Forever Now (Forever - Book 1) (13 page)

The prospect of warm, homemade chocolate chip cookies was better than winning the lottery. Cruz and I were in a stellar mood. Happy.

When he came back, he measured out the flour, and I measured the brown sugar. We worked as a team, reading each other’s mind, knowing what the other needed before they did. Cruz burst out into Ricky Martin songs from the 90s, and I La Vida Loca’d right along with him.

But our shaking Bon-Bons screeched to a halt when we realized we were missing four ingredients, including white sugar.

“Oh,” I said, hopping up on the counter, disappointed. I swung my legs, and my stomach growled. Easy come, easy go. I guessed we were going to have canned beets for dinner.

“All is not lost,” Cruz said, scooping up a handful of chocolate chips. He wedged himself between my legs and held the chips in front of me. His eyes were fathomless, deeper than the Mariana Trench and a whole lot more beautiful. They drew me in. I fell down, down, down. I wasn’t a great swimmer, but it dawned on me that I wouldn’t mind drowning in Cruz’s eyes.

He took a step closer, until my legs were wrapped around his hips. I gasped. My body grew uncomfortably hot until my insides were melting. 

More than melting. Melted. Incinerated. Obliterated. My molecules had broken down to their itty-bitty DNA level and were rearranging themselves into a girl who couldn’t speak, move, or breathe.

I got the impression that Cruz’s molecules were doing the same thing to him. He had stopped moving, stopped blinking. He focused only on me, on my eyes, watching me for I didn’t know what.

“Tess,” he said finally. His voice was smooth and low.

Happiness bubbled up in me and popped, forming a big smile on my face. Cruz smiled back and slowly dropped a few chips into my open mouth.

“How’s that?” he asked me.

“Rotten,” I said, refusing to swallow the chocolate. “What’s their expiration date?”

Cruz walked to the other side of the kitchen and examined the bag of chocolate chips. I hopped down off the counter, spit in the sink, and rinsed my mouth under the tap.

“How bad is it?” I asked, drying my mouth.

“Not too bad if we were eating them five years ago.”

“Uh oh.”

“They’re perfect for one thing, though,” Cruz said. “You know…” he grabbed another handful of chocolate chips, paused for a second, and hurled them overhand right at me.

“Whoa!” I yelled. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Food fight,” he said, smiling.

“You think you have the right to throw food at me?” My voice rose in a screech that could have broken glass. “You stained my t-shirt! How dare you!”

Cruz’s mouth dropped, forming a big O. “I’m so sorry, Tess,” he said. “I didn’t mean to. I just thought that—“

I cut him off. “Cruz.”

“Yes?”

“Take that.” I scooped a handful of flour and threw it at him. It hit him splat in the face, and I burst out laughing.

“You!” he shouted, pointing at me. “I thought you were really upset.”

I grabbed an egg and held it high. “Why did you think that?”

“Uh oh.”

I smashed the egg on his chest and smeared it down to his belt. Cruz looked down and smiled.

“The gloves are off,” he announced. He grabbed the other egg, and then we were both going at it, smearing each other’s bodies with the cookie ingredients and laughing until we and the kitchen were covered in food.

We collapsed against each other, backing up against the fridge. Our laughter died down, as we tried to catch our breath. I rested my head on his chest and listened to his heart pound. He was warm and strong. I knew I shouldn’t lean against him like that, but I didn’t want to move.

His arms reached around me and pulled me in even further. We stayed locked in an embrace for a while, dripping with goop. Then, Cruz tilted my chin up with two fingers. “You’re a big mess, Tess Parker.”

It was a fairy tale being locked in Cruz’s arms, his face so close to mine, and looking into his brown eyes with so much emotion in them. I felt like the luckiest girl in the universe. Alive. The invisible girl had disappeared into a puff of desire that was growing with every passing second.

“That’s not the first time I’ve been called that,” I whisper. “What about you, Cruz Salvaire, you’ve got flour on your face, chocolate chips in your hair, and egg everywhere.”

He wiped a trail of cookie junk off my cheek and flung it on the floor. “You are special,” he whispered.

I was wondering if he meant the kind of special who eats paste and wears underpants over her jeans or the kind of special who was—well—special. I didn’t have to wonder long for the answer.

