Salt & Savor Read online

  Salt & Savor

  By Karamièl

  Lovescripts #1

  This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

  SALT & SAVOR

  First edition. March 29, 2022.

  Copyright © 2022 Kara mièl.

  ISBN: 979-8201627324

  Written by Kara mièl.

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Salt & Savor (Lovescripts, #1)

  Sour, Salty

  Bitter, Sweet

  Hot, Cool

  Andrés

  Umami

  Thank you for reading! | If you enjoyed this journey, more romance awaits you in Lovescripts #2!

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  About the Author

  To all Black women of the world, of every shape, hue, and hair. Your name is a celebration of your beautiful existence.

  This Lovescripts belongs to the illustrious

  ________________________.

  Write your name

  and let the story begin.

  These blank spaces are waiting for you.

  Sour, Salty

  “How does it taste?”

  I meant the taste of me beating him at his own game. I had asked this with a smug smile once the immediate crisis had been averted. Andrés always seemed to find out things about me he had no business knowing, and this morning it was pointing out that the star of my latest daydreams was walking across the front lawn. My heart nearly disappeared when he said he’d “help out” my love life. I couldn’t stop the shame filling my head at someone, other than my best friend, knowing something so private about me. I had stopped being human, my body now a skin-like fabric stuffed to the brim with the feeling like a teddy bear of humiliation. A crush is supposed to be a personal cloud of joy that I can escape to. No matter what may be happening in my life, I just stick my head into my ideals of that person, into whatever fantasies I imagine up in that moment, and feel happy. For an outsider to be aware of my crush, for Andrés of all people to know this about me for certain, was just about devastating. And as soon as he opened his mouth, ready to expose my heart to the dreamiest senior at our high school, I panicked. I slapped my hand over Andrés’ mouth until the upperclassman passed us by and entered the school.

  Andrés froze, too shocked to even flinch away. I locked eyes with his, and although I had reacted out of frustration, frantic and overwhelming, this right here was a frustration of its own kind. I might have gone too far. My relationship with Andrés was a rivalry, purely verbal and academic. We never touched, never crossed that boundary, not even a high-five, but here we were, more than face to face. Here I was, hand folded over the bottom of his face, the press of his lips cool against the warm skin of my palm. All at once it felt too intimate.

  Andrés is a physically affectionate person: secret handshakes goodbye before he went home for the day, his arm over shoulders as he shared whatever was on his phone, his legs sprawled over laps on the east lawn at lunchtime, poking shoulders to announce his presence. He’s touchy, but only with the people he felt close to or comfortable with. Among those people were his best friend, Bruno, and the odd teammate or classmate. Lately, he’d added Zamira to this exclusive list of his. My best friend, of all people. And, after two years of sharing the same homeroom class, Andrés kept to himself around me. There was no explanation, and no reasons Zamira could give me, just this invisible line he refused to cross and wouldn’t let me near. He was close enough to exist and participate in my world, but always a step short of actual friendship no matter how much the two of us had in common. Close enough for annoying nicknames, my ‘Butter’ for his ‘Pruny,’ but never close enough for a smile.

  I don’t know why, and I may never know. It’s something I have to make peace with, of that much I’m aware, but thinking about it, the fact that there was something about me that was near repulsive to someone else, never failed to deepen that pit growing in my chest. The pit of unearned inadequacy lodged in tight next to my heart. At least I hope it’s unearned. Thinking about it being undeserved keeps that fire in me, the anger to keep going and prove myself worthy, instead of the suckhole of despair always ready and waiting for me. No matter how nice I may be, how hard I try to be a good enough person, it’ll never be enough, that despair. I can hope otherwise, but whether being good enough is my fault, I might never know. That almost feels worse, the not knowing. I suppose ‘The Pit of Unknown Inadequacy’ is a better name for the feeling. Just like how I’ll never know why Andrés was always just that little bit more distant with me than with everyone else.

  Would he tell the truth if I asked? Would that change anything? I can’t push someone to like me, though wondering why they don’t feels so much worse than a forced friendship. However which way I may feel about his behavior, I’ve always respected his hesitations just as he has mine. And yet, he almost exposed me, just now, and that wasn’t fair of him. It wasn’t fair to this unspoken thing we have. He’d barely wavered before attempting to violate my privacy. In fairness, I’m owed.

  So, this, the slight chap of his lips knowing the grooves of my palm, feels like I’ve crossed a boundary of his he now has to speak to. But this, eyes trapped within each other’s gaze, is all at once too heavy for what I’m ready for. It feels like a secret, something shameful laid bare before either of us are ready to acknowledge it.

  And suddenly, I don’t want it anymore. His truths or otherwise, I don’t want to know why he is never fully present with me. My heart is still racing from this near mishap of being laid bare inside the vulnerability of a crush. Knowing would be too much for me to handle, and would push my heart that much closer to the pit’s edge. Boundaries exist for a reason, and maybe it’s better this time around if those reasons aren’t said.

