Chapter 7

CHAPTER

SEVEN

SANTOS

A fter checking that all of our presses are in working order, I head to the tiny office Keisha and I share. She's overseeing another quality control, so I take a moment to look at my texts. Apparently, Natie desperately needs to come by for some sort of project hand-off. I know a bullshit excuse when I read one—Firass or anyone else could have driven down to our headquarters. But no, the guy I hung out with over the weekend—the same dude I flipped out on—is coming here.

Natie looked damn good in the dark glow of the bar, too. We were getting along great, and I ruined it by dropping a truth bomb.

I spin in my rolling chair, and let out a deep breath. I attempt to shake out the nervousness, and I wish Keisha or anyone else was in here to distract me. For the first time since I was a preteen, I don't want to see Natie Shiba. Well, of course I want to see him—he's a five-foot-eleven nerdy guy with lean legs, dark hair, and a perfect smile.

But I'm afraid of the awkwardness that will ensue. I highly doubt he'll simply lay out the work and saunter off. He probably wants to continue our conversation about the past, and I'm dreading bringing up old wounds. Staring at my office ceiling, my memory takes me back to being a dumb teenager with an unrequited crush.

Natie really surprised me and my friends that one semester of gym class. He was a proud nerd who was only friends with queer kids. That basically made him gay by association in the high school world, a true pariah, years before he came out. He was no athlete, so I assumed he would flop when tasked with playing basketball with us.

But no, Natie gave it his all. My football buddies couldn't even ridicule him because he was guarding and making passes with finesse and confidence. He was no professional baller, but his effort made him shine. I was afforded the privilege of playing with Natie Shiba, and we were on the same team, figuratively and sometimes literally.

I was so enchanted by him that my hormones kicked in overtime that whole semester. Seeing him all sweaty, watching him guard me or my friends, and witnessing him dribble was overwhelming. I needed to make a move, so one day, when we were alone in the locker room, I attempted to flirt with him. He looked decadent with his shirt off, and I didn't blink as sweat dripped down his skinny-boy abs.

But then my pernicious stutter impeded me. My failure at complimenting his physique only made his disdain for me intensify. He thought I was mocking him, and I can't blame him too much; my football friends were in different social hierarchies, and I couldn't properly articulate what I desired. So, he lashed out at me, and I never forgot. The vitriol in his voice cut me deep.

All of high school was one step forward with Natie, and ten steps back. I failed at flirting, I failed at asking him to prom, and I failed at having a decent conversation with him before graduation. I never bullied him, but I didn't defend him either, or make it clear that I wanted to be his friend and more. No wonder he's hated me all these years.

My sad memories are cut off by Keisha entering our office. "Look who I found!" she sings. Grinning, she steps to the side to reveal Natie following her in. I hop out of my chair, nearly knocking it over, and smooth out my white shirt.

"He-he-hey." Stupid stutter .

"He said he really needed to talk to you, boss." Keisha gives me a contentious look, and I try not to snap at her.

"Aren't you partners?" Natie asks, looking around. I hope my office isn't too unkempt.

"We are," I say, frowning at Keisha.

"We're both the boss then!" she chirps. She and Natie chuckle, and I give a forced smile. "Mr. Shiba here had to deliver those prototype specs."

"Yeah. I mean, I guess I could have emailed it, but…" Natie shrugs and looks down. He's wearing a blue button-down and black slacks; he looks like a business-casual wet dream.

"It's better to see us in person! Keeps the workday fresh!" Keisha laughs and I resist the urge to cover her mouth with my hands.

"Right, well…" He hands me the file, and I nod. "Here ya go, Santos."

"Thanks," I murmur. Natie and I have years of regrets that need clarifying, but I'd rather do it without Keisha in the room.

"So, have you taken the tour of our facility yet, Mr. Shiba?" Keisha asks.

"No, I have not," Natie replies, gazing at the various file cabinets.

"Santos, why don't you show him the presses? Then you two can take a break outside on the lawn. We have a lovely picnic table outside past the vending machines." She grins and bounces her eyebrows, and I pray Natie doesn't notice. My best friend isn't being subtle at all.

