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Now that they’ve finally fucked, Clove thinks it’s about time they go on their first date.
She really doesn’t want to jinx anything, but she’s excited. She resists the urge to squirm in her seat as she applies her makeup, her smiley cheeks making an easy canvas for her rosey pink blush. She had even curled her hair for the occasion, the loose ringlets being pinned in place by her shiniest pair of pearl hair clips.
She frowns at her reflection, suddenly realizing that one of the clips is significantly higher than the other. She gently disentangles it and redoes it—over and over and over—until they’re objectively identical.
Phew. That would have been a disaster.
“Are you gonna wear your new blouse?”
Clove purses her lips to disguise her ear-splitting grin. Of course she was going to wear her new blouse. She bought it for this exact occasion, but it wasn’t like she was going to admit that to Flora. She’d tease her into next week.
“Maybe,” Clove replies, trying to keep it casual. “Gingham is so totally in this summer.”
“Blue also makes your eyes pop.”
Clove finally allows herself to smile. Blue does make her eyes pop, and Avendano loves her eyes. He’s only told her a million times.
She takes a deep breath, trying to savor the feeling of butterflies zipping around her belly. She really likes Avendano. She loves him. And he loves her.
It was exhilarating in the moment, when they shared the confession between kiss-bruised lips and jizz-splattered bodies, but she can feel herself getting squirmy again. She shifts in her seat to get her blood pumping again, but she only gets colder and colder and colder.
She was just being dramatic, really. The last date she went on was with Saffron’s mangled corpse in a Capitol coffin, but that wasn’t really a date. She just wanted to see that he was dead with her own two eyes.
He was.
So, what? She hasn’t really been excited for a date—for a boy— in years, so her body’s probably going through shock right now. Like, lock her up and throw away the key.
She sighs at herself, glaring at her reflection. If only her eyelashes weren’t too short and stubby for mascara. And if only her eyebrows weren’t so bald. It makes the red lipstick that Flora is dabbing on her lips look cheap and gaudy and costume-y.
“Stop.” It comes out harsher than she means it. She grits her teeth and tries again. “I can’t pull off whore-red like you do.”
“You fucking bitch.” Flora snorts at her. Thank Aphrodite. “I thought you wanted something pigmented enough to mark him.”
Clove snorts back. She really did. “Not red. It makes me look—it’s just not my color, okay? I want something pink.”
She rifles through her makeup supplies until she finds the perfect shade. She couldn’t lug her vanity from her childhood home into their small apartment, but she refused to downsize.
Besides, the way Flora does her eyeliner makes the no-lashes-no-brows dilemma work in her favor. Clove learned through a lot of trial and error that light brown liner makes her look less like a tarot card reader and more like a semi-bald fairy.
She pulls on her baby blue gingham crop top and matching ankle-length skirt. Flora helps her knot the tie-up straps into secure bows. Clove smooths out the lace decorating the hemline, satisfied with their handiwork. Flora can pull off any color lipstick she wants paired with any eyeliner she wants. Sometimes, that makes Clove forget her own set of strengths and weaknesses.
It’s not that she’s ugly. She just really likes Avendano.
He’s all she can think about. She was thinking about him after they fucked and he walked her home. She was thinking about him when she went to sleep. When she woke up. The day he asked her out on an official date. The entire time she was getting ready. And now, as she sits on the faded couch and shoves herself into a pair of strappy saddles, she wonders how much fucking longer he’s going to take. Hadn’t they agreed on 6:30?
“He’s a butcher, Clove,” Flora reminds her. So what? “It doesn’t matter how hard he tries to hide it. He’ll get here, like, probably closer to 7.”
“What?” Clove demands. She thought he liked her. “Then why wouldn’t he say 7?”
“Because then he’d probably pick you up closer to 7:30.”
“What?” She can feel the blood rushing to her head. Before anything can explode, there’s a soft yet firm knock at the door. She takes a deep breath, smooths her skirt down, and tries to compose herself. “Who is it?”
