Page 52 of Mixed Signals
A wedge of cheese. Some fresh baked bread wrapped in wax paper and tied with a scrap of bright pink string I found in the top drawer of my kitchen island. Some sopressata from Luka and—
“Is that strawberry shortcake?”
I hand him the container as he collapses to his knees on the blanket, hands reaching. I stay standing behind him as I sort through the rest of my bag. “It is.”
“Can I eat this first?”
“We already had ice cream,” I reason. “I think strawberry shortcake is the next logical step.”
He makes a deeply appreciative sound and cracks open the top of the dish. I stop for a second and watch the top of his head as he reaches for a fork. Mussed hair and golden skin, the tips of his ears already a bit pink from the sun. I let my knuckles brush against the back of his neck and he tips his head until it’s pressed to my thigh, his brown eyes smiling up at me. Sea salt air and the sound of the surf loud in my ears. Those lines by Caleb’s eyes, crinkling just for me.
Well.
Me and my shortcake.
“If you don’t sit down,” he says, his smile deepening and laughter in his voice. “I’m going to eat all of this myself.”
“It’s a good thing I made it just for you, then.”
I reach for my jug of apple juice and one of the paper cups I shoved in my bag and sit down next to him, my knee wedged against his thigh. He moves me slightly with his hand at my hip until I’m tucked against him—his big hand draped over my knee, our arms pressed cozily together.
He’s looser with his affection now. It’s like our conversation in my kitchen snipped the strings that were holding him back. It snipped some of mine, too. I know he worries about coming on too strong, but frankly I am starting to wish he’d come on a little stronger from time to time.
I offer him a sip from my dixie cup. “Tell me about your day?”
His smile deepens like it’s the best question I could have possibly asked him. Like he’s been waiting forever and ever for someone to ask him exactly that. For someone to care about the little details.
“Well, Jeremy handed in the first draft of his love poem assignment.”
“Please, please, please tell me you brought it with you.”
He pulls a folded up piece of paper out of his back pocket and hands it to me. I squeal in delight.
“No, no.” I press the paper back into his hand. “I demand a dramatic reading.”
Caleb snorts a laugh and unfolds it with one hand against the blanket while he takes a monstrous bite of shortcake with the other. I pay an unhealthy amount of attention to the way his jaw works, the bit of cream clinging at the corner of his lips. He scoops another forkful out and holds it in front of my mouth. I lean forward and curl my hand around his wrist, holding the fork steady between us. Tart strawberries, sweet and fluffy cream. A perfect bite that makes me hum with satisfaction.
I chance a look at Caleb’s face. His eyes are heavy and focused on my mouth, his chest rising and falling with a stuttered breath.
I swallow and swipe my fingertips across my bottom lip, making sure I didn’t leave any cream behind. “Everything okay?”
“Fine,” he says faintly. He shakes his head a little and looks back down at the container. “I’ll, ah, I’ll read the poem.”
Delighted, I thread my fingers together and rest my chin on my clasped hands in eager anticipation. Caleb snorts at my attentive positioning and smooths the paper over his leg. My mind runs wild with possibilities. Jeremy helped me out last spring in the bakehouse and I’m well aware that he knows a frightening amount of Ja Rule lyrics.
He clears his throat and I watch his eyes scan the paper. A smile curls the edge of his mouth, bringing about a faint impression of his dimple.
“Y yo me vo'a dar un shot por ti, espero que estés bien,” he starts.“Yo he estao con mile y tú sigue en el top ten.”A fiery blush rises on his cheeks and he glances up at me quickly before darting his eyes back to the paper. “No me lo niegue, baby, que yo también. Y yo me vo'a dar un shot por ti, espero que estés bien. Yo he estao con mile y tú sigue en el top ten. No me lo niegue, yo sé que yo también.”
I stare at him, mouth slightly slack. I don’t think I’ve heard Caleb speak that much Spanish before. I’ve heard him slip an odd word or two into conversation, but never something so … extensive. I shift my legs against the blanket and press my fingertips to my throat, which suddenly feels dry. I feel like I need a tall glass of something strong. Maybe a cigarette.
I resist the urge to fan myself, and force myself to focus back on the poem. “I don’t know much Spanish, but did you say something abouttop ten?”
Caleb folds up the piece of paper and puts it back in his pocket. “Sure did.”
“Did I hearbaby put it on mein there?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny.” Caleb’s cheeks flush a shade darker, but he’s grinning with me. “It’s a work in progress.”
