The Weekend Pt. 02

You take me to a little food cart that's right off Pacific Highway, telling me it has the best street tacos. But I order nachos, feeling every bit the white girl who is only a quarter Mexican when I ask for mild salsa. And that is my favorite memory of the night. Sitting on the trunk of your car, feeding each other chips and oozing cheese down our fingers and hands. You laugh at me as I chomp down hungrily, kissing me as I spill food on myself. I almost want you again, but the twinges of pain I'm having tell me I need to give my body a break.

I'm feeling very content and sleepy when you drive me home, your arm draped over my shoulder as I hug your middle. I wished that night could have lasted forever, I wished you didn't have to take me home. I want my home to be wherever yours is. I want to sit in your lap and fall asleep on your warm chest. But I must say goodbye when you pull up to the dirty white walls of my apartment building. I can see the light on in our upstairs unit, I can see my mom peeking through the blinds at us. I kiss you goodbye and you say you will call me tomorrow. I think I believe you, seeing just enough wistfulness in your eyes when I walk away.

Defying my mother's less than glowing appraisal of you, I receive your phone call around noon the next day. You are terrible on the phone; so quiet and awkward I'm not sure if it's just that hard for you to be articulate or that you deeply regret having deflowered this SoCal bimbo. You mumble a pessimistic and incredibly rhetorical statement about "if you want to see me again". I think to myself that you are smarter than this, and that I can't possibly have turned you off that quickly, so I again find that there is something I have to say that you won't. A pattern that will become our norm for many years to come.

I say of course I want to see you again. Unless you're mad at me for "making a little mess" in the backseat of your car. I hear you chuckle quietly, a sound of you running a hand through your hair. You ask what time should you pick me up. See, I tease you, that wasn't so hard, was it? You laugh again, and call yourself an idiot.

Those next few weeks are a precious memory of some of our happiest days. You show up at my work with a bashful smile and drive me home so I don't have to take the bus. You bring me roses on a Friday, and give me a little silver bracelet. Nothing too fancy, but not cheap either. It must be your payday, but I tell you not to blow all your money on me. You frown and say that I'm worth it. I know you mean it, and it worries me a little. You should know that you don't need to buy me anything, that I'm already yours.

We fool around in sporadic bursts when we tease each other to the breaking point. It's not difficult; I can feel you take a deep breath in when I stand close to you, when I lean my hips forwards, brushing my leg on yours like an itch I need to scratch. But you learn how easy it is to just wrap one hand around my waist, your warm fingers felt through the thin material of my dress, touching the bottom of my ribs, hovering like those fingers might do more as I whine that you're tickling me.

Together, we are just a sizzling bundle of nerves, ready to burst each time we touch. The fondling gets bolder: I jerk you off in the park after you won't stop calling me Ninita, even though I actually like the nickname. You slide your hand up my skirt as we sit at the movies, stroking me through my panties, torturing me as I try to remain quiet. Which then led to a vigorous round of sex in your car, when I accidentally broke the dome light by kicking it with my foot. You always look so quiet and stoic, so gentlemen-like when we're in public, but I can see that little flicker in your eyes. That look that is teasing me and waiting to see if I'll break. And of course I do. Every time you are near I want you. I want to please you because I know how good you'll please me. That look that promises to make me all but undone in your hands.

That next Friday, you show up with a little black box. My heart is in my throat. I already know that I love you, but I didn't know if you felt the same. I open it up, wondering how you could afford such a thing, wondering how much my mother will yell at me when I come home wearing it... and it's not a ring. It's just a pair of earrings, small studs of cubic zirconia. You timidly ask if I like them, if I'll wear them.

I take them out of the box, then take off my cheap gold hoops, and put them on. You push my long hair over my shoulder, admiring me silently. You stare at me long enough that I think maybe you love me. Maybe you wanted a ring, but couldn't afford it. I tell you I love the earrings, and I kiss you.

But you didn't need to buy them. I tell you that you don't need to keep spending all your money on me. I know you make more than I do working at the car dealership just down the block from my salon, but not alot more. Then you give me an apologetic smile, you hesitate, and then you remind me it's your last weekend before you go off to boot camp.

