Page 8 of When Javi Dumped Mari

“That sounds wonderful,” Marisol says, throwing me a devilish wink.

Well, there you have it: My first mistake was coming here.

My second was opening my impatient mouth.

The snag is, if I try to extricate myself from the situation, I’ll look like an asshole and leave Marisol in the lurch.

I give zero fucks about the former and absolutely hate that I care about the latter.

I guess it can’t hurt to help out until the auction—just to keep an eye on things and make sure it doesn’t go off the rails.

I mean, the event was my suggestion, so it’s only right that I see it to its conclusion. “Yeah, fine, that’ll work.”

“Fantastic!” Katy says more enthusiastically than necessary before turning away.

Marisol wanders over to me and taps the toe of my shoe with hers.

Looking down at me with a smug expression, she says, “I guess we’re going to be working together, me and you.

How’s that for a plot twist?” She spins on her heels, takes several steps, then adds over her shoulder, “Oh, and welcome to LASA.”

I scowl at her, fold my cheese slice in half, and bite it as if it did me wrong.

Pain in the ass? Confirmed.

(But weirdly, I like it.)

***

Spending a Saturday morning helping Marisol Campos put up posters and flyers all over campus didn’t make this year’s to-do list either. And yet here we are.

The good news is that Marisol is a worker bee who’s thrown all her energy into promoting LASA’s date auction.

The bad news is that our task requires one of us to hold the ad while the other person does the stapling, which means we’ve been invading each other’s personal space since we started a half hour ago.

The worst news is that whatever perfume Marisol wears smells like vanilla and caramel, a combination that reminds me of flan, my favorite dessert in the world.

Yeah, my brain is going places it really shouldn’t.

Wearing a wrinkled T-shirt with a photo of Rihanna throwing up her middle finger and gray sweatpants that seem seconds away from falling to her ankles, Marisol jumps onto the ramp in front of Myers Hall and scans the building’s freestanding community bulletin board in search of a good spot.

“Hold on to my legs so I don’t bust my ass,” she tells me. “I can staple it myself.”

That’s how I end up with my arms wrapped around her thighs and her butt in my face as she stretches to attach the paper to the board.

I huff out a breath. “I’m five inches taller than you. I could just do this for you.”

“Nope, I’m fully capable of doing it,” she says over her shoulder. “Just stand there and look pretty.”

I pinch her leg, and she yelps. The soft giggle that follows makes me smile.

When she’s done, she accepts my hand and hops down onto the pavement. “Let’s do this one too,” she says, pointing to a bulletin board in front of the dorm reserved for international students.

We silently scan the board for the best available space.

“Ooh, International House is hosting a food festival next month,” Mari exclaims, bouncing on the balls of her feet. “Empanadas, asado, arepas, yuca. Yum. I love how no matter what Latin American food I eat, it always feels like us . I’m definitely buying a ticket to this.”

“You’re Brazilian American, right?” I ask, a flush of warmth going up my neck when I remember why I already know the answer.

“Yup,” she says, popping her lips. “I mentioned that last week when you were trying to annoy me at the club fair.”

“I was just doing due diligence about LASA,” I counter.

“Even if I did believe that you were”—she makes air quotes—“?‘ just doing due diligence about LASA’—I don’t believe that, by the way—you were also trying to annoy me. Can we at least agree on that?”

“We can,” I say, sheepishly.

She smiles, then motions for me to come closer. “Psst, let me tell you a secret.”

I lean forward, bending slightly so she can whisper in my ear.

“If the shoe were on the other foot,” she says, her soft lips ghosting over my ear and a few wisps of her hair grazing my neck, “I would have done the same thing.”

I literally shiver. That’s what being near her does to me.

It’s unsettling. I’d like to think I have control over my own body, but when Marisol’s around, it does what it wants—and what it wants is to sink into her touch.

But that isn’t all. I like her voice; it’s soft, a little husky, and there’s a lyrical quality to it that my musically inclined brain gravitates to.

The unguarded way she speaks captivates me too; she just says what’s on her mind, a refreshing trait to someone like me—namely, someone who’s always curbing their thoughts so they don’t sound like an asshole.

Apparently I’m the only one affected by our closeness, because she moves back to the task at hand, standing on the tips of her toes so she can tap the board. “Let’s put one of the posters here. This time, I’ll hold and you staple. I can’t reach up there anyway.”

Get it together, Javi. This crush is definitely one-sided.

