Page 96 of Every Step She Takes
“Are we allowed to just take this stuff?” I whisper, even though I’m pretty sure this pantry is soundproof and could easily double as a bomb shelter. Or a murder room.
“Technically, since my dad died, these Bueno bars now belong to me.” She tosses me a Fanta, and I fumble to catch it. Even after everything she shared with me—even after letting me hold her while she cried—she still sounds so flippant about her father’s death. When we finally arrive at the section of the pantry housing jarred food, the only pickles we find are half the size of my beloved dills and floating in a jar with olives, peppers, and jalapeños.
“Should we try them?” Mal asks, posing like the woman on the front of the Kanna jar. So, we take them back upstairs with the rest of our treasures. The pickles are spicy as hell, but the chips are better than anything “ham” flavored has the right to be. We sit on the rumpled bed sharing the snacks and watchingForever Homeon the fanciest television 2005 had to offer.
“My dad was usually busy with work or with his latest lady friend,” she tells me. “So whenever we were at the vineyard in Porto, I would get up in the morning and walk into town to go to the library. I would return my stack of books and check out new ones, and then I’d buy a bag of Ruffles to eat on the way back. You should try the Ketchup flavor. It sounds like it shouldn’t work, but it really does.”
“You went to the libraryevery day?”
Mal nods as she takes a giant bite of Bueno bar. “Yeah, my summers were usually lonely. I could easily get through two or three books a day. I think that’s part of why I love to travel. Books taught me the beauty of escaping to other worlds.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, because I’m not sure how else to respond to the heartbreaking image Mal has painted for me. Butsorryobviously isn’t right, because Mal’s expression switches from open and unguarded back to her cool-girl façade.
“Don’t be sorry for the sad little rich girl.”
A new silence chomps at the previous easiness between us. It’s dark outside now, and for some reason, all my self-consciousness comes flooding in with the night.
An hour ago, in this bed, I felt so comfortable with Mal that I was able to let go, to feel, to scream obscenities with abandon. To orgasm with another person for the first time in my life.
But now that we’re dressed again, that vulnerability feels tenuous.
Mal has given meso muchof herself, and it feels like at any moment she could take it all away again. I can either let her pull away or…
“I have something I need to confess,” I burst out, and Mal turns back to me with her surprised eyebrows and that staggering widow’s peak.
“What is it?”
I bite down on my upper lip. “I actually think your mullet is very sexy.”
“I fucking knew it!” She tackles me backward onto the bed, climbs on top of me, drives me down into the mattress, and kisses me hard. She tastes like ham and chocolate, like sunshine and escapism.
I can’t let her pull away.
“You made me coffee?”
I sit up in bed to find Mal perched on the edge wearing a ratty Dashboard Confessional T-shirt and a pair of gym shorts from what appears to be an old school uniform. She has two large white mugs in her hands, but her eyes were on me when I woke up. If I didn’t know any better, I would think she was watching me sleep.
She thrusts one of the mugs into my hands. “I didn’tmakethe coffee so much as I watched Felipe make it and then brought it to you. I’m just the Door Dasher in this scenario.”
“Please don’t tell me you’re secretly one of those rich people who can’t even boil their own water?”
“More like one of those rich people who can’t operate an expensive Italian espresso machine.”
“My preferred kind of rich person, then.” I take a sip from the offered mug. The coffee has cooled to the perfect temperature, and it tastes decadent, almost divine. A bold, rich dark roast tempered with steamed milk and something sweet. There’s a subtle hint of spice too, and it almost reminds me of— “Is this a pasteis de nata latte?”
“I had Felipe add vanilla and cinnamon for you.”
Mal made me a pasteis de nata latte. I’m fairly certain if I opened my mouth right now, thousands of butterflies would soar out and fill this entire room. This room that contains so much Mal.
It’s a faint morning light streaming through the French doors, and I finally risk speaking. “What time is it?” My butterflies stay where they belong, in my stomach and chest and throat.
“Too early,” Mal answers with her eyes on her own mug. “I-I couldn’t sleep.”
I climb out of the sheets and scoot closer to her. “How come?”
My question is met with heavy silence. Mal takes a drink of her coffee, and then another, and maybe the raw emotional honesty from yesterday is gone, buried deep inside her again.
Or maybe not. “I have a bit of a vulnerability hangover… from yesterday. I-I don’t usually talk about that stuff.” She’s staring at her coffee again when she adds, “I’ve never talked about most of that stuff with anyone, actually.”
