Page 96 of Charming Like Us

“Should’ve warned you, I’m a baby when it comes to food that makes me breathe fire.” He takes another hearty swig. “And then you have my sister Jo who carries around a bottle ofmolho picante.” He explains, “Brazilian hot sauce.”

I take the Cornick from him. “Looks like me and your sister are two peas in a pod.”

Oscar gives me a look. “If all it takes is spicy corn nuts to get in the same pod as you, then hand them back.” He reaches for the bag, and I put a hand to his chest.

We both flex, heat pulsing my veins, and I raise another snack bag. “Clover Chips. Plain cheese flavored.” I chuck them lightly, and he catches.

While he tears the bag, I cut the taut silence. “Jesse loves the garlic flavored Cornick. Next time I see you, I’ll bring some.”

His mouth lifts, almost grinning.Almostbecause he seems to stare off for half-a-second while he digs into the cheesy melt-in-your-mouth chips. It’s not surprising since Oscar has been hot and cold towards me.

But it is alarming.

Fuck, my leg nearly bounces. That hasn’t happened in a while. When I was ten, eleven, my leg would jostle, I’d break out in a sweat, my throat would close up—all because a teacher called on me to answer a question or I’d need to recite a poem in front of the class.

I look at myself in the past five years—speaking to network heads, interviewing celebrities—and I feel like a different person. My parents paid for a tutor to help me with public speaking when I was younger, and after a while, my anxiety retreated.

I learned to breathe.

Inhale. Exhale.

I learned to believe thatI can.Even when it feels like I can’t.

Breath and confidence have guided me without a stumble for years, but with WAC filming starting, plus the stress of Charlie’s show, and the newness of what’s happening between me and Oscar—my anxiety has made a slow but mighty return.

I exhale.

My leg stays stationary. “Verdict?” I ask him.

He pops a chip in his mouth, and a satisfied noise rumbles out. “So good,” he expresses as he shovels a handful between his lips.

I smile in a sip of beer. We eat Clover Chips, drink, and talk about the Phillies. After Oscar groans when the Braves hit a homerun, bases loaded, I ask him, “Baseball is your favorite sport?”

“To watch, yeah. What about you?” He washes down chips with beer.

I hang my arm on my leg, beer loose between my fingers. “To be honest, I’ve never really liked watching baseball.”

His face drops. “Fuck, bro. I can change the channel.” He reaches forward for the remote.

I clutch his shoulder. “No, keep it on. I’ll watch it now.”

“Why?” Oscar slowly leans back.

“Basta ikaw,” I say in Tagalog and translate casually, “as long as I’m with you, because it’s you.” I swig my beer. “Baseball isn’t so bad in your company.”

Oscar grins, one that feels as overwhelming as the smile on my face. We’re in thehotphase of hot-and-cold, and I love it here.

“Soccer,” I tell him, reaching into the Clover Chip bag that’s in his hand. “That’s my favorite sport to watch.”

He nods a few times. “My mom and sister are big into soccer. They’ll go all out for the World Cup and wear jerseys for Brazil and America, even if the teams get knocked out of the bracket early.”

“Your sister likes soccer too?” I swallow more beer with a bright smile. “She’s already becoming my new best friend.”

I expect Oscar to make a light joke about me and best friends. But he’s rigid, his arm splayed tensely over the back of the couch behind me.

He takes a tight sip of beer, brown eyes plastered to the TV.

I have too many questions. My head is spinning. But before I can ask a single one, he turns to me and speaks.