  I open my mouth to apologize when Andrés licks my hand. It flies off his face as swiftly as it had latched on. Disgusted, I shriek and shake my damp hand around, now a clammy mix of my sweat and his saliva and ew ew ew ew! Andrés has the nerve to scrunch his face up at the taste of my palm even though all of this was his fault in the first place! That slight guilt I was starting to feel, the mounting anxiety within the regret, evaporates. I realized, in this moment, that I was about to apologize to someone else for protecting myself from their mistreatment of me, no matter how small it may be.

  I take in, all at once in the quarter of a millisecond, the understanding that I’ve been doing this for so long. For years I’ve been apologizing for myself, and it felt a lot like a bottomless hole to nowhere. I don’t want to do it anymore. I’m tired of holding the weight of how badly I’ve always been conditioned to feel. It’s dragging me down and I don’t know how to breathe anymore. I don’t think I ever knew how. I only knew I couldn’t stop trying, but I’m drowning, now; as a Black girl in this society, as a daughter of immigrants, as someone who has to be everything to everyone else before I can figure out how to be anything of myself. Be it my behavior, my appearance, or my actions, I have to be everything always, all the time, until the good feels like pretend. There must be something else; something else that doesn’t feel worse than I already feel. Something that can’t feel worse than I already feel because I won’t allow it to. I’m too familiar with the now and I’ll know it’s burden when I see it. I might not know yet how to stop this, how normal it feels to turn against myself, how easy that’s become, but I will know when it tries to take me under again. I just have to fight it. And I can start here and now. With Andrés.

  “How does it taste?” I repeat, much louder. This time I mean the skin of my palm. This time I glare. I hope every one of his taste buds is covered with m
y flavor and that it stays all day. I hope his lunch tastes like my sweaty palm. It might not be a Pit of Unknown Despair but it feels so good knowing that Andrés is suffering, too, just that little bit. His eyes widen a fraction, his face drops, and then he scowls back at me.

  “Salty,” he answers.

  I roll my eyes and wipe my offended hand against his shirt. It is one swift and firm swipe down the sleeve of his arm. His saliva, his sleeve. I don’t care anymore.

  “That’s what skin tastes like, Butter,” I tell him. It’s not much of a comeback, but he flinches back slightly, like he can feel ice behind my words, and I’m certain he’ll never try anything like this again. “Salty.”

  Bitter, Sweet

  When I see him for the first time in a decade, I don’t think of how Andrés looks, or of how his appearance has changed over time. With how big Miami is, I hadn’t even considered running into anyone I knew. My family moved a few cities north before my sister started high school and I had been long gone by then, this city and my past as far away from me as I could get. Yes, I’m back, but only for a few days and a good distance from where I grew up. The three days I’ve been here so far were hardly enough time to get my fill of the food, the atmosphere, and the ocean, but it’s been a good fix. It’s precisely what I need before the visit to my parents’ house and then back to work right after. I’m supposed to be on vacation. Sunrises, sleep, and solitude. And so, when I feel a presence hovering in my bubble of peace, my high school nemesis is the last person I expect to see. No, I don’t focus on the present at all.

  I think of how I’ve always felt around him, competitive and alert, tense and annoyed. I know better now. After years of inner work and outward experience, I understand myself so much better. Young Andrés was charming in a way that people fell for easily. Even me, I realized, later on. He was smart with a bright personality that was almost magnetic. Almost. The begrudging attraction to his aura did not negate the other very real and ever-present emotions I had towards him. It was an unknown crush overshadowed by a dislike of how he made me feel about myself. It was the feelings of rejection he inspired with his deliberate distance. It was how his presence ignited my insecurities, never failing to remind me of how much more I needed to work and to try. It was the crushed hope that if someone so likable liked me back, it meant that I wasn’t so bad of a person after all.

  I know better now. I am better now. I love myself and I like myself, truly, and there is no one that can make me feel otherwise, not anymore. My past with him was like any other past: compartmentalized neatly into my brain as growing pains. That reminder alone coasts me through the memories and I look up at who he is now. I send what I hope is a sunny flash of teeth—enough to charm and be polite, but no more. When Andrés smiles back, my stomach flutters the slightest bit, apparently still a when it comes to him. He is a stranger of ten years, but his smiles are still golden, which is entirely unfair. It almost makes me want to smile harder just to beat him at his game. When he sits down, I struggle to keep from frowning instead. My initial smile was a courtesy, not an invitation to reconnect. I open my mouth to tell him exactly that, but he beats me to it.

  “Hi,” he says, his own smile unwavering and it makes me pause. It’s not his perfectly normal greeting that stops me. It’s the way he breathes it out as his eyes shine into mine. I’m not familiar with this Andrés. I don’t expect to be, but it turns out a part of me is still searching for more of the familiar in him. Like the full-bodied reservation that only I could bring out in him. Like before. He looks so at ease and open now. Comfortable in himself and confident in a way that no high schooler really is.

  Rationally, I understand that people, as human beings, grow and mature. They should, at least, which means I also understand that Andrés, if he’s living life well, should have progressed mentally, emotionally, and professionally. And...physically. I try not to look too closely at him, at his full, defined arms peeking through cut-off sleeves to bask in the sun. I focus instead on the sound of the ocean behind him, the feel of the beach mat beneath my forearms, the breeze and the flutter of my linen dress against the backs of my thighs. I ignore his proximity and notice his wet hair and sand covered feet. He must have just finished swimming.

