Chapter 7
7
Natalia
senior year
“Sine, Cosine, Tangent,” I huff. “It all sounds the same!”
Carmen chuckles, her head propped up against the wall on the side of my bed as she’s sprawled across my comforter. She hasn’t been back home for more than one hour, visiting for a long weekend during a break in her residency program, and I’ve already bombarded her with my trigonometry homework.
“Don’t give up, Nat,” she encourages. “Just remember the mnemonic I taught you: ‘Oscar Has A Hold On Angie.’”
I cringe. “It sounds so aggressive. You don’t have one a little more passive? Something like ‘Never Eat Sour Watermelon?’” I huff into my textbook, scribbling along in my notebook as she turns back to the book she’s reading. “How do you even remember this stuff? It’s been, like, ten years since you’ve even stepped foot in a trigonometry class.”
She shrugs. “Maybe something told me I should hold on to it so I can teach it to my little sister.”
I smirk, repeating the mnemonic in my head and bobbing along as I recite it in small whispers, when my laptop chimes. I look to see an alert for Facebook Messenger pop up. When I hover over the message, Hayden Marshall’s name appears, bold and indicating a new message.
My brow furrows, my head jerking back in confusion.
“What?”
I look up at Carmen, her fingers twisting through her hair as she watches me. “Oh, nothing,” I answer, feigning nonchalance. “Just a message from my lab partner.” My gaze returns back to my screen as I open the message where Hayden’s small picture accompanies it.
She nods, standing from her semi-lying position as she starts to walk out of my room. “I’m going to pick up some pizza for dinner. You want to come?”
I look up at her apologetically as I gesture toward the strewn-out papers and textbooks. “I should really catch up on this.”
“Okay,” she answers. She walks out the door and hollers Lucy’s name in the direction of her room.
I click open Hayden’s message.
Hayden: Hey, Lab Partner.
I wait, wondering if there’s more. When there isn’t, I type out a response.
Me: Hi, Hayden.
My attention veers back toward trigonometry, finding a spiral-bound notebook as I point my pencil toward the light blue lines running across it.
“Oscar… Has… A…”
My laptop pings again .
Hayden: So I was thinking, do you think the effectiveness of mouthwash is questionable if our cheek stains showed that much bacteria? Should we write a letter to the president of Listerine?
I smirk.
Me: I feel like that’s a personal problem. Although Mr. Khan may appreciate your gusto. Some extra credit points may be in order.
Hayden: Then it’s worth a shot.
There’s a pause in our back and forth. I’ve all but abandoned trigonometry. I barely remember the mnemonic that Carmen taught me, and I know I’ll have to ask her again once she comes back from the pizza shop.
Hayden: Any fun plans for this raging Friday night?
Me: Just some trig homework and pizza.
Hayden: Trig? On a weekend? You need to get out, Marquez. The world is your oyster!
Me: Are your plans significantly better ?
Hayden: A Nightmare on Elm Street marathon and microwaved bean burritos.
Me: You one upped me with the movies. Enjoy your night, Hayden.
Hayden: You too, Nat. Don’t forget: A squared plus B squared equals C squared.
present
It isn’t called hump day for no reason. With the first half of the week behind me and the second half ahead, I feel exhausted, with no relief of the weekend in sight. The only bright side is that I’m past my weekend hangover and am finally able to look at the half-empty bottle of tequila on the counter without gagging.
I’ve already gotten a text message from Carmen telling me that she’s left for her night shift at the hospital. It’s her first of the week and will take her well into the weekend. I most likely won’t see her until Sunday. I sigh, placing my laptop bag and purse on the counter, right next to my empty coffee mug from the morning and a pile of mail that Carmen brought in today. My stomach protests loudly, demanding I make a decision between leftover Chinese food or ordering take out, just as I notice a cream-colored envelope haphazardly tucked under an uneven stack of ads for furniture sales and Duane Reade coupons. It catches my attention because in the center of the envelope, my name is written in neatly handwritten cursive.
