Santiago
I swipe my towel across the foggy bathroom mirror. My ragged face stares back at me, with my beard growing out and my hair looking rough around the edges. I’ve never had it this long before. I run a hand through the locks, my fingers catching on a few knots from my shower.
Is this who I want to show the world this weekend? The guy who let his circumstances break him to a point where he barely recognizes himself? And more importantly, is this the guy I want to be in front of Chloe? I want to impress her, not make her want to run in the opposite direction.
One look at myself has me wondering why she didn’t run the first chance she had. I look like someone who has seen way better days. Hell, someone who has seen a way better life.
I tug open one of the vanity drawers and pull out my supplies to trim my beard. It might only be a cosmetic change, but it’s a change nonetheless.
It takes me what feels like forever to remove all the excess facial hair. I run a hand over the stubble and smile. “Now, what the fuck am I going to do about my hair?”
“Honey, I’m home!” Chloe calls out from the front door.
I walk into the entryway, eyeing her suitcases which look one trip away from falling apart. How those ragged bags lasted all the way here from America blows my mind.
“Holy shit!” she gasps. “Who are you and what have you done with Santiago?”
Based on Chloe’s reaction, the major haircut was worth it. My head feels a hundred times lighter, with the strands styled how I used to like it.
“Hey.” I rub the back of my neck.
Her eyes move from my face to my hair to my face again. “Wow. That’s what you were hiding under that beard and hair? It’s like The Devil Wears Prada, but manlier. And definitely hotter by like a thousand degrees.”
I laugh under my breath and tilt my head toward her bags. “You’re bringing all that for a weekend trip?”
“No. I was planning on moving in here afterward. What do you think?” She speaks in a singsong voice as she bats her lashes in a way that screams everything but innocence.
“Cute,” I offer in a dry voice.
“I checked out of the bed-and-breakfast for the weekend because money doesn’t grow on trees around here. Do you mind if I store some of my bags here?” Her eyes drop to her ratty sneakers.
I hate how the topic of money seems to embarrass her. Obviously I can’t hide the fact that I have plenty of it, and her struggles add a gap between us that I hate. I want to tell her how, at the end of the day, a bank account can only make someone so happy. After a certain threshold, dollar signs become meaningless, like the people who flock to me because of it.
I choose against it, not wanting to embarrass her more. “You can keep them here. For a second I thought you were way more high maintenance than I pegged you for,” I tease, wanting to rid her of her nervousness.
“God no. I’m about as high maintenance as a pet goldfish.” She pushes her luggage toward me.
“The one I had growing up died, so I don’t have a good baseline to compare it to.” I grab it from her and roll it into the closet underneath the stairs.
“Seeing as I never had a pet to begin with, it’s not like I can either.”
I laugh again, and she grins. It’s a beautiful look on her, with her eyes shining under the bright light of the chandelier. I’m tempted to kiss her. Right here, right now.
Her lips part as her eyes analyze my face. I inch closer, moving to wrap my hand around her neck.
My mom’s custom ringtone interrupts us. I groan, rubbing a hand down my face. “I better go answer that. Make yourself at home while I grab my bags.”
Her shoulders drop a centimeter. It’s subtle, but the move has my pulse quickening. I like making her want me. It brings a hopeful part of me back I stored away long ago. One I’m afraid of letting loose in the first place, not because I don’t want to, but because there’s no stopping it once it starts. And that’s a dangerous game with someone who only plans on being here temporarily.
I make my way into my bedroom and grab my phone off the nightstand. A voicemail from my mom pops up on the screen. She rambles about packing extra clothes just in case we end up attending multiple activities in one day. Even after moving out at eighteen, she still babies me.
I move toward my luggage on the bed, shuffling my clothes around until it all fits. As I drag my luggage off the bed, it slips from my hands and slams on the ground. A shot of straight agony shoots to my right leg. My lungs burn from the sudden inhale of breath I take.