Page 30 of The Kiss Principle

“Fernando.”

“Get some sleep. I bet you need it.”

I surprised myself with the sting in those last words, and he must have heard it too because he shifted his weight, and he was silent again. I thought about apologizing. Instead, I started to step into my bedroom.

“You are a great guy, Fernando. Anybody would be lucky to have you in their life. I’m sorry that tonight didn’t go the way you wanted, but you can’t give up. Maybe we can work on a dating profile for you—”

The anger came so quickly, came so hot, that I didn’t have time to understand where it came from. Or why. “A dating profile,” I said.

Zé’s silence answered me. The whole house was silent.

“I don’t have time to date, Zé. I don’t get to go out and fuck around at night.”

The hallway was so dark. And his silence was so big.

As quickly as it had come, the anger drained out of me, and all I felt was tired. I stepped into my room, and as I shut my door, I said, half-apology and half-explanation, “I’ve got to take care of my family.”

10

Somehow, Zé hadn’t quit and left after I’d been a total asshole to him. Even more miraculously, we’d settled back into our normal routine. A week went by. And then another. Although, it wasn’t quite normal. Something was different with Zé. Maybe. A new reserve, like he was holding part of himself back. Or, maybe not, because I wasn’t sure if I was imagining it.

It was so minor, if it was there at all, that it was hard to point to any specific example. He smiled. He laughed. He sent me goofy videos of him and Igz, even when they were in the other room—one, with Igz dressed in one of his Hurley T-shirts and a pair of Wayfarer sunglasses, was so fucking cute that I spent the next hour figuring out how to get it printed. He had that usual relaxed, happy Zé energy that, I’d started to realize, I was enjoying way too much. I caught myself making excuses to talk to him. I wandered out of my home office (officially, the dining room) between calls, and we’d shoot the shit while he played with Igz. I’d go into the kitchen for a snack, and half the time, he’d already have something ready for me, and I’d end up talking to him for way too long. At night, I found stupid reasons for him to stay and watch TV. I swear to God, one time I heard myself say, “You’ve got to see this commercial,” and a tiny piece of me died. But he sat and watched, and then he stayed. It was like basking in the sun, I thought. Like it had been winter for so long. Which was a strange thought for someone who lived in southern California.

But every once in a while, it was like I turned a conversational corner too fast, and a wall would come up. I’d askhim if he had plans for the weekend, and his silence lasted a beat too long before he mumbled a vague answer. Or once, I asked him about swim lessons for Igz, and I swear to God I saw the shutters go down. But those moments were so short, and there was never any sign of them after, that it didn’t take long before I convinced myself I’d imagined them. Because he was Zé, and apparently, in an entire universe of people who found me un-fucking-bearable, he had some sort of magic immunity to my assholery.

It was Friday night, my back was killing me. To be more specific, it felt like someone was stabbing me with an icepick. I barely made it through dinner, sitting on the hard kitchen chair. When I stood to clear the dishes, the sharp pain ran straight to my brain. All I could do was stand there, balancing plates in my hands, and try not to fall over or curl up or, let’s face it, whimper.

Zé noticed, of course. Concern was written across his face.

“I’m going to do these tomorrow,” I said. I put the plates in the sink. “I want to get Igz down.”

“I’ll do them.”

“It’s the weekend, and you’re off duty, so don’t you fucking dare.”

For some reason, that made him smile. But when I reached to take Igz, he was slow to release her. “Are you feeling okay?”

“My back’s a little tight,” I said. “I’ll take something after I put Igz to bed.”

“Fernando, go lie down.” He tried to take her back. “I’ll take care of Igz.”

“What part of ‘off duty’ don’t you understand?”

His smile got bigger. “Go stretch out. Take something for your back.”

“It’s a good thing you’re pretty,” I said, “because somebody went to town on you with the stupid stick. Here, I’ll say it more clearly: go have fun. Get out of my house. And don’t tell me youdon’t have plans; until five minutes ago, you were looking at your phone every five seconds, so I know you’ve got plans.”

He opened his mouth.

“Don’t you dare fucking lie to me.”

“Don’t swear in front of Igz!”

I cupped her head as I held her to my chest, and finally he released her. “She likes it. She swears like a fucking sailor.”

“She does not. She’s a lady.”

“Get out of my fucking house!”

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