Miss Natalia Marquez
On the return address: Mr. and Mrs. Oscar Valiente. Matteo’s parents. It’s his wedding invitation.
My fingers run over the bumpy calligraphy as if I were to handle it any more roughly, it would tear apart in my hands. It doesn’t matter though because it comes apart in my hands anyway. My fingers tear through it, shredding the rough paper and holding in my trembling fingers the light peach-colored invitation, along with Matteo’s name and his bride to be, Jacinda Sutton. I have no idea who she is or how they met, but the simple fact is that Matteo is getting married.
He’s getting married .
I always imagined it would be me, my name alongside Matteo’s on an invitation a little bit classier as we added items to our gift registry and planned a honeymoon somewhere tropical. Did I ever really stop imagining that future? Maybe that dream started to fade when I realized he moved on and the news of his engagement made it all the way to my own sensitive ears. Or maybe it disappeared altogether the moment I tore into the invitation still trembling in my hands. Or maybe, even worse, I’m still clinging onto the vanished hope that he’ll come back to me, telling me he was wrong and that he changed his mind on his own pending nuptials.
I wish Carmen were home. She would know what to say, how to soothe me before cracking open a bottle of chilled vodka as we drown ourselves in alcohol, cheddar popcorn, and New Girl reruns. But she’s working tonight. I’m completely alone when my heart feels like it’s shattered to a million pieces and the single thread of hope I clung to finally snapped.
I reach into my fridge to find the Chinese takeout container and pop it into the microwave without transferring its contents onto a plate. As I lean against the counter, the whirring of the microwave fills the silence. I start to nibble on the edge of my thumb, seconds from going crazy.
I feel like finishing the rest of the tequila on the counter, knowing that it’ll waste my insides, unlike vodka, and leave me heaving into the toilet. I feel like running into the streets, screaming at a figurative Matteo standing in front of me, lashing out my anger in efficient strides. But most of all, I want to talk to someone. Someone to listen and tell me that I’m better than this. To make me realize that this isn’t the end-all, be-all and that I need to learn to move on. I want someone to hold my hand while I burn the invitation to a wedding that I sure as hell am not going to attend. Or, probably not going to attend. I mean, it would be rude to his parents, especially his mom, who has always been so kind and gentle with me. And even to Matteo, who might actually be looking forward to seeing me.
God, I’m so pathetic.
I pick up my phone just as the shrill beeping emits from the microwave, landing on José’s number. I press the green call icon and impatiently bring the phone to my ear, hoping he’ll answer and let me cry over something he’ll claim is as trivial as spilled milk. I can almost hear his soothing voice telling me to meet him for drinks while scolding me on my wasted tears and my lost childbearing years on someone who, according to him, is definitely not worth my time.
My heart drops when my call goes to voicemail. My fingers tap against the counter before I scroll through my phone again. I finally land on Hayden’s phone number, one that feels so new in my contact list as my thumb hovers over it. With my hesitance lingering over me, I tap out a quick message instead of calling.
Me: Hey
After I text Hayden, I set my phone down, opening the microwave to remove my food as the aroma of the sweet and sour pork fills the air. My phone beeps just as I wince from the hot steam burning my fingertips.
Hayden: Hey you.
Me: What are you up to?
Hayden: I’m just getting in from work. You?
Me: Alone and in need of a stiff drink. You up for it?
There’s a small pause in our back and forth. And what I find most interesting is that he doesn’t question why I’m texting him on a random Wednesday or why I’ve become a regular occurrence in his life since we ran into each other last week. Instead, he answers my question as if we’ve done this dozens of times. As if we’ve adjusted to this new norm in a way that makes me wonder if he should have been a presence in my life this whole time, regardless of time or circumstance.
Hayden: Sure. You know Butter? It’s near your place.
I do, in fact. It’s a couple of blocks over and perfect for a night of wallowing in self-pity and heartbreak.
Me: Be there in 15?
Hayden: Give me about 30. It’ll take me some time to get there.
Me: I’ll save a seat for you.
With that, I grab my keys, leaving my still steamy Chinese food on the counter, and walk out of my apartment.