She always has to ask who it is. When they first moved in together, she’d open the door without checking, and it always freaked Flora the fuck out.
“Avendano. Um, Cresta.”
“Okay.” Clove glances at the clock. 6:37. Hmph. “Coming.”
Her eyes widen in surprise the moment she swings the door open. He brought her flowers.
“Oh my clams,” she says, her voice going noticeably soft and emotional. She tries to maintain her recently acquired composure, but it’s hard. He brought her flowers. “You’re so sweet.”
He smiles at her so brightly that she can feel her body soften from the force of it. “And you’re so pretty. And sweet. But very pretty.” He smiles at her some more. She smiles back, putting in a lot of effort to ensure that she doesn’t look too dramatic.
She certainly feels dramatic.
She runs her fingers over the stems, stopping short when her thumb meets an abrupt and choppy end. Upon further examination, they remind her a bit of the flowers Mr. Tate grows in his front yard, all the way down to the faded pink hue. She always used to warn him that overwatering his plants was just as irresponsible as—
“I packed us a picnic, too,” Avendano says, pulling her out of her thoughts. She looks back up at him, not bothering to conceal the smile on her face. She’s always been shit at hiding her emotions, anyway. “I have rice and fish and—and—iced cookies, too.”
Iced cookies? Clove wonders if Nixie gave him a raise. (Not that cookies were that expensive—just that she’s seen Avendano wear the same pair of shoes until they literally disintegrated. He’s the most stubborn—and financially responsible—person she’s ever met.)
“I wanted to splurge,” he continues. Yeah—she really wasn’t being subtle with her face. “Besides, I’ve been to the Playa. Seems criminal to not bring something sweet, yeah?”
“Yeah,” Clove agrees absentmindedly. He has the prettiest brown eyes. She wants to drown in them. “Let me just put these in some water. You can sit down if you want.”
After fishing out something vaguely vase-shaped—she couldn’t save all her stuff when she moved, remember?—they set off for the Playa. She tries to keep it nice and subtle as she brushes her hand against his, which is a pretty weird way to discover that he’s carrying the picnic basket between them. Why is he doing that?
“Are you left-handed?”
He nods. Huh. She wonders if that’s genetic.
She blushes at the thought. She really had been on birth control the day they had sex, but there’s a small part of her that wishes she wasn’t. There’s something so gentle about the way he speaks to her and so intentional about the way he moves that makes her so morbidly curious. And horny.
“You know,” she says, molding her tone into something light and relaxed and non-committal. When she trained at the Academy, Mags used to refer to it as her bimbo voice. The guys—not even the blond ones—ever had anything close to that. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you after the party and everything. I really enjoyed spending time with you.”
The bobble in his throat bulges against his skin. She swears she hears him gulp. “Me—yeah. Me too.”
She doesn’t say anything to that. It’s very intentional.
“Actually,” he adds, which is exactly what she wanted, “that was—that was kinda my first time.”
“Really?” she asks, pretending that she couldn’t tell. “Only kinda?”
He laughs. It’s like it burst out of him. “Yeah. Kinda. Do you love me less?”
How strange, she thinks, to be talking about love while there’s a mile of space between them. She cuddles up to him as best she can with the picnic basket in her way.
“No,” she says honestly, because she’d want him to be honest with her. There’s a time and place for teasing, and the walk to the carriage station is not it. “I love you. It’s all I can ever think about.”
“Me too,” he repeats. He clears his throat. “Really. Just ask Nixie—he hasn’t even met you but he’s already sick of you. Well—not sick of you, but like—I’ve been so distracted at work lately, you know, just waiting for you and Flora to walk in.”
“Me and Flora?” Alright—so maybe she’ll tease him a little bit.
“That’s not what I meant.” He veers off the path to the station. Clove barely manages to keep up in her wedges. “C’mon—I know a shortcut. No carriages necessary. But don’t worry, chula, it’s still just as scenic.”
