Jaz & Miguel (8 page)

"Nah, it's fine. Look, I'm ... sorry about yesterday." Jaz's
eyebrows lifted a fraction, the only explanation being that she was amazed at
his apology. He let it slide, understanding himself that it was amazing that
she'd even arrived here despite the magnanimous ass he'd made of himself the
day before. "It's just ... well, now you know." He gestured to
Sandile and Elize's empty seats. "He's never told anyone about Elize. I
thought he was being crazy .... That and—" He stopped.

"That and what?"

And then he smiled again—but not on purpose.

And Jaz smiled as well, and he could see her smile was not on
purpose either, because her cheeks had gone slightly pink, the hue mostly
concentrated at her cheekbones.

"No, that's all," he said, an imaginary wire just
incessantly tugging away at the corners of his mouth, pulling his lips upward.

"You lie!" And she punched him.

It took him by surprise. "Hey!"

But he didn't punch her back. He knew this part—he'd punch her back
and then she'd punch him and then the whole thing would be about how cute and
funny it was that they were punching each other. And it
was
cute; it just wasn't what he needed right now. (Although he
appreciated her easygoing attitude).

She waited as he settled back into his chair. He was still smiling,
but out of choice this time.

"What I wanted to say," he continued, "was that I was"—he
rolled his eyes—"
rude
... because ... well"—he couldn't
fucking believe he was about to say this—"I was ...
glad
... that Sandile had not picked some bimbo, but someone who"—he
cleared his throat—"looked half-decent as a person." There, he said
it.

He looked away.
God that was hard!

He saw her smiling, and her cheeks going even more pink, her light
complexion being to her distinct disadvantage now.

"Oh," she said, clearly embarrassed, gulping another
mouthful of beer.

For your run-of-the-mill date (which this wasn't) he knew this was
going well—he'd flirted with many a babe before. He knew he was saying the
right things at the right times (probably out of habit), so he stopped himself.
If this had been years ago, he would've turned and gazed into her eyes and
asked her some lame question that all chicks dug and which would make her feel
like he was completely interested in her.

But this was not a few years ago. And he wasn't going to take fate
and destiny in his own hands for this one. This one—or,
the
one—would play out as the gods (or whoever) chose. Miguel was not
interested in a fling.
The next
girl he'd be with would either be the
one
or would come damn near close
to being the one. And finding that one would mean he'd have to be as "unflirtatious"
as ever (was that even a word?) He'd have to put all that charming crap he and
Sandile had used all those years before, aside.

So he wiped the smile off his face, and became cool—not cool like L.
L., but cool like
reserved
.

"Let's get out of here," he said.

Jaz was light-headed from the beer when she got up, and tripped
slightly over the wooden chair. She giggled and Miguel held her up. She was
more than light-headed. She was downright tipsy. Alcohol had never really been
her thing, and she made a mental note that it probably never would be (legal
drinking age of twenty-one or not).

The unsteady floor was what gave it away: the charming smile and
twinkling glint in Miguel's eyes were, probably, more the result of her altered
perception of reality rather than an actuality. She excused herself and went to
the bathroom and splashed some water on her face, noticing that she hadn't
plucked one hair of her right eyebrow and hoping that Miguel hadn't noticed.
Do
boys ever notice these things anyway?

She wondered if she should have put on more make-up, but it was
clear in her mind when she'd gotten ready that morning that she wasn't going to
do anything with this Miguel guy, even if that clarity had begun to fade after
the two beers.
Although, a touch of lipstick would've
maybe gone a long way. However, to put it on now would've made her only look like—what
had he called it?—some
bimbo
.

In a way, she was a little uneasy about the rest of the day. What
would they do now? And now that he'd proven that he wasn't a total ass (and, in
fact, quite sweet), had she lost her chance by having dressed like a complete
prude?

Jaz turned to look at her boobs in the mirror, first from the right,
then the left. She faced forward and pressed on either side of them, then gave
a disappointed sigh. They'd never been her best asset—and what good was a
push-up for a 34B anyway?

You're just a late bloomer, honey. It's normal!
That's what her mom had always said. A more irritating statement
there could've never been. She wondered if they'd grown since she'd been in
South Africa, but she knew that was only wishful thinking. Whereas Rae had
sprouted pretty much overnight from ironing board to damn near blow-up doll,
Jaz's progress had been much slower. She'd first started noticing their growth
when she'd been about fourteen, although they stayed at bud-stage for all of
that year. At sixteen, she finally made it up to 32A. Rae usually measured them
for her, although she'd learned to do it by herself because her paranoia made
her measure them almost daily for a while, and she didn't want Rae to know
that. She remembered when she finally made it up to 34B (an eternity of
waiting) at seventeen. She called Rae and they partied all night. But Jaz just
told her that she was in a good mood, the whole subject of breast size having
been long since gone for Rae by that time. Although, she recalled, Rae
had
seemed
like she'd grown a bit herself when Jaz saw her that night. Always a step (or a
cup) behind the other girls—that was how Jaz felt about herself most of the
time.

It was on that night that she gave up on the push-up (she'd
immediately gone out and bought one on discovering her new measurements and worn
it all night). A push-up on Rae made her look desirable, but on Jaz, it had only
made her look young and desperate. So, she came to discover the simple padded
bra, bought herself a few, and left it at that, measuring herself maybe once a
month now—but not since she'd gotten to South Africa. Her main measuring
instrument had since become the mirror. And the mirror was not smiling at her
today. Especially as she'd somehow convinced herself to not even wear a padded bra
to this encounter.

Idiot!

