Bad Cruz

“Fair enough.” I slid the lipstick into my little fake-fur purse. “I called him Bear after Bear Rinehart, Needtobreathe’s lead singer.”

“That Christian rock group?”

“One and the same.” I waited for the blow to come.

“Isn’t Bear the guy’s nickname, though? His first name is William or something.”

“Well, I didn’t know that at the time, did I? And I couldn’t afford the fancy name books people buy before they give birth and think of something more fun, like Axel or Cosmo.”

I watched him, expecting him to cackle—I did feel dumb after finding out about it myself—but to my surprise, he shrugged the whole thing off, joining me by the door and opening it for me.

“Well?” I raised my eyebrows. “That’s it?”

“You gave me an explanation to my satisfaction. Yes. That’s it.”

“Do you think it’s a weird name?”

“I wouldn’t choose it for my own son, no. Then again, I wasn’t the one who pushed a seven-pound human out of an intimate hole in my body after eight hours of contractions and nine months of heartburn, so I’m not sure I’m the best person to ask.”

“Nice answer. And it was ten hours, not eight.”

“Christ. No wonder you turned to Jesus.”

After I called Bear to make sure he was okay (he and Landon were hitting the ice rink later today), we went up to the breakfast buffet. Cruz had freshly-squeezed orange juice with egg whites and some fruit, while I had everything else the continental breakfast had to offer.

I hadn’t been on a vacation since the summer I’d turned fifteen and, now that I’d resigned myself to not getting to enjoy the trip with my son, I wanted to squeeze the heck out of this occasion before I went back home.

Cruz made no comment about the amount of food I was shoveling into my mouth at a Guinness-record speed, and I had the dignity to not try to explain my chipmunk-like behavior.

But when I arrived with my seventh course for the meal—my dessert, a chocolate chip ice cream—and began seasoning it with salt, he couldn’t take it anymore.

“You put salt in your ice cream?” He dropped his newspaper, glaring at me.

“The saltiness heightens the sweetness.”

“Your craziness heightens your hotness.”

“Cruz!” I chastised. “What did you drink? It’s unlike you not to hate me.”

“I never hated you, you fool.”

There was something wary and unguarded about the way he looked at me. Something so completely un-Cruz-like. But I chose to ignore it because…well, because I was a mess and knew nothing about men and did not want to make any mistakes.

He might be harmless, but he still didn’t make me feel safe.

From there, we moved to the shopping mall, or arena, or whatever this hell was. Duty free or not, none of the prices were within the range I liked to pay.

Let me rephrase—I did not like to pay anything at all for the atrocities I called my clothes, a fact that oftentimes landed me at different thrift stores, where apparently, a lot of the clothes belonged to women of a certain ancient profession.

It wasn’t that I couldn’t find anything sensible. There were modest cardigans aplenty to choose from, which I was sure used to belong to equally pleasant grandmas of Mrs. Underwood’s type, but I suppose I needed to go with one streamlined fashion choice and therefore went for tart.

“I just want you to know that I feel mighty uncomfortable about you writing a check to pay for my stuff,” I lied brazenly.

Cruz had money and came from an upper-middle-class home. If there was one thing I didn’t feel for him, it was bad.

“I just want you to know that I couldn’t care less,” he deadpanned.

He first dragged me into Ann Taylor, but couldn’t convince me to try anything on, on the grounds that I didn’t want to look like Margaret Thatcher breaking it to England that they were getting into the Falklands.