Page 41 of Wasted On Us

“My master negotiator. I’m coming. Is this how you sell so many cars?” she teases as she inches toward me in the bed, gingerly shifting her sore legs. “I really must be your longest relationship.”

“What makes you say that?” I rotate onto my side, inhaling sharply at the stiffness in my knees.

“You seem to have run out of moves.”

I try to ignore how amazing it feels just tobewith her. “You got me.”

She yawns deeply, snuggling backward against my chest. “I thought so.”

“So, now what?”

“We break up?” she mumbles sleepily into the pillow.

“Too soon.” Two words I never thought I’d hear myself say. Not only does she continue to surprise me, but she also makes me surprise myself.

“Not in my experience. Seems about right.” Her words are quiet enough that I can barely hear them, grumbling into the crook of her arm as she starts to drift to sleep. I find myself having a hard time talking too, struggling to think clearly as the haze of sleep descends over me.

“You kill me. I’ve never worked so hard to be with anyone my whole life.”

Eden yawns again, louder this time, before pulling the blanket around her face. “Hope I’m worth it.”

“Definitely.” I plant one last kiss on her cheek, breathing in the scent of her hair.

I can’t recall ever sleeping in the same bed with a woman without having sex. Then again, this is the first time I’ve ever been on a long weekend with a woman either. It’s an odd feeling—comforting and alienating all at once. I’m aware of every move I make, every time I need to readjust the position of my legs. Eden sleeps so delicately that I’m terrified I’ll wake her up. Eventually, I start to drift off, finding myself wishing that every night could be just like this one.

You’re so, so worth it. I’m falling in love with you.

Chapter Seventeen

Eden

I don’t know if it’s the eggs benedict or the company, but brunch at the Dappled Sunlight Café was one of the best meals I’ve ever had. Thinking about all of my meals with Rick, I have to lean toward the latter. Having spaghetti alla busara, handmade by someone’s eighty-five-year-old nonna and tossed with prawns caught that morning, should be a slam dunk compared to some English muffins topped with ham and eggs. But the meals there never quite sparkled the way they do with Mateo. I get the feeling that drive-thru burgers and fries with him would feel deserving of at least one Michelin star.

Even now, stomach full as we walk down Main Street, taking in the temperate weather of the late afternoon, I find myself wanting to never leave his side.

“You know, I’ve never gone to brunch with anyone but Abuelita before,” he reflects, stopping in his tracks so suddenly I almost stumble.

“How is that possible?” Brunch seems so… ubiquitous. A cultural touchstone for anyone under fifty. How he’s avoided that entire aspect of society is a mystery.

“Because as a general rule, I never spend the night with anyone.”

Ah. So, Mateo is a runner. The kind of guy who turns into a blank space in your wrinkled sheets before you wake up to pee, let alone dare to offer him coffee and schedule a repeat performance. The idea that he would break that streak for me warms my heart and scares me a little.

His interest in me is both thrilling and terrifying. It feels like a warm spotlight highlighting something special about me, something that breaks his pattern, like a new verse in an old song. But in that glow, fear lingers. What if he sees too much? What if my intensity, my quirks, are too much even for me at times, overwhelm him?

Our families’ old feud only complicates things, adding layers of uncertainty and caution. I need to take it slow, to let Mateo in gradually. If he’s willing to stay, to embrace the chaos and melody of being with me, then maybe, just maybe, we can create something beautiful together. But first, he has to test the waters and see if he’s up for the journey.

I need to take my time, observe, and test his mettle, all while acknowledging the constraints and challenges posed by things outside our control. “If we make it until morning, that will make three with me.”

“I know,” he groans in mock despair. “I’m going to drop you off and drive myself straight to therapy.”

“Probably wise. After all, our parents hate each other.” Now it’s my turn to stop walking. We’ve never really talked about it in depth. It’s always just looming in the background, a nameless entity that we have to hide from at all times. Giving it a name and a face makes it feel that much more real.

“I know.” He pauses, looking out onto the horizon and trilling his lips in thought. “I think we need to fix that. Don’t they call that breaking generational trauma, or something like that?”

The idea of undoing multiple decades of boiling hatred seems more than a bit daunting. In fact, it seems impossible. Dad doesn’t change his mind. Not once. Not ever. And certainly not about someone he has declared his archenemy. It’s like Salvador is some kind of avatar that my father places all of the ills of the world upon. He’s his white whale, and I think that would make me Ishmael. Or something. I don’t think I even finished that book in high school. Too busy rewatching my copy ofRoman Holidayinstead.

“My father is stubborn. I think he likes to wear his pain like a badge of honor.”

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