Page 17 of American Sweethearts

He gave me a serious look, almost as if to gauge if I really wanted to hear his full opinion on things. “So are you feeling like things are as good as they’ll get?”

It’s what I’d beenavoidingfeeling.

Before I could censor myself or change the real answer, I said it out loud. “I just wonder if this is what I want to do forever.”

Another grunt. “You don’t have to. I mean, look at Papi. I think he’s happier running that center than he ever was being a cop, and that man bled blue. You can reinvent yourself, Pris.”

I felt a flash of resentfulness, because that was easy for Juan Pablo to say—he had the dream job with the Yankees making six figures. Meanwhile,mydream job involved coaching people on how to masturbate better and peddling vibrators. Which didn’t exactly come with benefits and I was still not sure I could ever even tell my parents about it.

No. I was going nowhere.

I sighed, the easy feeling from before dulled by the conversation. “I think I’ll sit tight in the NYPD. I love my side hustle and that’s good enough for now.”

It was dark, so I couldn’t see his face, but I could tell he was trying to figure out what I wasn’t saying, but when he finally opened his mouth, I almost fell over. “Your blog is good and so is your podcast. I honestly think people would pay for what you have to say.”

“You listen to my podcast?” I asked, floored, because I wasn’t exactly advertising among friends and family.

“Milo turned me on to it, since somebody didn’t let me know about it.” He sounded a little hurt and my dumb “never going to learn its lesson” heart skipped a beat. “It’s good. You’re talking some next level woke shit on there. Sex, blackness, queer issues, feminism. It’s dope.”

Before I knew what I was doing, my hand—probably by instinct—searched out his. I squeezed and pressed a kiss to his lips. “Thanks for the vote of confidence.”

“You know I think you’re the smartest woman on the planet,” he griped. “No matter what mess is going on between us, I will always cape for you.”

This was true; even when we could barely stand to be in the same room, if anyone dared say anything to me about Juan Pablo, they were getting their ass handed to them and I knew for sure it was the same for him.

“What do you think?”

I realized that in my musings about all the ways we were inexorably tangled for better or worse, I’d missed something he’d said. “Sure,” I said, and he laughed.

“You have no idea what I just asked, do you?”

I snorted and sat up. It was getting mad late and the sex and bubbly had me a little woozy. “Tell me again.”

“I asked if you’ve given any more thought to doing one of your workshops at the center. Papi is happy to lend you the space.”

I was glad for the darkness because I knew my face had to be slack from surprise. “You asked your dad already?”

He scoffed again and found my hand. “Your stuff is needed. My dad’s been trying to find more ways to work with LGBT+ adults Uptown.”

I tried to dissect the last few minutes for any kind of hidden agenda or if this was just J’s way of keeping the lines of communications open now that we’d hooked up. But I was either too moved by the offer, or too addled by the sex to catch it. “I do have this workshop I do with Bri about pleasure for Trans and black bodies. We’ve been trying to find a spot to do it. I also have the one about pleasure after sixty.”

“Papi will be down for both of those, and I’m there a lot during the off-season. We can make it work. So can I hit you up when we’re back in the city?”

I was tempted, so tempted to say yes, to just let the things I was feeling make my mind up for me and accept the olive branch J was extending. The offer to be back in each other’s lives. Still, I wasn’t sure I could open that door just yet. What had happened just now felt too good, safe. And I wasn’t sure I could handle losing it again.

So I leaned in and kissed him long and hard, like we usually did. Then I got up, and grabbed my sandals from the sand.

“I’ll let you know. Take care, J.”

chapter twelve

New York City, Two Weeks Later

juan pablo

“Did you call her?” I didn’t have to ask who because my mother had been asking me the same question every hour on the hour for the last two days. She was throwing a surprise party for my dad’s sixty-fifth birthday in a few days and she’d decided the party couldn’t happen without Priscilla. Meanwhile I was still smarting for the way she’d ghosted me after that night at the beach. Not because she hadn’t been jumping at the chance to pick up where we’d left off—or maybe just a little bit. But because I’d hoped that, like me, she’d felt like we were worth another try.

I looked up from my overthinking to find my mother glaring at me, obviously over my bullshit. “Ma. She’s busy. I don’t know if she’s going to have time to come. Besides, she’s not in the Bronx anymore.”