Helping her position the poster, I say, “So, your parents, are they both Brazilian?”

She nods. “Yeah. I’m second gen on my father’s side. He was born and raised here. My mother was born in S?o Paulo. They met at USC.”

“Where are your parents now?” I ask.

“My dad’s still in California. He’s a lawyer there. My mother lives in Brazil.”

She says this in a flat tone that doesn’t mesh with her bubbly personality. I forget the poster for a moment and look down at her. “Is that a good thing?”

“It took me a little time to think so,” she says, meeting my gaze dead-on, “but yeah, it’s a good thing. For all of us. What about you?”

In other words, the subject of her family is closed.

And I can relate. I’ll tell anyone who’ll listen that my parents couldn’t be more loving and supportive, but my brothers are an entirely different story.

I guess Marisol and I have more in common than I thought.

So instead of pushing for more information, I answer her question. “I’m Nuyorican. Born and raised.”

“And you wear that label like a badge,” she says, stapling one corner of the poster as if it’s an exclamation mark on her sentence.

I step back to assess our handiwork, then turn to her. “I wear it like an honor.”

She puts up her hands, nearly bludgeoning herself with the staple gun. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. No need to get so defensive, dude.”

“Past experiences tell me otherwise,” I say, picking up the remaining posters, then slinging my backpack over my shoulder. “Some people can be funny about Latinidad. And I don’t mean ha-ha funny. I mean, they act as if there’s a hierarchy, and Puerto Ricans always seem to be at or near the bottom.”

“Well, I’m not one of those people, so drop the sword and shield, Spartacez.”

I let out a loud chuckle, surprising myself and, judging by the way her eyes widen, surprising Marisol as well. “You’re too much.”

Her gaze falls to the ground as she presses her lips into a thin line. After a beat, she says, “So I’ve been told.”

The slight tremor in her voice catches my attention. I take her free hand and gently shake it. “Hey, I didn’t mean that in a negative way. If you couldn’t tell by now, I don’t exactly give off fun vibes. It’s rare that someone can get me to laugh out loud.”

“Then you need to get out more,” she says, easing her hand out of mine and throwing on a carefree expression I now suspect is hiding the most tender parts of her.

“In fact, ever think about joining a fraternity? I went on a few dates with the president of ODO last year. We weren’t feeling each other, but we’re still cool. I could put in a good word.”

I groan on the inside. Not this again. Omicron Delta Omega is a relatively new Latinx fraternity here.

They reached out to me my first year, asking if I’d be interested in joining their chapter, but I’d rather shovel horse shit all day than join a Greek-letter organization.

I already have two brothers I can’t stand.

What’s the point of purposefully saddling myself with more of them?

“No, thanks,” I tell her. “Again, not my vibe.”

“Yeah, you’re right,” she says, her head tilted to the side as if she’s dissecting my personality and trying to rearrange its contents. “Not your vibe at all.”

I’m not touching that comment. I’d rather not know why she thinks so. “Where to next?” I ask, wanting to keep her focused on our assignment so she isn’t focused on me.

She looks to her left, then her right, and points toward the center of campus. “Let’s hit up Staley Commons. Everyone’s always hanging out in front. We’ll get a bunch of eyes on the flyer there.”

Staley Commons is one of four dining halls on Belmont’s campus, and the only place open on the weekend. Its unofficial name is “Commons Meat Market,” and as the unofficial name implies, most students go there to see and be seen by their classmates. I usually avoid it at all costs.

“Sure,” I say with a sigh. “Let’s go.”

We stroll along the tree-lined route on Centennial Walk, dodging the occasional student on a bike refusing to stick to the bike path.

On the way, Marisol gets sidetracked by a cute puppy, asking its owner, a middle-aged guy, if she can pet it. When he nods, she drops to her knees in seconds.

“You’re such a cutie,” she coos to the dog as she strokes its ears. “And look at that wagging tail! Is it a boy?”

“Yeah,” the man says, smiling down at her. “Ten weeks old. Name’s Ozzie.”

“Oh, I love him. Someday I’m going to get a dog just like you, Ozzie.

” She bops his nose, then jumps up and waves goodbye to them, looking at the puppy longingly as he and his owner resume walking.

“My dad says pets are too messy, so we never got one. As soon as I get my own place, I’m going to fill it with a bunch of Ozzies. ”

“That’s going to be expensive,” I point out.

“And totally worth the money.”