“Yes,” he says immediately, relieved. “Please.”
They’re rounding the corner when someone bumps straight into him, and he feels ice-cold liquid splash across his side.
He immediately lurches back with a hiss, but it’s too late. Half his shirt is soaked through, the fabric sticking too tight to his skin, and he smells overwhelmingly like beer—not even the expensive kind.
“Shit,” the perpetrator mutters, too stupidly drunk to apologize. His glazed-over eyes stay on Julius for about one-fifth of a second, less time than it took for him to spill his entire drink over his brand-new nine-hundred-dollar shirt, and Julius forces himself to exhale, to swallow down a series of foul words. If he were alone, he wouldn’t drop it. He’d need compensation, if not financial then certainly emotional, some form of acknowledgment that being drenched with bad beer is a less-than-ideal way to finish a night that was, up until now, pretty great. But Sadie is with him, and he doesn’t want to risk getting into an argument. Doesn’t want to scare her.
So he turns to leave, but then he hears Sadie yell out over the pounding music—
“Hey, aren’t you going to apologize?”
If he weren’t so familiar with the sound of her voice, he wouldn’t believe it was her talking. The model student, the people pleaser, the girl who always speaks like she’s in a library, who hates confrontation almost as much as she hates failing. She’s the last person he’d expect to shout at a stranger in a bar. But there she is, eyes flashing, standing her ground, her jaw clenched with indignation. She steps out in front of Julius, arms crossed over her chest. She’s a whole foot shorter than the guy with the beer, but she shows no fear. It’s like watching a tiny rabbit attack a bear.
The guy frowns at her. “Huh?”
“I literally just watched you spill your drink on my boyfriend,” Sadie says, her voice growing louder and firmer. “And you didn’t even say sorry.”
“It’s okay, Sadie,” Julius tells her quietly, shocked to even be in this position.
“No, it’s not okay,” Sadie mutters, angling her head back, her features softening briefly as she focuses on him. “You really liked that shirt.”
“I can buy a new one—”
“I’m sure you can, but it’s the principle of the matter,” Sadie insists. “You deserve an apology.”
“I—I didn’t see him,” the guy stammers, his face flushed.
“That’s not a good enough excuse,” Sadie tells him.
And maybe it’s the fierceness in her expression, the sheer, unwavering intensity with which she’s staring the guy down, or the fact that she’s definitely drawing upon her public speaking techniques from all the assemblies they’ve led, but he bows his head like an admonished child. “Sorry, man,” he mumbles to Julius. “My bad. I’ll watch it next time.”
“All good,” Julius says. He can barely feel the dampness in his clothes anymore. He’s too busy staring at Sadie, who begrudgingly lets the guy slink off into the crowd with his empty beer cup.
“What?” Sadie says, meeting his gaze, the anger dissolving from her face.
He shakes his head, wordless. How to explain it, even to himself. She has said before that she would choose him, but it still floors him to know she would protect him, stand up for him, care about him this much. Nobody has before. “You didn’t have to do that” is what he manages at last.
But Sadie just shoots him an incredulous look. “Yeah, um, of course I did.” Like that settles it. Like he doesn’t just deserve to be cared about, but it’s natural, unquestionable. His throat tightens. Impulsively, he rests his hand on the back of her head, feeling the heat exuding through her soft hair, just under his fingertips, and she relaxes against his touch with a sigh, like this is natural too, and he feels a love so immense it might actually crush him.
“Come on,” Sadie says, reaching into her purse for napkins, because of course she just happens to be carrying spare napkins around with her. “Let’s head back. Oh my god, you know what,” she says excitedly, “I just remembered—I think I saw Scrabble at the Airbnb …”
As if he couldn’t love her more.
Sometimes, I’ll build up this vision inside my head, and it’s so perfect, so beautiful, that I’m convinced reality can’t live up to it.
I was terrified of that happening with this trip. That I turned it into a fantasy, promised myself too much, classic case of false advertising, and once we landed on solid ground and started exploring the city, things would go wrong. I would end up disappointed; my hopes would be foiled one way or another.
Yet it’s even better than I daydreamed about. Not because it goes precisely according to plan—we only visit half the restaurants I searched up and saved, and we have to adjust a few of the activities on my itinerary because of uncooperative weather. But that doesn’t matter, not when I’m with Julius.
On Wednesday morning, we get brunch at a hole-in-the-wall dim-sum spot, where you can tell it’s authentic because the waitresses ignore you and the menus are laminated, the prices adjusted via Sharpie, unavailable menu options directly scribbled over. The tables are close enough together that I feel like we’re dining with the old couple next to us. I order salted egg yolk buns for us to share, and we both eat quietly, pretending not to be eavesdropping on the couple as they rant about their son-in-law.What kind of man, the wife tuts,forgets to take his clothes out of the laundry machine for a week?
We go grocery shopping in the afternoon, finding our way around the Asian supermarket on Clement Street, and I bake the egg tarts Julius loves so much back in our Airbnb. I call over the sound of the TV to ask him how much half a pound is in grams, and he joins me in the kitchen, wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me back toward him, and I’m laughing, flour dusted on my forehead, pretending to complain about how he’s getting in the way. We set the timer together, and soon the air is rich with the fragrance of custard and butter. He takes a giant bite while it’s still steaming hot and tells me it’s the best thing he’s ever had.
When the day draws to a close, we head down to the beach together. In the back of the car, he rests one hand on my thigh, his finger lightly tapping out a rhythm in beat with the music blasting from the speakers, and I stare out the window so he can’t see me smiling. Once the driver drops us off, we find a bench to watch the sun sink beneath the sea. It looks like liquid gold from here, its last rays the brightest, most dazzling, the orange of the sky burning against the deep, cold blue of the water. Seagulls fly in a straight line across the horizon, heading home before it gets dark.
I can’t stop grinning up at him. I feel almost drunk with affection, so deliriously happy that he’s here. We could talk about anything, do anything. With everyone else, it feels like I’m scrambling to keep up with their pace, yet still somehow always off by a beat or a key. But with him, there’s a natural rhythm unique to only us, the flow of words, the space between breaths, the shift of his body next to mine.
Then there’s the modern Italian restaurant we visit on Thursday night, the one Julius apparently reserved for us weeks in advance, even though this is technically cheating andIshould be in charge of all our dinner plans for this week. But it has such high ratings and the menu looks so appealing that I don’t have the heart to protest. The interior is fancy without being too flashy, and we’re seated right by the window, with a view of the city and the rippling water.