In a gentle, swift motion, Cruz touched his lips to mine.  My eyes closed, the sensation almost too much to bear. An electrical current traveled the length and breadth of me, starting a humming that got louder and louder, blocking out all other sounds, filling my head until all I could hear was the humming of my own desire. A desire shared by a perfectly beautiful boy who was kissing me in the kitchen by the refrigerator.

His lips were warm and soft, bordered by the rough stubble that grew on his face. I had never felt something so wonderful—soft, rough, soft, rough–and I wondered briefly if all kisses were this good.

At first, Cruz was tentative, gently touching his lips to mine and pulling away then coming back for more. Little kisses. Little tastes, like he was testing the waters. With one arm wrapped around my waist, he slipped the other behind my head and pressed more firmly against my mouth.

My lips opened to him, an invitation from the woman inside me I was yet to become. Our bodies touched, hard sinking into soft. He cocked his head to the side and deepened the kiss even further, his tongue probing my mouth and making me go crazy.

He moaned, or I moaned—I couldn’t tell between us any longer. I clutched onto his back, my fingertips digging into his flesh. He moved us away from the refrigerator, never breaking our kiss, and lifted me onto the counter, wedging his body between my legs, grinding hard against my pelvis.

We were moving faster toward an outcome I had never imagined would happen with him. Not now, not ever. But I knew we were going to get there, knew it as sure as I knew anything, and I didn’t want to stop it.

“Love is anterior to life, posterior to death, initial of creation, and the exponent of breath”

---Emily Dickinson

Many physicists believe in alternate or parallel universes. In these universes, there are an infinite number of each of us, leading different, sometimes wacky existences. In one universe, I may be made out of bubble gum or shrink-wrap. In another, fire may be cold and ice may be hot. You get the picture. Being kissed and held by Cruz in the kitchen made me a believer in alternate universes.

Before the kiss, I was a scared and sad little girl. Now, on the road towards intimacy with Cruz, I was something totally different. I couldn’t put a name on it, because I had never experienced it before. Later I would know what it was—I was in love—but for that moment, the transformative feeling I felt in Cruz’s arms was no less miraculous than being made out of bubble gum.

He kissed me with new urgency. I ran my fingers through his hair and pulled him even closer. His hand slipped under my shirt and cupped my breast, and I gasped in surprise and pleasure. “Cruz,” I said against his mouth, my voice hoarse and deeper than usual.

Suddenly, he stopped. I sat on the counter with my eyes closed, the humming still loud in my head. But Cruz was gone, his lips nowhere to be found. I opened my eyes, and there he was in front of me. His eyes were wide, his forehead furrowed, his mouth pulled down in a frown. He was the picture of pain. Anguish. He stumbled backwards, his focus shifting from my face to the floor.

“Don’t look at me,” he commanded.

“What?”

“Don’t talk to me!”

“But—“

“Quiet! I have to think.” He turned around in a circle, looking down, as if he had dropped something and was searching for it.

“Cruz—“

“I mean it! Don’t talk to me!”

I started to cry, tears flowing down my face and throat, making me choke. I sputtered and sniffed. “Did I do something wrong?” I wailed. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. What did I do?”

Cruz turned in a circle again and then punched the refrigerator, pushing it back a foot. “Goddamn it!” he shouted. “Goddamn it!”

I slipped down off the counter. I cried deep, heaving sobs. I wiped my eyes on my sleeve and took a couple steps toward him. I would have done anything for him to hold me again and tell me everything was all right. “Cruz,” I started and reached for him.

“Do
not
touch me!”

I flinched backward and hugged myself so I wouldn’t break into a million pieces. The humming had stopped and was replaced with a dark, silent void. I had gone from euphoria to despondence in a heartbeat, and I was disoriented from it.

Cruz turned away from me and put his hands on the counter. I could hear his breathing, ragged and coming in short, loud bursts like a locomotive. He was a stranger to me in that moment, if I had ever truly known him before. I didn’t know. I didn’t know anything.

“This place is a mess,” he said after a long time. “If you think I’m cleaning this up, you’re crazy.”

I shuddered at his tone: Anger. Hate. “You are just as much responsible for this mess as I am,” I bawled.

“I am not,” he said.

“Yes you are! You’re not being fair!”