“Chula?” She really loves his accent, but vocalizing that thought just makes him hide it more, so she doesn’t mention it. “What’s that mean?”
“It’s like—” He tenses up and deflates all at once. Then he lets out a little laugh that’s so infectious she’s already laughing with him. “It’s like calling you babe.”
Oh. Now they’re giggling in full force, because it really does seem a bit silly to be embarrassed about a pet name when they’ve already had a conversation about how much they love each other. Clove wracks her brain trying to come up with something equally romantic, but she draws a blank.
“That’s alright,” he assures her. They cut across the docks, encountering a shallow puddle of water. Instead of walking around it, he steps right over it and holds his hand out to assist her. And, since she’s so desperate for him, she easily plays along. “Just don’t call me a butcher.”
Aren’t you, though?
It’s a question that she just barely manages to bite her tongue in time for. She knows that he doesn’t like it when people call him that, but it’s not like he doesn’t always have fresh bandages on his fingers from all the nicks and cuts. She doesn’t care what he says—there’s a clear difference between rope burn and knife mishandling. Or do butchers use cleavers?
It doesn’t matter either way. She decides to hone in on the pleasant part of their conversation.
“I really like all the slang you use,” she tells him. She likes everything about him, actually. “Mano and chula and way—”
“Way?” he asks. He glances at her like she’s fucking with him. “I think you have the wrong guy.”
Clove gasps. She can’t help it—he’s the only guy. “Don’t even!” she shoots back. “You say it all the time!”
“Yeah?” They hop over another puddle. She hitches her skirt up, suddenly wishing it was a lot shorter so that he has something more substantial to brush up against. “Like when?”
“Like when you talk to your friends.”
That doesn’t seem to provide much clarification. If anything, he stares at her like she grew another head. “My friends?” he says slowly, like the word is foreign to him.
“Yes, your friends! Stop playing dumb!”
“I’m not.” Another puddle. He grips her hand a little tighter this time, which definitely makes her wish that her skirt was shorter. “Don’t say that to me. I just—”
Oh. She thinks they might be fighting, so she gets a bit more flirty this time. (Even though—if she is being honest—she is a bit annoyed that he’s dragging this out for so long.) “You used to say it to Jack and Noah. You even say it to Nixie, sometimes.”
“Oh.” He snorts. “Those aren’t my friends. Those are just my old coworkers.”
“Well, they always seem happy to see you.”
“Well, I can’t fucking stand them.”
Huh. That’s news to her. “Why not?”
“They’re annoying. Everyone is, but not you.”
Huh. Clove doesn’t know if she should be flattered or not, but they’ve finally arrived at the Playa, so she focuses her energy on finding a soft patch of sand to have their picnic on.
“Here,” she decides, because it was close enough to the waves to smell the salt but not close enough to get splashed. Plus, they could see the lights on the ferris wheel from here.
“Yes, ma’am.”
She wrinkles her nose. “Don’t say that. I’m not even that much older than you.”
He looks at her strangely. “What do you mean? How old are you?”
She suddenly feels embarrassed. “Nineteen.”
“Oh, man.” He smooths the towel out, beckoning her to sit down first. It feels oddly chivalrous. “You’re fuckin’ ancient.”
“Shut up,” she demands, giving his shoulder a light shove.
“When’s your birthday?”
“Okay, fine.” She can feel her neck getting red, and that definitely means it’s getting splotchy, and that definitely means that she’s starting to look more like her mom, so she tries to cool herself down with her clammy palms. “I’m almost twenty. But I’m still not that much older than you.”
“That’s not what I was trying to say,” he assures her, his eyes widening to prove it. “I just—I want to know. So I can get you a present.”
“Oh,” she says, which doesn’t help with her embarrassment. She really needs to learn how to tone down her temper. “It’s in November. November 2.”
“Oh,” he echoes. “That’s during Dia de los Muertos.”
“What?”
“Day of the Dead,” he says, as if that clarifies anything at all. “I mean—I know it’s not as popular as Halloween, but don’t your weaver schools mention it at all?”
