Work Me Up

She’s gazing out over the waves too now, and she looks like a damn painting, she’s so gorgeous. The sun picks up highlights of reddish brown in her dark, wavy hair, and it makes her skin glow an almost burnt golden color. I’m not sure what I expect her to say, but it’s not what she actually does. “I used to like going fast,” she says quietly. “Any way I could. Started out riding bikes around my neighborhood, racing with my— with all the kids there… Then, when I was a little bit older and I finally got my license, driving my dad’s sport car collection all around the city.” She smiles, a little repressed grin. “Well, actually more outside the city than within it, since, you know.”

“Traffic is a bitch here,” I reply, smirking.

She nods and lets out a huffy little laugh. Something about it sounds strained. And there’s a strain around the edges of her mouth, too, and the corners of her eyes.

I hold my breath to keep from saying anything. To keep from shattering this moment, when it feels like she’s finally trusting me with something important.

“I used to drive up the highway alone late at night, just… blasting music, feeling the wind in my hair.”

I smile, gazing at her, imagining it. A younger version of Selena singing her heart out as she raced around the California highway system, one hand draped outside her car window. It’s easy enough to imagine, because I’ve done the same thing myself, thousands of times. Hell, I once even went on a road trip all the way across the US, camping along the route.

Unbidden, an image comes to mind. Doing that with her, exploring the world…

I push it away. Don’t get ahead of yourself, Antonio. Enjoy being here with her, right now. Don’t ruin it with daydreaming, the way I always do.

Selena sighs, and the moment shatters, the perfect vision I had for an instant popping like a bubble between us. “Doesn’t matter. I don’t drive anymore.”

“Why’s that?” I ask, before I can stop myself, even though I know it’s a bad idea.

Her expression shutters instantly. Before I can say anything else, she’s crossing her arms, turning away from the sun. She starts to stomp back across the sand, away from the ocean and toward the distant sidewalk instead. “I’m hungry,” she calls over her shoulder as she stomps away. “Aren’t you?”

There’s a long pause, while I consider my options. Press harder, call her out on avoiding whatever this is? But after a while, I shake my head, unable to do that to her. If she wants to keep her secrets, then that’s her business. None of mine, to go pressuring her.

“Sure,” I call, following her back across the hilly dunes. “I could always eat.”

* * *

We wind up in a little dinner spot raised up a little bit above the level of the beach itself. It’s got a killer sunset view, which is perfect, because right after we find our seats on the restaurant’s patio, outside where the warm, salty breeze can still reach us, the sun dips toward the horizon.

“Thanks, by the way,” Selena says, while we wait for our main courses to arrive. Judging by the cocktails and the appetizers we’ve already devoured, I’m pretty sure all the food is going to be great.

But any thoughts of dinner flee my head as I glance over and notice a somber expression on her face, her mouth tight around the edges. Just the way she looked down by the water earlier, before she dodged my questions. “For what?” I ask, my tone cautiously light, carefully neutral.

“For letting me skip work today.” She flashes me a sheepish little grin, then, and some of the light returns to her eyes. “I really needed the break.” She chews on her lower lip, then reaches between us to pluck a piece of bread from the basket the waiters served. I watch her tear it to tiny shreds, before she finally picks up a piece, delicately dunking it in olive oil and popping it into her mouth. “And I’m sorry that I lied to you about being sick,” she adds, after she washes down the bite of bread with a sip of her cocktail.

I shake my head. “Hey, mental health days still count as being sick,” I point out.

Her cheeks flush. “Not a lot of people would agree with you.”

“Well, some people suck,” I reply with a shrug, and that wins me a slightly larger smile this time.

“I promise I’ll come into the garage on time tomorrow,” she says. “Early, even, if you want me to, to make up for lost time.”

I lift an eyebrow along with the glass of scotch I’m drinking. “Any more of these and I’m afraid neither of us are going to be getting to the garage on time, let alone early.”