“Look and what you did to me!” he yelled. “I’m a mess. I’m going to take a shower.”

He stomped out of the kitchen and up the stairs without looking back. I stood in the center of the kitchen, not moving for a few minutes, shell shocked and staring in the direction of the other room, expecting him to come back any second and erase what had just happened. But my miracles were used up, and I was returned to my own universe with a brutal dose of reality.

I was no longer made of bubble gum; I was scared and sad once again.

And heartbroken. 

Love is glorious beauty made perfect happiness in the arms of another, but it is sharper than a knife and twice as destructive in the wake of its rejection.

I wet a sponge and wiped at the counter, which was covered in flour and eggs. I heard the shower turn on upstairs, and the reminder of Cruz’s presence made my tears flow again. I wiped them on my sleeve and focused my determination on making the kitchen clean.

***

Dahlia was honking her
La Cucaracha
horn outside the house. I grabbed my purse and took one last look in the mirror. The red dress fit me perfectly. It was definitely the prettiest thing I ever had on my body.

I hated it.

It made me sad. And mad. And it made me want to become a nudist so I wouldn’t have to wear the dress…you know, if I didn’t have to be naked to be a nudist.

If I had had anything else to wear to Dahlia’s Christmas party, I would have put it on instead. If I had had a socially acceptable burlap bag to wear, I would have worn that. A barrel. A trash bag. Anything.

Just looking at Cruz’s birthday present made the pain from last night come back in a rush that made my head ache and my eyes sting. I was wounded, dizzy with shock. I kept forgetting to breathe. My chest was heavy; my lungs didn’t want to make the effort.

I wanted to hide in bed under the covers, not go to a fancy party. If I could just sleep my life away, I figured, the memory of last night would vanish in the recesses of my mind behind my anxiety dreams of my mother murdering me.

So I wasn’t exactly in a party mood, but it was too late to back out and I didn’t want to let Dahlia down. Besides, I couldn’t sleep. So the next best thing was to flee.

Escape.

Hide.

Normally those were all great ways to pretend to heal, even if healing was impossible. Therefore, I wanted to get out of the house. Every inch of it reminded me of Cruz, which reminded me of his rejection, which plunged my heart into a black hole.

And black holes aren’t good.

Cruz had sort of vanished from the house, but his stuff was still there. I guessed he didn’t want to see me—at least for now–and I was scared to see him so that worked out well. I was afraid of what he would say to me. I was afraid he would say goodbye.

Dahlia La Cucaracha’d again, and I quickly ran down the stairs with my overnight bag. I left a note for Cruz on the kitchen table, reminding him that I would be gone until the next day, even though I wasn’t sure if he cared.

“You look so pretty! Like Emma Stone!” Dahlia shouted from her car. I put my bags in the back seat and sat next to her. She was wearing a floor-length, silver gown, low-cut and sleeveless. She was a dead ringer for Ginger Rogers down to her silver shoes. Her hair fell to her shoulders in thick ringlets with a big red bow on the top of her head.

“You look glamorous,” I said.

“Good! That’s what I was going for.” Dahlia flipped through the radio stations, singing a few seconds of each song before changing her mind to go up and down the dial again. “I’m so excited about tonight. I’ve been waiting to spring your surprise on you.”

She burned rubber, speeding away from the curb. I noticed she didn’t bother looking for oncoming traffic. I double-checked that my seat belt was snug.

“I thought my surprise was my birthday party and my hat.”

“That was Cruz’s surprise,” she said, still flipping through radio stations and singing bits of various songs. She seemed to forget her train of thought and then hopped right back on it. “My surprise is coming up tonight at the Christmas party,” she announced with glee, swerving through traffic and driving twice the speed limit.

“This is going to be the best Christmas party ever,” she announced. “I love Christmas. I love Thanksgiving, too. And July Fourth. And St. Patrick’s Day. I love potatoes. Do you love potatoes? I do. Have you had them with Gruyere Cheese? Love Switzerland!”

Dahlia was the most upbeat, positive person I had ever met. She was full of life and loved every minute she was on earth. Nothing and nobody got her down. Despite how miserable I was after the kiss debacle with Cruz last night, I couldn’t help but smile, watching Dahlia sing Katy Perry at the top of her lungs and then switch to Garth Brooks a couple seconds later.