  “I nearly forgot how...cerebral you can be,” he says with a short laugh. Oh. Oh, I was very obviously studying him. It’s a habit I learned to make more discreet over time—my fascination with taking in how people existed in the world. To me it’s an artful study, but if I’m not careful it comes off to others as straight-faced staring. I force myself to blink and glance around, as naturally as I can, before returning my attention to his presence. Judging from his words, it seems he’s always known this about me. With how he used to be, I wouldn’t be surprised if he used to think something was off with me. Maybe he still does.

  ‘And that’s okay. His narrative of me is his own. It has nothing to do with me.’ I remind myself, again, that the past is just that. I don’t know this version of Andrés just as he doesn’t know this version of me. We are far from first impressions, but there is always an opportunity for a renewed impression. Maybe in this life, he and I can be friends. I take in a deep breath and let go a long, silent exhale. I can try.

  “Hi stranger,” I say, “My name is _____________.” I put my book down, sit up and smile at him genuinely now, in full control of my thoughts once more. I watch to see if he’ll catch on and I notice how pink his ears have become. Is he embarrassed? Does he think I’ve forgotten who he is? My mouth reshapes into a smirk at that. Having the upper hand on Andrés still feels good; that hasn’t changed. I enjoy the nostalgia for a few seconds before clarifying.

  “It’s been, like, ten years, Butter. I should hope you’re a different person by now. I certainly am.”

  The relief in his eyes is palpable. He rolls them good-naturedly and says, “Not if you keep calling me ‘Butter.’”

  To my surprise, his gaze on me softens, like he’s reminiscing with an old friend even though we never were friends. It catches me completely off guard. He looks away for a moment, lips quirked in a slight smile, and this feels different. More pleasant. It’s...nice? Yes, it’s nice. Andrés was always just a little bit on edge around me. He’s so amiable right now and I find my curiosity peaking. I wonder what else is nice about him.

  “Unless this new version of you is still a little, you know, Pruny,” he continues, leaning back on his arms and turning to me. He rests his head on a lifted shoulder and quirks the corner of his mouth in a gentle smirk. The way he’s looking at me now is nice. The old nickname, not so much. It is warranted, however, given that I started it. I suppose I can keep this little game going.

  His eyes flit between my own as he waits for me to respond. He’s yet to blink, gaze half-lidded over honey-colored irises where I can see tiny versions of myself staring back. I gasp slowly, an exaggerated intake of fake outrage, to drown out how quickly my chest is warming. This is...something new I’m not yet sure of how to navigate. Past Andrés never looked at me for longer than three seconds. I had counted. Any longer than that and his eyes would shift to the middle of my forehead, or my ear, or over my shoulder. Never directly at me. I thought I could shake his resolve a bit, the way I’ve learned works best with other men of a similar temperament, but he’s only becoming more comfortable.

  “Oh wow, way to ruin this moment,” I drawl. Andrés lets out a short laugh, head tilted back and eyes alight. My eyes flit over his general demeanor as he composes himself. He’s more than civil right now, he’s near amiable. Practically friendly. Who is this man?

  “You started it!” He looks eager, like he’s getting his fill of this something new, too. An old desire bubbles up beneath my chest. From an endless spring where a pit used to be, a bright curiosity surfaces. I want to know more of who this relaxed man before me is. And I think I want to show him who I’ve become
, too. Not gloating like we did as teenagers but sharing ourselves as acquaintances do. Not a lot, but just enough. At this moment in time, that seems to be what we’ve mutated into: a simulation of platitudes that better suit our adulthood. We’ll reminisce, force a few laughs, then never see each other again. We might even share some of the same interests, still. I remember a younger version of myself, from freshman year of high school, listening to Andrés introduce himself to our homeroom class. I was so excited to meet someone who had the same eclectic taste in TV shows I did. He read and enjoyed the same obscure trilogy, dreamt about attending the same concerts, and wanted to travel to the same places.

  That’s where the similarities ended, however, because Andrés wholeheartedly did not want to be friends with me. He had instead met every one of my sociable attentions with aggravating teases and scholarly duels, of all things. He treated me like I was a threat to his GPA and not a genuine classmate. Andrés was an asshole for no reason I could understand and as soon as he started calling me ‘Pruny’ I let go of any aspiration to be a part of his ‘golden’ aura. He became ‘Butter’ to me, for his unpleasant oily ways. I wonder how he remembers our interactions. Accountability isn’t something many people like to take when it comes to their past behaviors. I don’t expect it from him, either. The truth of my repeatedly crushed expectations are mine alone to keep.

  There is something sinister about interacting with people from the past who I’ve had bad experiences with. Without fail, I find myself fighting the urge to act how I used to with them. My emotions ache to revert me into a version of myself that no longer aligns with who I’ve become. No matter how much I want to separate myself from her she refuses to leave me, so I do my best to keep her down. I am who I am right now, and right now, I’m casually curious about this transformation of his.