“I don’t think so. I would have remembered.”
“Of course you would’ve.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing bad.” Huh. Clove doesn’t like that they even have to confirm that they’re not saying anything bad about the other. “Just that—you seem like you have a good memory. Like, that you’re smart.”
“Oh. Well, so do you.”
He laughs. Clove doesn’t see what’s so funny. “I’m fuckin’ dumb. Ma—my mom doesn’t ever let me forget it.”
“Oh.” Clove frowns. “That’s fucking rude.”
“I don’t know. I’m starting to think she’s right.” He’s frowning, too, but he snaps out of it way faster than Clove does. He reaches for the picnic basket. “You hungry? I brought nigiri. And those cookies. And—oh. I brought water and made little coasters for them. So we can be fancy.”
He shows her the pretty clay coasters decorated with glittering sea glass. He hands her the one with a pearl in the center, placing his water bottle on the one with a teeny-tiny starfish. Clove melts right into him, her frown turning upside down.
“I’ve never felt fancier,” she says earnestly. “Like, seriously. You are so sweet.”
He perks up. He seems to really like being called sweet, so Clove makes a mental note of that. Her sweet, sweet boy.
They dig in. Clove’s never had to draw tesserae before, but some of her friends have, and she recognizes the rations as soon as he plates their meals. It doesn’t bother her—he’s not exactly very wealthy—but she wishes he would have let her handle the food.
It doesn’t even have anything to do with how it tastes. He doused it in some sort of garlic ponzu sauce, but it worries her that he went to such lengths to hide the fact that he’s on a budget from her. As if she doesn’t already know. As if she even cares. As if she was incapable of pitching in.
“Does it taste alright?” he asks. She can feel his pulse banging against her ribs.
She scoots in even closer. “It’s really good. Did you make the sauce?”
“It’s good, right? My mom finally shared the recipe, and all it took was telling her that I finally got myself a girlfriend.”
A girlfriend? Clove sets her cheek against his shoulder, inviting her millionth grin of the day onto her face. “You’ve seriously never done this before?”
He nods. She knows he’s telling the truth because he sounds awfully embarrassed about it. “I just—you know. Like I said before, everyone is so fuckin’ annoying. I’m not exempt from that.”
“You’re not annoying! I love being around you.”
“Well, I love you.”
She giggles. She really can’t help it. “I bet I love you more.”
“That’s a game you don’t wanna play, chula,” he says, giving her a peck on her smiley, rosey cheeks. “Do you want dessert?”
She really does. He handles the cookies like they’re something precious the entire time he unpackages them from the container, which she also makes a mental note of. When it’s his birthday, she’s gonna spoil him rotten. And, speaking of that—
“When’s your birthday?”
It’s strange. They’re strange. She knows she loves him, and she knows a lot of important things about him, but something about the salt in the air and the breeze skating across her face is making it abundantly clear that she still has a whole bunch more to learn. And thank Aphrodite for that, because that just means there’s going to be a lot more of him to love. And vice versa.
“Oh, these look too pretty to eat,” she says, examining the cookie closer. It has red icing with yellow sprinkles. It reminds her of a birthday balloon. “Which bakery did you get these from?”
“It’s local,” he says. “Sometimes they do trades with us.”
“Huh?” No offense, because she knows that butchering is very hard work, but what was there to trade?
“Like—gutting fish is easy. But gutting a whole bunch just to salvage the skin for a seasonal pastry is too time-consuming. So we get a little bit in return.”
“Oh.” She had no idea so much work went into stuff like that. “That’s my favorite thing to get. It’s the summertime salmon fishcake, right?”
He smiles at her. She suddenly feels a lot less guilty about it. (Why was she even feeling guilty in the first place?) “Yeah. Want me to swing for some next time?”
She nods, brushing the crumbs off her skirt. Since they’re very in love and in tune with each other’s thoughts, they’re cleaning up their mess and packing up their picnic in no time.
“Full?” he asks.
