Page 83 of The Kiss Principle

I got the cane from the trunk. I ordered dinner. Zé fed Igz and burped her, and no fucking lie, she was out like a light. He was so careful when he stood. Careful of his knee. Careful not to wake her. He moved slowly down the hall. I stood. I moved around the living room like somebody was shooting me in the ass with electricity. I tried to stand at the window. I picked up a pillow and put it down again.

When Zé came back, his face was unreadable. He stood in the hallway, looking at me. That windswept hair. Those dark eyes. He wasn’t smiling, but he always looked so kind. My knees were trembling. And he was still standing there.

“It’s your birthday,” I said.

A flash of surprise crossed his face. Then he smiled. “I can’t believe you remembered.”

That bumped the needle down a little, and I scowled.

“Of course you remembered,” he said, but it sounded like he was speaking to himself.

“I—I got you something.”

He frowned. “But you didn’t even know where I was until—wait, how did you know where I was?”

“You told me about that beach. How important it was to you. So, I kept going there. Every day.”

“Really?”

“Zé, I’m kind of having a heart attack right now, so can we please focus?” When he didn’t say anything, I rushed into the silence. “Please don’t be mad.”

There wasn’t any good response to that, so I led him out to the garage. I’d installed hangers on the wall of the garage, and the longboard fit perfectly beside the Escalade.

He stopped when he saw it. He stood totally still.

“I know you don’t want me to spend money on you,” I said. “And I know you want to be independent. And I respect that, and I respect you, and if you tell me you don’t want it, I’ll get rid of it. But after you left, I felt like I was going crazy. I felt like I had to do something. And I didn’t know where you were or if I’d ever see you again, but I thought if I did see you again, maybe, if I did everything exactly right, you’d forgive me.”

He still hadn’t said anything. His hand drifted against his thigh like he didn’t even know he was moving.

“Could you say something? Because I’m freaking out right now.”

“You bought my board back.”

I nodded.

“How?”

“I called a lot of surf shops.” Another of those silences opened. “Are you mad? If you’re mad, I’ll get rid of it.”

He shook his head. And then, like he was on a delay, he said, “I’m not mad.”

“Did I cross a line? Was this totally inappropriate?”

He shook his head again. He put one hand on the wall like he didn’t trust his legs, and he limped across the garage. He touched the board tentatively. And then he followed the length of it. It was more than a touch; it was a caress. How many hours had he spent working on this board? Caring for it? Waxing it? Trusting his body to it? And then a thought that had never occurred to me sprang into my head: was this the board he’d been on when he’d hurt himself?

“Zé—”

“Thank you.” The words were flat, almost hard. He dropped his hand and turned to face me. His face was still unreadable. “That was kind, Fernando. Thank you.”

“If you don’t want it, we’ll get rid of it.”

He shook his head.

“If you want the money instead.”

“No.” And then, like he was struggling, he said again, “Thank you.”

The moment grew longer and longer until I felt it break. And then we went back inside.

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