You're a Mean One, Matthew Prince, page 22
“Is that you?” comes Hector’s voice from behind me.
I turn to see him standing there, shivering a little. Cute as hell in a hat with fuzzy flaps that fall over his ears. I don’t even think about lying to save myself the embarrassment. I’m proud of who I am and where I’ve been. “Yeah.”
He steps closer to get a better look. “You were adorable.”
“Were?” I scoff.
“Are.” He smiles back at me. “You did an incredible job, dude.”
“Thank you.”
“Even better than your sketches. People are going to be blown away.” While I love the compliment, the fact that I’ve impressed him means more than anyone else’s opinion. The awe in his eyes as he tips his head upward to take it all in makes my heart swell. “If you’re all finished, you’re needed outside.”
“Lead the way,” I tell him, snatching my coat from one of the nearby folding chairs. He extends a hand, and I happily take it.
Outside, Wendy and the team are joined together on the lawn. Boots crunch in the leftover snow. Everyone tugs their scarves tighter to their necks. Now that they’re not working and moving, the cold is creeping in, and everyone is antsy to get home.
“We wanted you to be here when we did this,” Wendy says, holding the ends of two different wires. The plug and the receiver. “We’ve still got some taping down and weatherproofing to do, and the carpet can’t be rolled out quite yet, but the majority is done.”
Hector tugs me forward. I stand next to Wendy, peering around at all the dormant lights. I’m bouncing with excitement.
“3…2…1!” she shouts.
The college comes alive, shining out for all to see.
Lights race around the archway of the entrance, pulsating. A fence of garland loops around the main parking lot. The stone clock face above the double doors is surrounded by a beautiful wreath that’s winking blue and white.
The last of the lights lead like bread crumbs up the steps and through the doors, which are still propped open. Through them, I can see my exhibit swaying in all its fantastic glory. I get choked up for the millionth time since coming here.
“It’s better than I could’ve imagined.”
The crew, including Hector, all cheer with approval.
Right on cue, a honk rings out. Noelle hangs out the passenger-side window of the Moon Beans truck, waving her hands and smiling as it rolls up the drive. The owner, a man who may or may not have played Santa at the Lights of Wonder Spectacular the other night, puts the truck in park. Two back flaps fly open.
“Get it while it’s hot!” Noelle calls. She begins pouring steaming cups of hot chocolate for the workers.
“My treat!” I shout. Everyone charges over to form a line. Noelle can barely keep up with the demand.
“You did this?” Hector asks.
“Of course,” I say, beaming. “I texted Noelle this afternoon, and she said they could swing by after they closed for the day. It’s just a gallon or two of hot chocolate.” He gives me a worrisome look. “Don’t sweat it. I cross-referenced the budget sheet to make sure we had the money for it. They worked out here in the cold all day, while I was inside. They deserve it.”
“Cross-referenced the budget sheet? I love it when you talk responsible event-planning to me.” Hector puts a proud hand on my waist.
“Oh yeah?” I ask, toying with the drawstrings on his fur-lined hoodie. “Then you’re going to love it even more when I say, ‘We’ve got projections to set up.’”
He knocks my elbow with a funny growl. “Of course. Hey, uh”—he glances over at the truck, stalling for a second—“grab us two hot chocolates and meet me in there?”
“Sure.”
The line has dissipated, everyone broken off into groups to drink and start to clean up, so Noelle is chatting with Wendy when I step over to place my order. She doesn’t miss a conversational beat as she whips up two overflowing cups with extra marshmallows and candy cane bits.
“Don’t dawdle too long out here,” Noelle says. “I’ve heard tell there’s something special waiting for you inside.”
I squint back at her. “More work?”
“All work and no play makes for a very sad day,” says Noelle. Wendy chuckles. I shake my head and slip the agreed-upon amount from my pocket to pay for her services.
“Your money’s no good here,” Noelle tells me.
“What are you talking about? When I called—”
“Consider it a present from Father Christmas,” she says, winking back at her boss. “It was the powdered stuff anyway, so I may have overshot the price. Now, get those cups inside before they get cold!”
Wendy pats my shoulder. “We’ll be heading out in ten. I’ll send a few people by tomorrow to make sure the finer details get done.”
“Perfect. Thank you again,” I say. She offers a hug, and I take it.
When I walk in from the cold, the hallway has been transformed. Hector has set up blue lights in the hallway that make my exhibit look like a winter wonderland. A small wind machine makes the snowflakes dance even more. I’m almost tempted to stick out my tongue and try to catch a memory, let it melt there and sink in.
The leather-bound guest book I secured has found its way to the podium next to the door.
Just past those doors, the tables, all covered in lovely vermilion linen, are in a circle around the monumental tree that presides over the place. Fully decorated, it’s dazzling. Awe ripples through my abdomen at everything laid out.
I do a lap around the perimeter, looking for Hector. In one corner, the plastic snowmen, refurbished with new smiles, sit up against the white draped backdrop where we will project the snowfall and Santa flying overhead created by Bentley’s brother, which I have saved on a flash drive tucked into my pocket.