She nods. She was iffy about that before, but since Avendano brought three cookies (and gave her the extra one!), it’s safe to say that she’s on a sugar high. That must be why she’s courageous enough to reach over and take his hand.
He startles, which makes her startle, but he protests the moment she tries pulling away and apologizing.
“It’s okay. You’re okay. It’s just—I’m not used to this stuff, is all. It’s only my first time.”
“Well, my love, it won’t be the last.” She kisses him on the cheek to prove it. “What do you think about that?”
“I think I’ll love you forever. What do you think about that?”
Even though she’s never been one for theatrics, she’s overcome with the desire to swoon into his chest. She wipes imaginary lint off of his shirt instead. “I think I’ll love you forever, too.”
There’s still a lot more to do—like the ferris wheel—and they sway a little on their feet for a good portion of their walk, tipsy on happiness. Clove hasn’t felt this way in a while, but it makes her feel good and young and wanted.
“Let’s not…” He tugs on her arm a little too firmly for comfort as they approach the vendors on the boardwalk. And, thank Aphrodite, he’s very quick to explain himself. “I don’t like the way people are staring.”
She stares at him. He can’t be serious.
Like, she’s not stupid. She knows that the two of them together—on a date— isn’t something that people see everyday, but it’s not like anyone tried to hate crime them over it. All anyone’s done all day is do a double take and then get on with their day.
“There’s lots of butchers trying to sell things over there,” she assures him. Wouldn’t he already know? “But it’s mostly people from the wharf.”
“First of all—never mind. People from the wharf aren’t very welcoming, either. They’re less friendly than weavers, I’ve found, ‘cause a bunch of them are still too poor to afford what we do.”
“Avendano,” Clove whispers, taking a good look around just in case someone overheard them. “You can’t say that.”
“Typical weaver. What else are you gonna tell me I can’t do?”
“Avendano.”
“Okay, okay. We’ll take a look around.”
“There will be a ton of witnesses, you know, if something even did happen.”
“Wicked, except all of them want me dead, anyway.”
“It’ll be fine.”
And it is. If anything, it’s great. None of the vendors try beckoning them over with childish beaded headbands or tacky wind catchers. Those weirdo artists—the ones that draw people with big heads and exaggerated features—practically hide behind their easels. Other customers even give them a wide berth of space so that they’re not shouldering past anyone or tripping over rowdy kids.
“I want kids,” Clove whispers into his ear, which makes his hand get even sweatier.
“Me—me too. Not a ton, though.”
“Hm. Guess we’ll just have to compromise.”
“Aphrodite’s clams, Clove. What are we gonna do with a ton of kids?”
“Love them.”
He raises his eyebrows. “All of them?”
“Of course. What kind of question is that?”
“I’m just saying. After Issa, my mom tapped out.”
“Who’s Issa?”
“My sister.”
Oh. Well, to be fair, he doesn’t know who Sandy is, because Clove has only ever referred to her as my older sister. Avendano’s done the same with all of his other siblings—other than his twin—so Clove immerses herself in the Cresta family tree. She’s never known anyone with so many siblings.
“Holy shit. Your mom almost has, like, a baker’s dozen.”
“I know. Maybe that’s why she’s always in a bad mood all the time.”
Aphrodite’s clams. “Maybe,” Clove admits. “But I wouldn’t be. In a bad mood, I mean.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“‘Cause I love kids. And you’ll be there. And—and—the circumstances will be different, you know?”
“You won’t be poor, you mean?”
“Well—” When he puts it like that, she just sounds rude. “Yeah. Like, hopefully.”
He snorts. Then he’s right back to looking nervous. “Hey. Um, do you wanna ride the ferris wheel? You like heights, right?”
She does. She and her friends cliff dive all the time. “I’d love to ride the ferris wheel.”
He smiles at her. It’s breathy. “Okay. Great.”
She likes how weird he is. Guys never ask her questions like it’s a possibility that she’ll say no, but something about the way Avendano interacts with her is oddly refreshing. He gives the man at the front the exact amount for two tickets, giving Clove the courage to squeeze his hand and inform him that she really doesn’t mind paying her own share.