"I'd like that," Natie says. There's a silent urgency in his words. He desperately wants to talk to me alone, too, and I'm satisfied we seem to be on the same page. I nod at him, and he follows me out of the office. Even after all these years, Natie has me disregarding my plans to spend time with him.

Fifteen minutes later, our tiny tour is over. I showed him recent samples and introduced him to my hardworking team. The paper production facility isn't thrilling, but Natie pays attention to whatever technical jargon popped out of my mouth. Once we're out front, I lead him to the gray picnic table.

"And thus concludes our tour," I say. "It was s-s-spectacular, wasn't it?"

We share a laugh. "Thrilling. You should sell tickets," Natie remarks. "I got a call from your sister today."

"Santana told me she sent the deposit."

"She did. Seems like you'll be celebrating your sister's wedding courtesy of Shiba's Seaside."

"I'm mirthful and elated for her."

"Yes, and I'm looking forward to making it the best wedding ever." He smiles, and I swoon internally.

"I trust you'll do a s-s-superlative job," I reply.

After a beat, he sits down on the bench, and I follow suit. The brisk February air is chilly, but the bright sunshine renders me lukewarm. Part of that might be from sitting two feet away from my high school crush.

He taps his thighs and looks out at the distance. Cars drive by on the freeway, zooming off, playing the perfect background noise. None of my workers are around, and in this tucked away corner of the building, the two of us have solitude.

"I talked to Firass the other night."

"Yeah?" Where's he going with this?

"He told me the truth." Natie looks down and rubs his knees. Discomfort radiates off of him, but I need him to finish. "He confirmed what you said. That you were never a bully to me." He turns to me, distress pooling in his dark eyes. "I was the bully. It turns out I was awful to you ."

I nod. I'd be lying if I said his remorse didn't feel gratifying. After all these years, I'm vindicated, but more than that, I'm sympathetic to the man sitting next to me. He looks wrung out and seems so raw, like it's taking everything in him just to admit the truth.

"Natie, it's…" I wave my hand dismissively. "It's not…well, it was so long ago."

He nods and looks at the ground again. "But still. I'm sorry, Santos. I was awful to you. I shouldn't have done any of that shit."

I shrug. "We were dumb kids."

"True. But I resented you for so long. I painted this picture in my head that you tortured me, that I was the victim." He huffs. "I was so mad when Firass hired you." I gulp. Is he trying to sabotage my business ? "But he did the right thing, clearly." Natie pokes his thumb behind us to the building wall. "Your printing capacity seems really efficient."

"Thank you," I reply with a smile.

We sit there for two minutes more, saying nothing. Cars whiz by, and I don't dare turn to face him. We've made so many strides today, I don't want to ruin it by trying to kiss him or anything stupid.

"Will you forgive me?"

Turning to my right, Natie still isn't facing me. "Natie, there's nothing to forgive."

"Really?" He finally looks at me and smiles.

"We were kids." I wave my hand, ignoring the fact that we were teenagers. "I never actually dwelled on how you treated me. I forgot until you mentioned it." Not quite the truth, but we're sharing a moment here. "Besides, I didn't always interject when my teammates made fun of you. I should have opined against cruel j-j-jokes, so we've all had immature moments."

"Yeah, but I thought I was a better person, though." He bites his lip, and I want to lean in and taste it. A moment later, he hops up, startling me.

"But that was then. Ancient history."

"Right." I stand up, towering a negligible inch above him. "Ancient history."

He sticks out his hand. "You'll be at the resort a lot for your sister's wedding, and I'll be coordinating with you for GBS Games."

"Exactly," I reply. I take his hand—his soft, soft palm with long fingers—and shake it.

"I'm ready to be a better person now. We can be cordial. Friends, even."

I nod, trying to wrap my mind around it. "F-f-friends?"

"Exactly. I'm glad you agree." Natie gives me a salute and strides away. "I'm looking forward to working with you, Mr. Hand."

Before I can say any more, he's gone. Natie and I have cleared the air, it seems. He's conceded to having treated me like garbage during our school days. Now he's ready to be amicable. So why does the idea of being his buddy feel like disappointment in my gut?