Page 51 of The Kiss Principle

“Good Lord, Fernando.”

“What?” I laughed again. “You deserve some action.”

“Nobody under thirty calls it action. And no, I didn’t.” He didn’t meet my gaze as he said, “I went through a rough patch, actually. I kind of hit rock bottom. The second surgery. The third. The money going up in smoke. I had to sell my condo, my boards, anything I could. And then, you know how I was living.” His shoulders curved in. “And now I’m here. So, I wanted you to know. That’s why it’s so important for me to do stuff on my own. Because for a long time, I didn’t. I believed other people would take care of me. I believed other people would make sure I was okay. And that wasn’t true, and I’m not going to make that mistake again. And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. It’s embarrassing, and it’s a part of my life I want to forget, but you deserve to know.”

I bounced Igz and thought about what to say. I settled on: “I’m still pissed.”

He rubbed his eyes.

“What? I am. You lied to me. And you scared me. And honestly, Zé, did you think I would fire you for using your cane? I mean, I get it, you didn’t know me that first day. But once you’d spent some time with me—am I such a piece of shit that you thought I’d throw you out?”

“No.” His voice was soft, and he studied a seam in the upholstery, rubbing his thumb along the stitching. “I don’t like using the cane. I’m twenty-five, Fer, not an old man. And I like you. And I wanted you to—” He gave another of those helpless shrugs.

Wanted you to what?

I said, “You’re using that goddamn cane from now on. And if I find you not using it, there is going to be some serious shit going down. When Kennedi says you can start easing up on it—”

“Fernando, I don’t want your friend—”

“Don’t argue with me. I’m still mad at you.” I waited until he’d subsided and said, “When Kennedi says so, you can start weaning yourself off it. Until then, you’re going to use it. Understood?”

He gave a miserable nod.

“And whatever Kennedi tells you for PT, you’re going to do. Understood?”

He opened his mouth.

“I swear to Christ, Zé, if the next word out of your mouth isn’t yes, I’m going to lose my shit. I don’t want to hear about how much it costs. I don’t want to hear about you being independent. This is about you getting better. If it makes you happier, we’ll call it a loan, and you can pay me back.”

He opened his mouth again.

“Think long and hard,” I told him.

That familiar struggle played in his face again. And then it was gone, his expression soft and tired, and he said, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. Now eat your damn salad.”

That slow smile spread across his face again, but he didn’t say anything. He picked up his salad, and I picked up mine—well, I had to balance it on my lap because of Igz—and we ate. I turned the TV on. Neither of us said anything, but that was okay; the silence was comfortable, especially once I turned the TV to a Dodgers game. When we’d finished, I let Zé hold Igz while I cleaned up (meaning, I threw away the trash).

When I got back to the living room, he was trying to get up from the sofa while holding Igz.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”

His laugh straddled outraged and bewildered. “I’m putting her to bed—”

“Sit down, dumbass. Jesus Christ. This is why you can’t get a man. You realize that, right? Because you are a giant fuckknob.”

“I don’t know what that means,” he protested as I took Igz from him.

“It means sit the fuck down. Do I have to make a sign?”

He sat down, and I put Igz to bed.

When I got back, he was sprawled on the sofa and taking up way too much room, which meant I had to fight and jostle for my own space. We ended up pressed together, with Zé still managing to take up most of the sofa, but it wasn’t all that bad. He was warm, and he smelled nice—not the coconut wax and earthiness of whatever he liked to use, but him, Zé. I watched the Dodgers game. Or I did a decent impression of watching it.

The problem was that he fell asleep almost immediately, and his head drooped onto my shoulder, and his breathing was soft in my ear. No wonder, I thought. A long day, pushing himself on his knee as we walked around Laguna Beach. Then the emotional exhaustion of his fear, of telling me the worst things that had happened in his life, of the grief and pain he must still be carrying, even if he didn’t let them show. No wonder, I thought again. No wonder he seems like a kid sometimes. Because he was never allowed to be one. Never allowed to be himself. And now here he was, and he was goofy and silly and loved babies and sometimes got a raging case of the giggles, after all those days of being Butch Cassidy on a surfboard. And that position had to be uncomfortable, so I got my arm around him and helped him shift until we were better aligned, his head on my chest.

I should have known it would happen. I should have fucking known. I started to get hard.

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