“What?” he demands. She blinks at him, wondering why he looks so offended. “That’s ridiculous. Why would you ever have to do that?”
“I’m just saying. I have a job. I pay my own bills. What’s the big deal?”
He laughs again, but something about it doesn’t seem very happy. Part of her is glad that they’re being strapped into their seats right now. Good luck trying to escape the conversation. “You wouldn’t ask anyone else that. Why are you asking me?”
“Because. I don’t care about what we do or who pays for what—I just want to spend time with you, and I don’t want you to worry about that stuff.”
“I’m not worried.” He sounds a lot nicer now. He presses a gentle kiss to the back of her hand. “So why are you worried?”
“I’m not worried,” she repeats. “But just—let me know.”
He rolls his eyes at her. She rolls hers back, but it’s not malicious, so she just assumes the feeling is mutual.
“You know, it’s super cold,” she informs him. She scooches closer to him and prays he gets the hint.
He does. He wraps his arms around her as the ferris wheel begins its jerky journey upward, nuzzling his nose into her neck for good measure. His cold nose.
“Avendano!” She buries her hand up in his curly hair, inexplicably keeping him right where he is. “Oh my clams, you’re cold!”
“I know.” He smacks another kiss to her cheek. “You’re the one who said it first.”
“I know. So you’d hold me.” Like, duh.
“Ohh.” He shrugs his shoulders against hers. “I haven’t done this before, remember? You have to spell stuff like that out to me.”
She has a feeling he’s only half-joking. She nips at his shoulder. “I think, once we reach the top, we should kiss.”
“Really?” Excitement bleeds into his tone. He’s too good for her. “Why—well, how come not right now? And then again at the top?”
“Tempting. But it’s more romantic at the top. And it’ll give us something to look forward to.”
“Oh.” He nods. “Are you edging me?”
She can’t help it. She bursts into laughter. “How the fuck do you even know what that is?”
“I’ve—I’ve heard things. Like, from Benito’s friends. Are you an edger?”
“I guess you’ll just have to find out.” She nibbles at his ear. He nearly jumps out of his seat. “Sorry. Was that—”
“I don’t know how this works, Clove.” Splotches of pink peek through his brown skin. “And—and—I don’t think this is a very convenient place to figure it out.”
“Are you…?” She glances down at his lap.
He is. And, when they reach the top, he doesn’t stand a chance. He’s squirming around before they even officially lock lips, and he’s grabbing her hand as soon as she sinks her tongue in his mouth. And then he asks her the question.
“Is this okay?” he asks, breathing ragged. Her fingernail bumps against his zipper.
“Do whatever you want to me,” she says, because it sounds more exciting when she phrases it like that, doesn’t it? The sun is setting, but even if it wasn’t, it’s not like the ant-sized people milling around the Playa can even see them that clearly. For all they know, all she and Avendano are doing is sharing a kiss.
He mashes her palm against his lap, the metal bars creaking as he shifts in his seat and dives into her neck. She laughs as he places wet, messy kisses along her collarbone, desperate to give something in exchange for what she’s doing for him.
All she can really do is knead at him, honestly, because the angle fucking sucks, but he grips onto her like she’s personally tethering him to his seat.
“It looks like we’re hugging,” he says, his fingers blanching around her curls. It most definitely does not look like they’re hugging. “I love you.”
“I love—” she starts out, but he’s obviously not listening to her.
“Okay, kiss me,” he says, and that’s the only instance where she’ll ever obey.
It’s messy. Young. Irresponsible, especially when they begin their descent. But she’d be lying if she said it wasn’t fun. And it’s not like they were even doing anything—all Clove really did was paw at lap. The man directing them to the exit doesn’t even look suspicious, which is good, because Clove was getting just a little bit too old for public handys.
“Did you have fun?” she asks him.
Avendano giggles in response. She giggles back.