 It had dawned already on Jaz (perhaps when she'd seen herself in
the mirror, perhaps when she'd seen Miguel with Elize at their table) that, as
much as she'd tried to convince herself that she was here to "meet Elize"
or "discover the bond between these two guys" (what crap, now that
she thought about it) the Occam's Razor of it all was that Miguel was, simply,
hot
.
He was, like, drop-down-on-the-ground-and-fan-me hot.

So now she just felt stupid for tagging along, because that friggin
line about looking "half-decent" was—
Urgh!
She'd blown it.

First of all, had that been a compliment or an insult? And, second
of all, if it had been a compliment, did he just expect her to melt and swoon from
such a lame line? She looked herself in the mirror once more (wondering if he'd
seen that tiny blackhead forming on her left temple), straightened her dress
and headed out.

Miguel was leaning on a railing—Mr. Cool. She gathered by the way he
stood there—and also by the way he'd spoken to her earlier (smiling at all the
right times, gazing deeply at her eyes for just long enough to raise her
heartbeat, and then looking away)—that he knew how to act and talk around girls
and knew how to get their blood rate going with just with a few words (or just
a few breaths) so that they'd need to sit down and exhale slowly to relax.

And now it was obvious why he didn't have "a" girlfriend:
he probably had several of them!

She wouldn't be one of those girls. No ways. She needed to put a
stop to this.

"Uh, Miguel, look ... I really appreciate what you're doing for
Sandile and everything ... but ... I mean, I'm just not ready for a
relationship with someone and ... I mean, I would just need to get to know—"

He held his hand up to her. "Neither am I." And he smiled.
It was like one of those relieved smiles and, for the smallest instant, she
felt a little—well ….

Was she just not
good
enough for him?
But then she realized that this is exactly what she'd wanted so why was she so
upset about it?
So she decided not to be upset, forced
a smile, and said, "Great!" (Although, inside, something didn't feel
great about it). She noticed that, all along, she'd held some small desire that
this
boy would've been something different; that he
would've been—what was the word?—the
one
.

They walked out of the mall (which she came to know they called "Shopping
Centers" down there) and into his car—a not-so-old-but-not-so-new navy
blue Toyota something-or-other sedan. Miguel opened the door and let her in.

"So where are we going?" she asked.

"You'll see."

A nervous anticipation buzzed at her chest. Unable to control
herself (much like her autonomous hand from earlier and from the day before)
she blurted out a question which she instantly regretted: "So, do you have
a girlfriend?"

Fuck! Why did I ask him that? Could I sound any more desperate?

"No—actually. I don't. I haven't even … been with a girl for
two years, actually."

He hasn't "been" with a girl for two years, meaning he
hasn't
slept
with one in two years, or what?
What, has he "been" with—
guys
?!

"I see."

She prayed he wasn't gay. This would
not
be good! But he didn't seem gay. Yeah, yeah, as bad as it sounded,
she believed the stereotype that gay people always acted a little, well, "gay"—and
Miguel seemed about as macho as they came.

But, then again, wasn't that a prejudiced idea about gay people?

"And you?" he asked.

Her mind was racing. "I'm sorry?"

"Do you have … a boyfriend?"

"Oh"—nervous giggle, throat clearing—"no, I don't."

Miguel nodded.

They drove for three or four minutes (Jaz secretly freaking out
every time she thought they were headed into oncoming traffic) when Miguel
finally spoke again. "Sandile said you read a lot. Do you?"

Did she read a lot? What a question. "A little."

"There's a Kindle in there." He pointed to the glove
compartment.

Now she knew he was gay—oh no, wait, maybe the Kindle was full of
Sci Fi—then that would mean he wasn't gay!

She made a mental note to
stop thinking about whether or not Miguel
is gay!

She pulled out the Kindle. "What kinds of books are in here?"

"Oh, you know, whatever. Mostly adventures and thrillers."

Thank God!

Jaz pored through his library. There must've been
hundreds
of books in there. "You actually read all of these?"

"Definitely not," he said, a touch of embarrassment on his
face. "I mean, I go on there often enough and pull down a bunch of freebies—sometimes
even regardless of genre. Every now and then I'll buy one. The ones I buy I always
read. The rest are just ... you know ... something I'll get to some day. That's
what I say to myself at least."

Jaz looked for her favorite authors: J.A. Redmerski, J. Sterling, Jamie
McGuire, Colleen Hoover ... heck, not even a Sandra Brown?
She did find a Nicholas Sparks though. "You've
read
Safe Haven
?" she asked, sounding more than a little shocked.

"Uh—yes." He cleared his throat. "There's a great
action scene in the end. Very thrilling. I skipped most of the beginning though."
That was acceptable, she figured.

Ahh, but if he didn't have any romances …. She looked for another
one. Where was it? Where
was
it? Nothing. "No
'Fifty Shades of Grey'?" she asked suspiciously.

Miguel laughed through his nose. "Hell no! I mean, if I wanted
that kind of stuff I'd just put on a movie or—" He stopped, wide eyed with
embarrassment and staring at Jaz.

Now it was she who rolled her eyes. "Boys," she said,
shaking her head and smiling.

"So, we're here," said Miguel. "Bring the Kindle."

Jaz looked up from the Kindle, and her breath stopped for a moment.
Probably so did her heart.

The view … was
breathtaking
.

She'd been so engulfed in the books that she'd failed to see that
they'd travelled all the way up some hill or mountain and, what she saw now,
was a dizzying panoramic view of all of Johannesburg, sprawled out in all its
glory ahead of them, as if they were lions atop a mountain, not a care in the
world, not a problem in sight.
The sky was bare of
clouds;
the only sound, a whooshing wind banging around
outside the vehicle.