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“That was so good,” he mutters with a mouthful of food while his eyes roll back dramatically.
“Where did Alex even get the ingredients for that?” I ask before taking another bite.
He shrugs. “I have no idea. One minute we were drinking screwdrivers, and the next kettle corn was being passed around.”
Uh-oh. We’ve hit dangerous territory. When the before-graduation camping story comes up and screwdrivers have been mentioned, it’s time to tread lightly.
But something is making me bolder. Maybe it's the similar scenery. Maybe it’s how close we’re sitting. Maybe it’s the out-of-body experience the god-blessed creek gave me—but I’m curious to finally know.
I want answers.
“Hmm. You know, to this day I still can’t drink screwdrivers.”
Like a jungle cat lowering its body and dilating its pupils, his body stills next to mine. “No?” he whispers.
“No,” I confirm.
“Huh,” he says, but it doesn't sound like a realization.
“Yeah, you know, it’s strange. I can drink mimosas no problem. But there’s something about screwdrivers that triggers that…associated memory.”
“Yeah?” he asks, before clearing his throat and shoveling three large bites of food in his mouth.
“But you know what’s weird? I have the strongest memory of that night, but there’s something that I never quite figured out.”
Okay, Angela, you are playing with fire here!
The corner of Rafael’s eye finds me. “What’s that?” he asks, like he doesn’t know where this is going.
“Why didn’t you kiss me?”
Cue atomic bomb.
He huffs a disbelieving laugh. “What are you talking about?”
Oh no. I didn’t come this far for him to back out. This is so far past where I promised myself I would ever take this conversation. I've passed the point of no return, and I’m dragging him with me.
I push my stir fry around with my fork. “I’m talking about Spin the Bottle. And how you kissed every person the spin landed on.” Fuck, I’m doing my best to stay calm and poised right now, but I am sweating bullets on the inside. Regardless, I continue. “You kissed Alex. And Jess. And Pakhuri. And Austin,” I drawl. “But when the bottle finally landed on me, you… What? Decided enough was enough?”
For a very long time after that night, I thought he wouldn’t kiss me because I was fat. You’d never guess I had those insecurities from my confidence level now, but young Angie was deeply insecure.
There were six of us there. Five trim people, and one me. That tendril of insecurity only grew when I watched Rafael time and time again only date—only hook up with—other fit people. By the time I grew out of my body-hatred and started loving it in my mid-twenties, I thought I had wiped my slate clean. It wasn’t until the end of our graduate studies that I realized his rejection probably wasn’t about my body, and it most likely about him not wanting to ruin our friendship. That made more sense, but it never fully erased my first suspicion.
But to this day, I’ve only ever seen Rafael’s hookups in one form—lean. I still love and appreciate my body, but every time I meet one of his fleeting partners, I can’t help thinking, Of course. That’s his type.
Many times I’ve had to remind myself, It’s fine that I’m not his type—people's attractions can be varied and narrow and it’s all valid. But a dark part of me wants him to admit it now.
“Angie, we don’t need to talk about—”
“No, we do,” I cut him off. “I’m tired of pussyfooting around this, Raf. Tell me why you couldn’t kiss me.”
“I wanted to kiss you!” he blurts, with a ferocity I’ve only seen when he’s playing rugby. “Fuck, Angie. Why did you have to bring this up?”
“What?” I ask—seriously ask. Because that honestly surprised the shit out of me.
Abruptly, he stands up and takes my almost-empty bowl along with his and sets them to the side. “Why didn’t I kiss you?” he asks with eyes wide and his fingers combing through the dark, wavy mess on his head. “Other than the fact that we’re just friends?”
“We were there with other friends.”