In all our heady, sex-filled activity, I'd completely forgotten that day I saw you standing outside the recruiter's office. My stomach sinks and you look guilty for ruining our night. And I suddenly have many questions. Where are you going? How long will you be gone? What did you even enlist as?

You rattle off all the facts, telling me you won't be far away, just down the coast by the San Diego airport. You'll be gone for 3 months, and when you come back, you'll be a marine. I can't believe I forgot about this very important fact of your life, the thing you were so excited about when we went on our very first date. You try to reassure me how this will be nothing, the time will go by like that, but I can see the doubt in your eyes. You didn't expect to meet me; you didn't expect to feel conflicted about leaving your civilian life behind. We have seen each other almost every day for two weeks and now we will suddenly just... not be together.

I fight back my tears, I try not to add to your guilt. You kiss me and wrap your arms around me, you tell me how much you'll miss me. You say this weekend will be ours and you'll spend every minute with me until you have to get on that bus. You ask me what I would like to do; anything I want, you'll do it. And all I can think of is being with you. Just being in your arms and being your girl. So I tell you that I want to make love like a grown-up, because if you're going to go off to learn how to be a big boy solider, then you need to make love to me in a grown-up bed.

We drive up the winding coast and find a reasonably seedy motel. It's dingy and smells like mildew, but our room has a view of the ocean. I make sure the deadbolt will lock, while you check out the bed. You flop down on your back, saying it seems to be a grown-up bed. I climb up on top of you, asking if you're sure.

It's not until I'm down to just my panties that I realize you've never seen me completely naked. Only the various stages of undress that we can manage in your car. I feel self-conscious again. Even as you kiss and caress me, I think about the indents in my skin from where my bra pinches. I wish I was skinnier, even though I was barely over a size average back then. You see me looking down at my curves that I think are folds of fat, and you tell me I am beautiful. You tell me I am more than beautiful. You tell me I'm perfect. For a man of few words, you said exactly what I needed to hear.

To be completely naked with you is its own aphrodisiac. You keep tickling me with your fingers, exploring me, finding all the places that make me gasp. It's liberating to be in more than one position, to stretch my back without fear of hitting my head, when I suddenly see our reflection in the mirror over the small dresser that's directly across from the bed. We stare at the couple in that image, the man and a woman straddling his lap, each in the throes of ecstasy, our faces sweaty and pink. We look happy and messy; we look like we are adults. You squeeze me with a smirk, winking at my reflection. And now we look like we are in love.

The weekend is over far too quickly, the grown-up bed not deep enough to sink into without reality chasing after us. We regretfully leave our dingy little love nest, the passionate sex barely stemming my sorrow. I manage to hold back my tears until I say goodbye to you at the curb of my mother's apartment. I know she's watching again. She still doesn't like you, and I don't care. You take my hands, promising it will be ok, it won't be that long. You tell me I can write you, and I ask if you'll write me back. I'm doubtful when you nod silently, but your eyes become glossy when I say how much I'll miss you. And you say you'll miss me too, pulling me in for a hug. I cling to you for many minutes, crying into your shoulder.

You caress me tenderly, kissing my cheek, and you tell me I'll be ok without you. It's a statement that bothers me. You meant it as a reassurance, but those words reveal how you see yourself, and how you see us. I know I can survive without you. But I don't want to.

I remember watching you drive off and feeling ill. I could barely sleep or eat, my head unable to focus. I kept dropping things and fumbling through work. My coworkers tease me about missing my cute boyfriend, until I start to cry. My boss sits me down and kindly consoles me. She says your first love is always hard. I wish I'd told you that I loved you. But I didn't want to be that girl. The one that gushes her feelings to the boy that doesn't say it back. Except, I feel it in my gut. My head argues with my heart, afraid to agree on this feeling.

*****

The first few weeks are hard, but I adapt. I try to stay busy; I enroll myself in beauty school. I've saved up the money and gotten a little help from my grandfather. It will take longer to finish because I can only go part-time while I work full-time. But I have nothing but time as I wait for you.

