooofucking short for that shit.”Our eyes connect once more.“You never really know when your ship’s going down, so fucking make the most out of everything.Fuck what people think.Just go for it.”
Chilled lips clumsily smash themselves against mine, yet rather than recoil away from the abruptness, I curl into it.
Allow them to gracelessly spread mine.
Give our anxious tongues a chance to brush together, unexpectedly igniting a faint whimper.
A faint whimper that gets louder when his arm slyly drapes around my practically bare shoulder.
Insists I stay where I am.
Take the increasing pressure of his swipes.
The speed.
The intensity.
His previously cone clutching fingers unpredictably run themselves up the front of my chest, sending shivers down my spine.
