Maritza

Saturday #5

“Okay, let me just apologize quick.” I hobble up to Isaiah the second he enters the main doors of the La Brea Tar Pits, maneuvering through groups of families, mothers with small children, and preschoolers on field trips. “I had no idea this was, like, a children’s science center type place.”

His eyes scan the lobby before dragging the length of a realistic-looking woolly mammoth.

A little curly-haired boy in a red polo plows into him, shouting sorry as he runs off. His mother chases after him, and just outside a yellow bus full of elementary schoolers pulls into the drop off lane.

This place has been open all of twenty minutes and already it’s filled to the brim with tiny humans, their loud voices echoing off the high ceilings and expansive wall space.

“We can go somewhere else,” I tell him, apologizing with my eyes and my voice and the placement of my hands on his broad chest.

Raking his teeth across his lower lip, he pulls in a deep breath, like he’s mulling it over, and then he shrugs.

“It’s fine. We’re here,” he says.

“You sure?” I lift a brow. “I’ve got some other ideas, more places we can go.”

Isaiah shakes his head and hooks his arm over my shoulder, which catches me off guard for a moment. We walk to the ticket desk, the warmth of his body permeating through my cotton tee and his spicy cologne filling my lungs.

“How’s the ankle?” He asks when we reach the line.

“Better. Sore but better.”

Ten minutes later, tickets in hand, we begin a self-guided tour, beginning at their Titans of the Ice Age exhibit and moving on to the Fossil Lab, which seems to be popular with the preschoolers surrounding us.

We stop at Pit 91, where they’re conducting a live excavation, unearthing saber tooth tiger and dire wolf fossils, and Isaiah stops to watch.

“You know, I read once that if you placed the entire timeline of the universe into a single calendar year, humans would show up on December 31^st at 11 PM,” I say. “I’m paraphrasing, but you get the picture.”

His lips flatten. He’s engrossed by the architects digging in the dirt with all of their fancy tools and brushes.

“Isn’t it crazy when you think about how inconsequential we are? As a species, we’re still so new and all these living, breathing creatures existed millions and millions of years ago. It blows my mind, really. Kind of makes me awestruck and depressed at the same time,” I say.

“Depressed?” He turns to me.

“Well, not clinically depressed, but almost kind of sad … because it makes me feel like someday maybe millions of years from now, we’re all probably going to be extinct. Just a bunch of fossils in the ground, no legacies to leave behind, no one to tell our stories.”

“I still don’t see how that’s a sad thing. Being extinct. If we’re dead, we’re not going to be around to care,” he says. “And these dinosaurs and whatnot have left a legacy of fossil fuels, if you want to put it that way. They didn’t live and die for nothing.”

“I guess, but I just think people are always so fixated on their problems all the time, but if they could just look at the big picture—that someday they’re just going to be a pile of bones in a mound of dirt—maybe they’d worry a little less? Live a little more? Try to contribute to society or leave the world a little bit better than they found it?”

“You’re such an idealist.” He hooks his arm around me, which marks the second time today, and my heart does the tiniest flutter without so much as asking for permission.

We spend the next couple of hours touring the garden and a few more dig sites before stopping at the lake pit.

Hot bubbling asphalt glugs behind us as we stand next to a bunch of fake animals pretending to play in the pit.

“What do you think it’d be like if we went extinct and some future species found our bones and turned us into robotic models and placed us on display?” I ask as we watch the bubbles float to the surface and pop.

“Probably about how you’d expect.” He clears his throat, glancing down at me, and I’d love to know what he’s thinking about.

“You know, my grandma in the sixties, all she wanted was to have a legacy, to be remembered forever. People were always comparing her to Marilyn Monroe, especially after Marilyn died, and my grandma would get so upset because unless you die young and your beauty is immortalized, you’ve got nothing to leave behind but your good deeds. But if you’re simply known for your beauty, no one really cares if you’re feeding orphans and adopting shelter dogs or paying for vaccines in third world nations. She wants to be remembered for her philanthropy, but anytime someone hears the name Gloria Claiborne, all they associate her with is old Hollywood glamour or that white bikini.”

“Sounds like she needs a good PR team.”

I roll my eyes. “Does it really count if you have to publicize it? It’s like those people who donate money to places so they can get their names on a plaque on the wall as a “Gold Star Donor” or whatever the stupid name is.”

“Giving is giving.”

“Unless you’re doing it for the wrong reasons. Some people give for others. Some people give for themselves.”

“It’s not really our place to judge other people’s reasons for giving,” he says, words terse.

“Yeah, well, you haven’t met some of the elitist assholes who hang out with my parents and brag about how much money they donated to their kids’ schools. One jerkoff donated a hundred grand so he could have his kid’s name painted on some mural on the playground.”

“It’s their money,” he says. “They can spend it how they want.”

“Stop making me sound like an asshole,” I say. “I’m just being honest. This is a judgement-free zone. You can’t judge me for judging other people.”

“Seems a little hypocritical.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Okay. I take back everything I said. Everyone who ever donates a single dollar to a single cause is a selfless saint.”

Isaiah laughs. At me. “Why are you getting so worked up? This is such a dumb conversation to have. Who the hell cares who donates to what and why?”

Drawing in a deep breath, I let it go, crossing my arms over my chest. “I don’t know. You’re right. It’s dumb.”

He slips his arm over my shoulder—again—and gives me a side hug. “You ever heard of the phrase ‘stay in your own lane’?”