Down comes an overhead screen, probably used for guest lectures and the likes, to my right. Hector appears around the side of the tree holding a remote. The projector takes a moment to turn on, but when it does, the home menu for the DVD version of Home Alone 2 comes on the screen.
“Figured you could use a little reminder of Manhattan since you can’t be there,” he says. Then, I notice that on the far side of the tree he’s repurposed one of the tablecloths as a picnic blanket. A wicker basket sits half-open. Inside is a collection of cookies.
“This is super sweet,” I coo. I can’t think of anything more escapist than watching some kid brutally beat up two crooks trying to track him down in the greatest city in the world. I never quite understood the Christmas component, but I enjoy it nonetheless. “But weren’t you the one complaining we had so much still to do the other day? I still have to align the projections.”
He holds up a hand. “Hard work feeds the soul, but rest fuels the body.” He wheels a cart out from behind one of the tables. On it are rolls of wrapping paper and stacks of card stock. Each page has script names and table numbers on them. “I figured we could multitask. We still have place cards to fold and decorative boxes to wrap.”
I set down the hot chocolates while he starts up the movie. The gala may be the literal project, but getting to know him feels like the real race to the finish line. This sweet gesture tells me a lot about his romantic side. Hints at what he might plan for a big anniversary or Valentine’s Day.
I hand him a dark-chocolate peppermint cookie, and he hands me a box to wrap.
We work in silence for a while. The movie provides ample entertainment after a tiring day, and the pleasing satisfaction of scissors gliding along paper rolls is soothing.
“Do you ever wonder what happened to Macaulay Culkin?” Hector asks. “Child stars must have to go through a lot of nonsense. But on the plus side, he’s probably still making major bank from this movie. It’s iconic and on almost every cable channel this time of year.” It must register to him that my own upbringing in the public eye may not have been Culkin level, but it was still very intense. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” I say, taking a second cookie, hoping the sugar rush overrides my nervous system.
“What’s it like, the Big Apple? Is it everything the movies say it is?”
“It’s fabulous, lively. It’s actually better than the movies make it out to be.”
“I’ve never been. Between school and work and the other nine million things there are to get done, I don’t have the time or the money to travel. I’ve never seen the appeal per se, but I’ve always been curious.” He casts his eyes away, growing reserved.
I think about extending the invitation for him to come and visit me there once we succeed with this gala, once we’ve both fulfilled our ends of the deal, but is that what he’s insinuating? Our time together here has been wonderful; however, I fret over whether he’d fit in on that island. Jeez, why is everything about islands?
He’d hate the bustle, the crowds, the attention. My life is only bustle, crowds, and attention.
Here, I got to adapt to a different pace, but I don’t think I can stay moving this glacially forever, so I keep the offer to myself. For now.
“Could’ve fooled me. All those times you dismissed it as a cesspool of people in objectionable pink pants.” The joke acts as a buffer between this perfect moment and the real stuff to come. The inevitable juncture when I will return to the towering skyline and busy sidewalks.
“I’ve seen the error of my ways, dude,” he says with a snort. “First perceptions aren’t always right.” His eyes flick back to me with clear intention. “I’ve been pleasantly surprised before.”
I let that sentiment sink in for a second, happy in the knowledge that he sees me differently now. That I’m not the bitch behind the sunglasses who blew into town with no regard for anyone else.
“Does that mean you’ll try on the pink pants for me?” I ask, dying to see Hector in a piece so out of his comfort zone.
“You wish, dude,” he says, focusing again.
His nimble hands begin grouping the cards together and cutting them up, but his gold-flecked eyes keep glancing over at me. I tape with crisp precision, trying not to let him distract me too much from the task at hand.
“Did the present platitudes get done too?” I ask.
He nods, handing me a plastic-wrapped deck of calligraphy cards. They say things like Drink in the moment like a cup of eggnog and The Present is the greatest present of all. Corny, but in a cute way.
I pass him another cookie, a caramel one this time, and our fingers brush. A frisson of heat traps us there.
Wrap three boxes and then you can kiss him, I tell myself. Wrap six boxes and you can make out a little, I add. Slap the golden phrases on all six, and you can do even more if he’s in the mood.
I work fast with my new incentive system. The caffeine and my hormones mix into a dizzying cocktail coursing through my veins.
A little before the halfway mark of the movie, Hector’s hand inches toward my thigh. The heat of his palm through my jeans is titillating. We begin creeping our mouths toward each other. I’m desperate for him, so we kiss with an openness that thrills me.
One of his hands goes up under my sweater and onto the bare, sensitive skin of my stomach. The tickle causes me to balk, but on the exhale, I press into it. I allow his fingertips to trace over my belly button.
We recline so that he’s nestled into my side. He fits so well there.
I reach for the zipper of his pants, overeager to please. We begin to undress each other, piece by piece, really seeing each other this time, taking extra care to kiss and lick every inch of revealed skin. We’re both glistening in the low lighting.
That’s when I see it. The tattoo is on the inside of his left bicep. It’s a small depiction of Don Quixote riding Rocinante while holding a sword and a shield, done to look like one thin continuous line of ink. Hector flexes at my sudden touch, and I swear I watch the horse take life and gallop toward the crook of his elbow.