And just as I mark off that I've made it a month without seeing you, I realize my period is late. It takes a few days before I summon the courage to buy a pregnancy test. I've been feeling off, and this seems like it would be just my luck. I'm riding back home on the bus, gripping the shopping bag that feels like contraband when the twinges of menstrual cramps start. Jesus Christ, thank you. Relieved, I stash my test away and hide it in my closest. Hopefully, I won't ever need it.

Your first letter arrives, only after I've already written to you twice. You remind me that I can't address you on the envelope as a Marine yet, not until you're done with boot camp. I'm a little irritated that the first words you send me are a correction. The rest of your letter is characteristically brief. You say the food is ok and your bunk is like sleeping on a park bench. Your fellow recruits are a bunch of "jack-offs".

At the very end, you say you miss me. You miss your ninita. And you tell me not to miss you too much. I can almost hear you say that last sentence, to throw out something cocky after being sentimental. I kiss the standard lined paper and cry. I hold your scrawling handwriting to my heart and send my love to you. I could pray to god but he already granted my prayer for my period. Instead, I try my abuela's old magic, spells she supposedly learned from the Indians that lived in the desert. She says that words have power, and to never speak things you don't want to come true. So I speak to my empty room and say I love you with all my heart, and I hope you know it. I hope you'll get my words even if I'm still not brave enough to write this in my letter.

When those 13 weeks of boot camp have slowly but eventually been completed, I can hardly wait to see you. Your last letter has tempered my expectations; you only get 10 days of leave before you must finish more training. I don't care if I only have three days with you, I intend to make the most of it.

I wait for you outside the bus depot, holding a little sign that says congratulations. I'm so nervous because I'm dying to see you, and also because you are going to finally see me. I look different. After my little pregnancy scare, I've started taking birth control pills. The side effects are I've gained weight, and they made my face break out. I also dyed my light brown hair a deep shade of burgundy brown, and as all beauty school students do, I've overdone it by about two shades. But I stand there in a new black dress, my face heavily spackled in make-up, my hair curled and sprayed, and wait for you.

The metal bus lumbers to a stop, and out comes a procession of strapping men in uniform. Some are smiling and happy, others just look relieved. Somewhere near the end, you finally step out. I remember my jaw dropping, I remember my legs feeling weak. It takes me a second to confirm that you are the same boy who left me at my doorstep. My cute little vato is suddenly a man. You look like you've grown taller, and you've gained weight. In all the right places, your uniform nicely conforming to your muscular shape. I hate your ultra-short hair, but the hat makes up for it, pulled low over your eyes that glance around skeptically. And then your eyes meet mine.

It then takes you a second to confirm I'm your girl. You're shocked; your smile is a little forced but you sweep me into your arms. I'm so happy and yet I cry anyway. You chuckle and tease me, you say what happened to your ninita? I say that ninita had to grow up and get a real man. You ask me if I found one yet. I narrow my eyes at you and lean in close, and answer that we'll find out later.

We kiss, and it's just as good as I remember. I have all these plans for our evening together and they suddenly have no appeal. But you let me out of your arms and say you're hungry. Although the gleam in your eyes seems to imply the hint that I think it is. We end up at the pier again because the food is cheap and you know I like the carnival. There's a little more strut in your step. Your voice is easier to hear when you speak with more confidence, less mumbling. But I can see your eyes dart around anyone that gets close to me; I can see you watching a group of teen boys that jostle around noisily as we play a game. One boy bumps into me, and you sharply tell him to watch it. The boy and his friends scoff at you, and you double down with a threatening warning that you will beat an apology out of them. They stop laughing when they see the look in your eyes. I'm flattered by your chivalrous instincts. But I'm also frightened.

I can see how rattled you are, how the anger stays with you until we've walked to the end of the pier. It's not until I kiss you that I feel your hostility being diffused. You sigh into my lips and tell me you're sorry. We wrap our arms around each other and take deep breaths, each long inhale taking in the scent of the other, the scent we've missed for so long. You grip me even tighter, and mumble something I couldn't quite hear over the dull roar of the ocean. I don't ask you to repeat it; your voice was low, emotional.