“No?”

“It means mind your own. Don’t worry about what anyone else is doing,” he says. “Trust me, it’s the only way to live. Worry about yourself. Forget the rest.”

Turning to face him, I glance up into his warm gaze, studying his perfectly chiseled features and longing to brush the strand of dark hair off his bronzed forehead.

“What made you enlist, Isaiah?” I ask. “It takes a lot to sacrifice money for a good cause, but it takes even more to be willing to sacrifice your life. That couldn’t have been an easy decision for you.”

He releases my gaze, his expression hardening. I can practically feel him closing up.

“It’s a long story. Some other time, all right?” he asks.

I bury my disappointment in a small smile. “Of course.”

I know from talking to my cousin, that a lot of guys enlist for very personal reasons and it wouldn’t be right to push and prod. Maybe with time, he’ll open up?

Making our way around the tar pit, we stop next to a mastodon. Isaiah reads the plaque beside it, but I try to read him.

And fail.

Miserably.

There’s no denying something’s there, something that makes my heart trot when he looks at me, something that makes me slick on an extra coat of lip balm or an extra spritz of perfume before dashing out the door to meet him.

And while I’m the one who made the rules—no romance and only honesty at all times—I’m the one who can’t stop thinking about what would happen if we broke one of them.

Only problem is, I have zero idea if he’s thinking what I’m thinking. He’s so even-keeled and emotionally guarded, but they say actions speak louder than words and the fact that he’s here, spending time with me doing stupid shit has to count for something … right?

“Why are you staring like that?” Isaiah asks when he turns around.

My cheeks warm. I’d been spacing off. “No reason.”

“Bullshit. You can’t lie, remember? Tell me what you were thinking about.” His lips draw into a playful smirk, and I can’t decide if I like his mysterious side or his spirited side best. It’s like trying to choose between white chocolate and milk chocolate, which are both delicious in their own ways.

“You don’t want to know.”

And I’m serious. He doesn’t want to know that I’m thinking about him in a way that I was determined not to. Besides, he’s leaving in a few days. There’s no point in ruining the rest of our time together by making this situation unnecessarily complicated.

“Try me,” he says, his stare boring into me. Something tells me he’s not going to let this go.

Giving myself a moment, I gather my thoughts and nibble on my lower lip. “I was just thinking about connections.”

“Connections?” His hands rest on his hips, his shoulders parallel with mine. I have his full, undivided attention.

“I was just thinking about how I hardly know you, but I feel connected to you,” I say, cringing on the inside but fully embracing the discomfiture of this conversation.

He says nothing, which doesn’t make this moment any less awkward for the both of us.

“You asked!” I remind him, throwing my hands up.

Another moment passes, the two of us lingering next to some hairy elephant-looking creature with a long-as-hell scientific name as a group of children runs past us.

“Now I want to know what you’re thinking about.” I nudge his arm. “It’s only fair.”

He smirks, then it fades, and he gazes into the distance. It’s like there’s something on the tip of his tongue, but if I push or prod too much, he’ll never share it.

“Nothing, Maritza. I was thinking about nothing.”

I don’t buy it, but I don’t press any further. I want to burn this awkward moment into a pile of ash and move on.

“Are you going to remember me after this week?” I ask after a bout of silence.

His golden irises glint as his eyes narrow in my direction. “What kind of question is that?”

“A legit one,” I say. “Will you remember me? Or am I always just going to be that waitress girl that you hung out with for a week?”

“Don’t think I could forget you if I tried.” He speaks in such a way that I’m not sure if what he’s saying is a good thing or a bad thing. “Can I be honest right now?”

“You must. It’s a requirement.”

Isaiah’s tongue grazes his full lips for a quick second and he holds my gaze for what feels like forever. “I don’t want to make this any more confusing for either of us, but I feel like kissing you right now.”

I fight a smile. I don’t want to smile. I want to scoff at him and tell him to stop being such a hypocrite.

But that’s only half of me.

The other half of me wants him to kiss me, wants his hands in my hair and his taste on my tongue just one more time because we’ll never have this moment again and once it’s gone, it’s gone forever.

“I’ll allow it,” I say, half-teasing. “But only because we’re standing in front of a fiberglass mastodon and it doesn’t get any less romantic than that.”

Isaiah glances around to ensure we’re not in the presence of impressionable minds, and then he sinks his mouth onto mine, taking his time like he’d been waiting patiently all day and doesn’t want to ruin it by rushing.

I’m light as air and grounded at the same time. Nothing else exists outside his warm, soft mouth and his steady hands. I can’t even comprehend my own thoughts because my heart is pounding so hard in my chest it’s the only thing I hear.

When it’s over, reality is back in the driver’s seat. Rubbing my lips together, savoring the sweet burn of what lingers, I tell myself it’s just a kiss.

As long as there are no flowers exchanged these next couple of days, no sweet words or careless whispers, no promises made and no looking at each other like we hung the moon … we should be fine and both of us should be able to walk away from this completely unscathed, not a single battle wound or commemorative scar.

“How’s that ankle holding up?” he asks, glancing down toward my foot. “Still looks a little swollen. Hope we didn’t make it worse today.”

“I took, like, ten Advil this morning so I can’t feel a thing.”

Except that kiss.

I felt the hell out of that kiss.

He smirks, half-chuckling. “You hungry? You want to go somewhere?”

He’s not ready for our “Saturday” to end just yet.

And truth be told, neither am I.