“It’s…” he begins, but I cut him off.
“I know.”
I’m overcome with the urge to absorb him. I kiss him hastier, hungrier.
We fumble awkwardly as the shiny cloth slips underneath us. Our heads crash together at one point, knocking our teeth, but it elicits nothing more than a laugh, a repositioning, and a further opening of ourselves to each other.
Yes, yes, yes…
Just as I’m about to undress him fully for the first time, a flashlight flicks into the space.
No, no, no!
Thank God this ginormous tree is covering us. There’s a moment where neither of us knows what to do, but then Hector collects himself with the speed of a quick-change artist, pauses the film, and steps out into the light.
“Who’s in here? What’s going on?” a gruff campus security officer calls into the semidarkness. My half-naked body shivers at the sudden gust of cold air invading the hall.
Hector waves a hand. “Hi, sorry, sir. I’m planning the holiday gala and we were just doing a little late-night setup. We can clear out if it’s too late.” His voice is impressively even and calculated. I never could’ve done that.
“Oh, uh, we thought everyone went home already. Well, no rush, but we want to lock up, so once you leave, you can’t reenter. Make sure to shut this all down and unplug everything,” he says. I hold back a laugh because he sounds young and new at his job, probably hapless in any situation but this one especially.
“You got it. Have a good evening,” Hector says.
“You too.”
When the door is safely shut, Hector returns to my side. We look at each other and crack up. The mood may have passed, but the intimacy is still there, dancing around us like sugar plums in the silence as we continue to work.
An hour or so later, after we pack up the picnic and the presents, lock the doors and shut off the lights, we step out into another light snowfall that’s dusted the walkways. The flurry looks like the one I made in the hallway, trickling down in twirling, skittering flakes. The soft wind knocks them every which way.
Hector goes to unplug the light display like Wendy taught him, but before he can reach the extension cord, I tug him back by his sleeve, overcome and needing him to know it. His gesture tonight was beyond adorable. I’ve never known this kind of care.
“Kiss me first,” I say to him. “I want to remember us like this.” Snowflakes collect on his shoulders and the edges of his scarf. He’s a winter dream as he steps closer, closing the gap between us.
“Who knew a little snow could turn a Scrooge into a romantic?” he teases.
I roll my eyes, shake my head, and kiss him like I mean it.
Because I do. I mean it with my whole damn heart.
Chapter 28
Morning clarity comes with the first rays of sunlight: Hector and I are getting serious.
I brush my teeth in the bathroom and brace for panic, but no Krampus charges through my skull. Instead, my heartbeat and breathing remain steady and even. I spit spearmint foam into the sink, stare at myself in the mirror, and realize that falling for the guy in the top bunk might be the healthiest decision I’ve made in a long time.
Back in the bedroom, Hector can be seen through the sliding door. He’s chopping wood again, his mouth in a tiny, puckered O. He’s whistling a happy tune, I can tell.
I slip into different clothes and run up to the main floor with a newfound joie de vivre. I’m replaying last night on repeat, dissecting all the little ways Hector lit me up with his comfort, care, and roaming caresses.
That’s until I see a familiar face sitting at the kitchen table, makeup done, French-tipped nails resting around the brim of the gingerbread coffee mug I’ve been using since I arrived.
“Mom?” I ask, skidding to a stop. “What are you doing here?”
“A hello would be nice,” she says, getting up, crossing the room in four strides, and then hugging me with all the warmth of a blast freezer. “You weren’t answering my calls and I was worried about you.”
Grandma catches my eye from across the kitchen. The way she scrunches up her mouth means she wants to say I’m sorry, but she can’t right now. Mom leans back, looking me over.
“Are you just here for the day? Did someone drive you? What’s going on?” I have twenty-seven more questions for her, but these are the only ones I can formulate because right outside, Hector is hard at work. Despite my better instincts, I’m uncertain what Mom will think of him. I’m even more uncertain how to introduce him.
We’ve surpassed sharers-of-bunk-beds and odd-couple-working-together. We’ve even surpassed casual friends. We made a pact, but I don’t expect Mom to understand any of that.
“I thought it would be nice if we could go somewhere to talk,” she says. Her expression hasn’t changed from the straightforward stare she plastered on when she greeted me.
She’s not some monster of a mother. I know she cares. I know she loves me. But she has this habit of acting like Anna Winston-Prince the author instead of Anna Winston-Prince the woman who raised me whenever we’ve been apart for a significant period.
I hate it. It makes me feel like some fan who’s waiting for her to sign my books. There are few moments in my life where I have felt like just her son, plain and uncomplicated. The last was when I got into NYU. Look how that worked out.
All the other moments on the timeline of my life have fluctuated somewhere between a priority that needs to be dealt with or a hindrance that needs to be dealt with. I’m curious how she sees me now.
“There’s that cozy parlor in the B and B that does afternoon tea. Wouldn’t that be nice?”
“Sure,” I say, not in the mood or mindset to argue. “Let me just grab my coat.”
“Perfect. Maxim already left. I’ll call us a RideShare,” she says.