The next day, you pick me up and bring me over to your house. I've never been to your house before, assuming that it's just the awkwardness of being a twenty-something that is still living at home. It turns out that you live with your older brother and his wife. It's an old ranch-style home in felony flats. The front yard is a square patch of gravel dotted with cacti. You warn me not to poke myself on the cacti as we walk to the front door.

Inside, I find the very tidy interior that reminds me of something from an old sitcom. Lots of wood paneling and brass. A quiet, blond woman (the wife) greets me and offers me a beverage. I've brought some cookies from the Mexican bakery near my work. She takes the pink box and sets it on the counter, and doesn't bother to look inside it.

Your brother greets me with an imposing handshake; he looks much older than you. His quiet intensity is clearly a family a trait, but his dark eyes and black hair have only a passing resemblance to you. His wife later explains that you are half-brothers, same father, but different mothers. She whispers under her breath that your mother was "the white one".

The visit is painfully quiet, none of us being chatty enough to sustain conversation. Your brother speaks to you in snippets of Spanish, excluding his wife who only smiles lamely. I'm not much better, struggling to pick out the words I know from his low, mumbling voice. Another family trait.

It's a relief to finally leave, using the excuse to take me home so we can both escape. I wanted to go for a drive up into the hills, to have my time alone with you, but I can feel a melancholy in your silence. You don't speak until we pull up to my mother's apartment. You apologize for the boring evening; you tell me how nice I was when your brother was rude. And then you stare up at the window of my apartment, and tell me your mother is dead. She died when you were a kid. Your brother told you she was "bad news" and your dad got rid of all her pictures. You kiss me goodnight with a shaky breath, and I cry when you leave. My tears aren't for me; they're for you. The tears that you've never cried.

I realize you've been back three days and we haven't done anything remotely sexual. I want to, and yet I feel you holding yourself back. We drive around and go for walks. We talk about your next phase of training, you tell me about how it gets harder and you hope you can cut it. I tell you about beauty school and ask if you like my hair. You shrug with a funny smile, and say "it's your hair". And then you say that I don't need all the make-up. I disagree with you, but let it be because I think you're trying to be complimentary. Someday you'll understand how much effort it takes to look the way I do, and you'll appreciate it.

Friday night comes and we go back to our look-out point where you took my virginity. We've just started to kiss when headlights come up behind us. A cop car. We immediately separate and straighten ourselves out, holding our breath as the cop approaches. He shines his flashlight in your face, barking at you and demanding identification. You are calm and cool; you call him sir, and answer his questions no matter how rude they are. He also wants my ID, he wants to know how old I am. He asks if you paid me money. I tell the cop you are my boyfriend and he just laughs. He shines the light in my face and scrutinizes my ID. You tell the cop that there "isn't enough money in the world to pay for me". The cop keeps shining his light at me, debating as he stares at my chest, all but licking his chops. I feel you reach out for my hand, protectively holding it as you glare back at him. Grudgingly, he hands back my ID, and lets us go with the warning that we can't park in that spot.

You were so calm, the calmest I've ever seen you in such circumstances. Your voice was so steady when I was sure you were boiling over with rage. The night is ruined so you take me home, making a solemn vow when you drop me off. No one will ever hurt me. Ever. You've held true to your promise, barring that the person who could hurt me the most would inevitably be you.

We only have one more night together, and we know we need to find a safe and private place to be alone. We're sitting in your car, just talking. I'm so tired of living with my mother and not having my own place; I tell you I want to get an apartment with some girlfriends and when you're done with training, you could move in. You agree in a half-hearted way. You say that you'll be deployed next and you'll be gone awhile. Another important fact I haven't thought of. You don't know exactly how long be deployed, or where you'll be.

I want to cry but instead I get angry. I want to know why you are doing this if you can't even know where the hell you'll be? Why do you want this? Your face is a guilty frown, a shrug of your shoulders gives me no answers. I tell you that maybe you should've let the cop fuck me if you were going to break up with me anyway.