I press my hands to my eyes. This has been an unpleasant day. Like a train bearing down on me, a great truth has been rolling in, and as I lie here in this embarrassment of a hotel room, I have no choice but to acknowledge that I want Izzy Jenkins to like me.
Because I like her. I like her stripy hair and the way she plays dirty. I like that she challenges me. I like that she’s so much more interesting than she seems at first glance. I want to be the one person who knows every inch of the real Izzy.
My phone beeps: another message from the family WhatsApp, which has turned into a long-running game of let’s-annoy-Lucas, with a detour into a series of rapid-fire questions about barbecue marinades from my sister.
Hey Lucas, how’s your date going?? Ana asks, with a gif of a giggling elephant whose significance I couldn’t possibly begin to understand.
I hesitate for a moment and then, on impulse, I tap on her name and click video call.
She answers after three rings, with her ringlets pinned and enormous fake eyelashes swooping up to her eyebrows.
“Well, hello,” she says, cocking her head.
“It isn’t a date,” I say. Whenever I call family, it feels a little strange slipping back into Portuguese again. I am a slightly different man in my mother tongue. Bolder, firmer, louder. I don’t think either English Lucas or Brazilian Lucas is the truer one, but the two languages bring out different sides to me, and right now I want to remember the version of myself who breathes through his Rs and goes after what he wants.
“But you wish it was,” Ana says. She’s looking at herself in a mirror, adjusting her eyelashes.
“Where are you going?”
“An actual date,” she says, pouting at her reflection. “He’s coming here.”
“Isn’t it the middle of the afternoon?”
“It’s nap time. I have a two-hour window and a guy who is very open-minded. Don’t deflect, you called me for a reason—what’s up?”
“Oh, I won’t take up your window of—”
“Lucas.”
“Fine. I’ll be quick. I think I like her. Izzy. My co-worker. She tried to kiss me and I blew her off because . . . she hates me. I don’t want to kiss her like that, you know?”
Ana inhales between her teeth. “And she got upset about it.”
“Mm. Now she hates me more than ever.”
“Her pride is bruised. There’s a reason it’s harder for women to approach men than the other way around—when the world tells you your worth is about men desiring you, it’s hard to take it when they don’t, and we’re scared to be rejected. You’ve given her a knock-back. You need to work extra hard to make her feel better again.”
“How do I do that?”
Ana puckers her lips. I’m not sure if this is lipstick related or something to do with me.
“What’s she like? What makes her feel good about herself?”
“She’s very independent. And she has a lot of friends. And she likes second-hand things, and pick-and-mix.”
Ana’s face suddenly warms into a smile. “Oh, you are smitten.”
I growl.
“You’ll know what to do. If you really like her, it’ll come to you, because if you’re made for each other, you’re made to heal her when she’s hurting. I have to go, but I’m glad you called. I’m so proud of you over there, studying, working, going for what you actually want. I miss you.”
“Miss you, too. I love you,” I say. Something else that’s much easier to say in Portuguese. “Enjoy your date. I hope—”
The door opens and a pink-nosed, snow-covered Izzy pokes her head in.
“Oh, sorry, are you on the phone?” she says, pausing mid step.
“Is that her?” Ana asks, thankfully in Portuguese.
“Bye,” I say before she can say anything incriminating and easily translatable. “Don’t worry,” I tell Izzy as I hang up, “we were finished.”
“Look,” Izzy says, “it’s extremely cold outside and I just got sprayed with slush by a passing bus, so I really need a hot bath. Can we just agree to coexist in silence and forget that”—she points at the bed—“ever happened?”
I will not be forgetting that kiss. Yes, it came at the wrong moment, and yes, my mind was racing, but the feeling of Izzy’s lips against mine—her hand on me, her tongue, that cinnamon-sugar scent . . . My body just lit up, as if that kiss was a match thrown on a fire, and it took all of my strength to resist her.