Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92070 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 460(@200wpm)___ 368(@250wpm)___ 307(@300wpm)
"Heaven?" He laughs and drifts into a memory. "If they asked, they didn't know."
That's a good point, actually.
"I thought you were smart."
"How am I supposed to reply to that?"
He smiles. "Where's your logic?"
I flip him off. I shift away from the overly explicit topic at hand. "Was that the last time you had a girlfriend?" I ask. "Senior year?"
"Probably."
I start to ask a question, but I stop myself. Even with the air-conditioning booming, the thought of Dare's past and future girlfriends makes me nauseous. "Can we watch a movie now?"
"Only if it's Sabrina."
"Really?"
"Of course."
I grab my iPad, hand him an earbud, and set up on the tray.
After we watch Sabrina and (almost) line up viewings of Dare's pick (10 Things I Hate About You, because it's "relevant to our mission," not because he actually loves high school rom-coms) on the entertainment system, we take turns napping, sleeping on each other's shoulders, trading blankets and snacks.
The flight is easy. As easy as any thirteen-hour flight can be. Even as I hold his hand through descent, even as we move through customs.
All the way until I slide in a cab and turn my phone on and see a text from Archie.
Archie: Well, I hope you'll confess soon.
It's exactly what I want. A chance at an easy summer fling.
So why does it feel wrong?
Chapter Twelve
DARE
True to her word, Val suggests we go straight to the beach. It's a sweet offer, but she's barely awake—she never sleeps well on airplanes—and I want her to savor our dip.
After we agree on her place, she gives the driver the address and falls asleep on my shoulder.
I hold her close—probably too close—as I take in the scenery. Barcelona is gorgeous. Sunny and bright, with a mix of old-school architecture and modern buildings.
There's something quaint about the city. Like San Diego or Mission Viejo. But then, I guess this was the template for both. The Spanish came to Mexico, took the land from the natives, built what they knew.
Val mentions the similarity—mostly to complain she never wants to hear someone compare San Diego and Barcelona again—but she never talks about how it feels to her.
Her mom is from Mexico. Her dad is from Spain. They met at work, at a Spanish-language TV station in California, and things were good for a while. When they weren't, their cultural difference became an issue.
It mattered that her mom was darker, from a less prosperous country.
The same way it mattered my mom didn't have the money my dad did. Well, not the same, exactly, but the threads overlap.
Val never talks about it. She never talks about her parents, not anymore. Even when her mom met another guy, got remarried, she only really talked about her mom taking the guy's name.
The politics went over my head. I try to keep up with her, but she's smarter than I am. She understands nuances I don't. It's different for her. As a woman, as a racial minority, as a survivor.
We've barely discussed it in the past three years. Ever since she told me I was hovering, that she didn't want to hear about it anymore, and went a few months barely texting me.
I know she didn't do that to hurt me, the same way I didn't obsess over protecting her to hurt her, but the memory stings.
What if I push her too hard again? If, this time, she decides she'd rather go a few years without talking to me?
I can't lose her that way.
I can't.
So, yeah, I'll play by her rules. The way I have since she went back to school, earned another set of straight As, insisted she didn't want to date because she was focused on school, the GRE, grad applications.
She's going to do amazing things. And I'm so fucking proud of her. A grad program on the neuroscience of film. Who else would think of that?
One day, I'll say I knew her when.
Or say, have you met my whip-smart wife, Val? She's an actual brain scientist, you know?
Fucking Luna.
She's infecting my mind. And she's probably there, on my cell, waiting for details, or delivering lectures, or some other bullshit.
What the hell is wrong with her anyway? Trying to convince me I'm in love with my best friend.
Ridiculous.
Val stirs as we park in front of her complex. She looks around and lets out an adorable yawn. "Already?"
"Slept through a lot of traffic."
"I did not."
She didn't. The drive went fast. It's early evening. At least, it looks like early evening.
We spent almost an entire day in transit. Well, minus the time difference.
Val yawns again. "Let me check if Archie is here."
Right. He's her roommate. He's here, all the time. He sees her in her pajamas, in a towel, in nothing.
She doesn't dive into dirty thoughts. She stays on task. "He'll probably want to meet you before he lets you in."