“I want you to make them for me one day,” she says. Standing up, she announces she’s not drunk enough, and then she flickers off, disappears somewhere in the bar, leaving me alone to fight off sleep.
Every time she looks over in my direction, there’s this shot of adrenaline that beats the exhaustion away, that tells me last night was not a fluke. Then Emma clinks glasses with someone and flickers off, shines her light over by the pool table. Disappointment stirs within me.
My head falls back to rest against the wall for just a moment and I’m instantly asleep. I’m not sure how much time passes. Despite the noise of the pool cues and Isaiah’s upbeat musical selections, what wakes me up is the feel of something tickling my forehead. I wave my hand to swat it away, and in the ensuing sounds of laughter my eyes snap open.
Matt is in front of me, a big grin on his face and a permanent marker in his hand. At his side, Boris is doubled over, cackling. “Welcome to the team!” Matt says with a sneer.
I wipe at my forehead, and through the dark of the bar I see the faintest trace of black on my fingertips. I rub again, suddenly aware of the slight weight of ink, how it’s already drying. Matt and Boris let loose with another round of exaggerated laughter. Elias appears at their side, assessing the situation. I’m sure he’s about to tell them off, since he’s been nice to me, and he comes off as more mature. But he just cracks a grin and shakes his head and then tells me I might want to go wash up.
In the bathroom mirror, I stare at the crude drawing of a penis that now takes up the entirety of my forehead, hoping for the love of god that Emma didn’t see it. And that it’ll wash off. A couple pumps of soap and some vigorous scrubbing do nothing. The whole time I’m thinking how immature and stupid and unoriginal Matt is. I’m trying to ignore the faintness of my reflection.
I push open the bathroom door, flushed with embarrassment. Disoriented, I look around the dark bar for the exit. My eyes land on Emma, arms around the neck of some faceless, shapeless wad of flesh. My stomach drops, the recognition of the act undeniable.
I find the exit, and speed toward it, one hand cupping my forehead. I hear Matt calling out behind me, “It’s just a joke, you wuss!”
What a world, I think, but this time in Dad’s voice, mocking me. I should have listened to Felix and gone to bed tonight. I shouldn’t worry about Emma, get caught up with a girl who was probably just trying to be friendly last night. I should go home.
It takes me two blocks to realize I’ve been speed-walking in the opposite direction of my motel. “Hijo de la chingada,” I yell.
My shadow laughs. “I never hear you say that,” Felix says.
“Not now,” I beg, hands shoved in my pockets, head down.
“‘Not now’ what?”
I look up and see Emma, eyes glazed and distant and happy. Her cheeks are flushed, and she’s got a beer bottle in her hand.
“Huh?”
“You said, ‘not now,’” she says, taking a step closer to me. “Was that to me? I can let you...” She gestures down the road.
“No, no,” I say. “It was...” I trail off, knowing I have nothing sane with which to finish the thought. Emma is a near stranger. She showed me some cool spots around the island; we had a nice night. I have no right to feel hurt. But there it is anyway. “I don’t know what it was.”
Emma chuckles, which leads to a hiccup. “You know what sounds good right now?”
“Industrial-grade soap?” I say, reaching for my forehead. “Bed.”
“Quesadillas. Do you know where we can get some at this time of night? Ants optional.”
My mind flashes to the fridge in the motel, the package of tortillas and cheese inside. It flashes to her making out with someone at the bar, and I know I should keep this latter image in mind. Then Emma sways a little, stumbles a few steps. “You okay?”
“Yup,” she says. “Just a quesadilla deficiency.” She smiles, face glowing with booze and warmth and whatever else.
I look over her shoulder, down the road that leads to what, this week, I’m calling home. Aside from the faint thumping of music coming from the bar, the night is dead quiet. We’re on a small two-lane road in the middle of the woods, and from here it’d be impossible to tell that anyone lives on this island at all. Emma’s looking at me expectantly, and I remember what she did for me last night, how she noticed my panic attack and showed me something that made me feel better than I have in months. I didn’t have to pretend. Whatever hasty romantic notions were thwarted at the bar, I know that much was true.
“I could probably make some at my place. But...” I try to convey what I’m thinking. That she’s a little drunk and I’m a little out of my mind. Hard to do in just a hand gesture. “Maybe I should help you get home instead?” I say.
Emma rolls her eyes. “Your place. Quesadillas. Lead the way.”
After a twenty-minute walk, I push open the door to my motel room. Emma steps in, sets her bag down on the floor, says nothing.
Not knowing what else to do, I head to the kitchen. “Sorry this place sucks. If you use the bathroom, ignore all the stains. I’m pretty sure none of them are blood.” Goddamn, jokes again.
I open the fridge, pull out the flour tortillas, pour the tomatillo salsa I made the other day into a bowl, light the flame on the stove and set my saucepan on top of it. There’s such comfort in these things, things I know how to do.
Instead of plopping herself down on the edge of the bed, like I expect, Emma takes a seat on the edge of the counter, watching me work. I try to focus on the cilantro I’m chopping when her leg and my arm are inches away from each other, make sure my fingers are curled away from the blade.
“Hey, Carlos?”
“Yeah,” I say, not looking up.
“You still have a penis on your forehead.” She chuckles and then rests her head back against the cabinet, closing her eyes. “I didn’t get drunk enough,” she says.
All day, I’ve been hoping for a repetition of last night. I’m not sure this is what I was envisioning. “Sorry I don’t have anything to offer.” Then, before I know what my mouth is doing, I ask, “So, who was that guy?”
“What guy?” Emma asks.
“You were...” I flip the tortillas I’m warming on the pan. “That guy.”
“Oh,” she says, shrugging, looking one-hundred-percent more interested in me pulling stuff out of the fridge than in the conversation. “Some guy. Drunken makeouts are fun.”
“He’s not, like, a boyfriend?”
Emma laughs. “God, no. Some tourist.”
My knuckles against the blade are a kind of security blanket right now, something to keep my mind off this strange nervousness that’s settled into my stomach.