Page 43 of The Kiss Principle

“That was excruciating to listen to,” I said. “You know that, right?”

He threw some of the wadded-up paper at me.

“And give me a break. You’re the kindest human being in existence. Get into disagreements, Jesus Christ. I was an asshole. I’m always the asshole; I know that.”

“No, you’re not. I acted badly today.” Before I could respond, he rushed to ask, “But we’re okay, right?

“I don’t know. What are you going to do with those stupid sunglasses?”

The look he shot me was genuinely distressed, and I almost relented. But he was right about being in each other’s lives, and this was another thing we needed to figure out.

“Fernando.”

“I should be able to do something nice for you. I understand that you want to be independent; that’s great. I respect that, actually, because I had to do it, and I know how hard it is. But you do all sorts of things for me that go above and beyond your job, like—” And it almost slipped out: that fucking massage. Instead, I scrambled to course correct. “—taking care of Igz even after I get home, or waking up with her in the middle of the night, or watching her on weekends.”

“I’m happy to do those things. I like doing those things.”

“And I like doing nice things for you, dipshit!”

It was about a six out of ten on the roar scale, and Igz startled in her sleep but didn’t wake. People turned to look. I threw some dirty glances in every direction. One white lady who was up to her tits in rosé spritzes said, “How rude.”

When I turned back, Zé ducked his head to hide a grin.

“Oh,” I said. “That’s funny?”

The ceiling fans—and the white lady with her spritzes—made it hard to tell, but I was pretty sure he giggled.

“I will try,” I put emphasis on the word, “to keep the gifts to a minimum, because I know they make you uncomfortable. I hear you, okay? But it’s my money. And if I want to spend some of it on you, I’m damn well going to.”

He nodded, and although it looked like a struggle, he said, “Thank you.”

I watched him for a moment: that big, sprawling body; the long, strong lines; the way he’d giggled, and how young that had made him sound. I shook my head and smothered a smile. “Jesus Christ, Teixeira.”

He wrinkled his nose at that. “Oh God, the straight-guy last-name thing. No, no, no. We’re not fraternity brothers or golf buddies or high school football players.”

“Of course not,” I said, and for some reason, I picked up my beer, and it was empty now, of course, and I was thinking about how badly I needed another when I said, hearing myself from a long way off, “We’re friends.”

12

When we got home, Mom and Cannon were gone. I pulled into the garage and got out of the Escalade. Zé limped around to meet me, pain shadowing his face until he saw me. Then it vanished like a magic trick, and I wondered how long he’d been doing that, how long he hadn’t been letting me see.

“Go sit down,” I said.

“I’m fine.”

I worked on the buckles. Igz was staring up at me with her dark eyes.

“It stiffened up on the ride back.”

“Go sit your ass down before I have to yell at you again!”

Four on the roar scale.

He was laughing as he went inside. Not loud, but I could hear him.

But when I rescued Igz from a million straps that seemed like they were actively trying to behead her, I found Zé in the kitchen, pulling out a cutting board.

“Hi,” I said. “You might remember me from such tender moments as shouting at you in the garage and screaming at you in front of a surf shop.”

---