Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Liesel
Leave this firm, and I might believe you.
Pick the Handk?se mit Musik, and you might not be hungry.
It’s a heavy, sour milk cheese with a raw onion vinaigrette that makes it—pungent. It’s called “the music” because of the flatulence it can cause. Considering the knots in my stomach, it might be a fitting metaphor.
“I’m no more likely to leave my family business than you are yours.”
His expression darkens, and I wonder if I’ve pushed too far. It’s no secret my father agreed to get into bed with a cartel when he accepted the Diazes’ inquiry.
Into bed.
For fuck’s same, Anneliese, stop making everything sexual.
“Are you always trustworthy, Jorgito?”
I’m probably slipping the noose around my own neck right now, but I can’t help the extra dig.
“No.”
I’m left waiting for more, but he says nothing else. He watches me for a moment before turning around and walking out. He doesn’t even bother to shut my door. I watch him head out of the office suite, leaving that door open too. The elevator dings, and he disappears.
Poof.
Gone.
I’m left staring until I catch myself because people are looking into my office and watching me.
I connect my laptop to the dock and sit down.
No one can see what’s on my screen—or what’s not.
I hope I look like I’m intently reading something.
Instead, I’m gazing blankly at my computer.
The part where he blatantly admitted he’s not trustworthy—that sparked curiosity and dread. That entire exchange rattled me.
“Did you hear me, Anne?”
“Hmm? Sorry, Bastian.”
“You’re even more distracted than usual.”
Fuck.
“I thought I saw someone I know, but probably not.”
We just walked into the grocery store, and I could’ve sworn I saw Jorge in the parking lot. I know he wasn’t there, but I could have sworn…
“Do you want me to get the pork loin and steaks?” Bastian’s question draws my attention back to him.
“Yes, please. I’ll get the fruits and vegetables.”
We have the same conversation every time we come to the store. As though something’s going to change after shopping together nearly every week for the past six months we’ve lived together. I rarely notice, but it seems asinine today.
It’s nine-thirty on Saturday morning. Where else would we be?
Normally, I like our routine. It’s reliable.
But as I watch Bastian walk away, the predictability reminds me of how I thought of him as a spaniel. It’s not a complimentary comparison. I doubt he’d appreciate it. It makes me think of an elderly married couple, and that hardly excites me when he and I are barely thirty.
Is it sweet or boring?
I used to think it was the former. Now I’m leaning to the latter.
I head to the right while Bastian’s still to the left of the store’s entrance.
I glance over my shoulder, something unsettling me.
I see nothing strange, so I head to the cabbage.
How very German of me. As I place two heads in my Einkaufswagen—shopping car—I consider what else I need to make sauerkraut.
Haus frau.
That’s what I feel like. A housewife. It doesn’t give me the warm, fuzzy contentment I got when Bastian moved in with me. I don’t intend to give up my job—I can’t since I’ll inherit the firm—but I liked the idea of a happy home with Bastian.
It’s not like we’re unhappy. I don’t know what the fuck’s gotten into me except for a piss-pour mood for the past three days.
Everything’s irritated me since Jorge showed up to my office five hours early.
Papa and I nearly got into an argument in his office after Jorge left.
We saved it until I went to my parents’ house that night.
The fight was epic.
I thought he might have a stroke from how red his face got. I thought I was having a heart attack from how hard mine was beating. I nearly quit, and I think he nearly fired me.
Poor Mutti—Mama—knew not to intervene, but she tried for a calming presence. She’s the only reason we weren’t screaming at each other. I don’t know that I’ve ever been that livid or my father’s ever felt he had to justify himself that much. I’m getting heated just thinking about it.
I turn my shopping cart to avoid an older woman’s, and I spy a dark-haired man with his back to me. He seems familiar, but I can’t think of anyone—except for Jorge—who’d fit his description. He walks away after picking up a bunch of bananas.
I follow him.
But I can’t spot him once I get near the crowded cheese counter. Fuck the French. We produce more cheese than them, and it seems like every person in Frankfurt is getting theirs from this store right now.
“You only got the cabbage?”
I shift to see Bastian approaching me.
Fuck.
“Yeah. I just thought about getting some Limburger and didn’t want to forget. I’ll go back for the rest of the produce.”
He buys the lie. He loves the stinky cheese, and he knows I hate it.
He thinks I’m doing it just for him. It’s the first cheese I spotted when I looked at the display.
I sweep my gaze around the parts of the store I can see, but I don’t spy the man who reminded of me of Jorge before Bastian and I go back to the produce.
“Watch out.”
I barely skirt the trash can my sister points out. I already tripped over the curb a mile ago. I blamed that on an untied shoelace, so we needed to pause our run, anyway. It gave me a chance to look around. I’m fucking certain this time.
I saw Jorge.
“You’re in la-la land, Anne.”
I definitely can’t tell my sister who’s really living rent free in my head. I can tell her part of what’s distracting me.
“I know, Heidi. My mind’s still locked on the argument Papa and I had again right before I left work yesterday.”
Bastian and I had a great weekend together. I pushed Papa and Jorge out of my mind, and I enjoyed time with my boyfriend. Then Papa burst that high when he stopped me when I arrived and told me he wanted to speak to me. I got to dread the conversation all day. He did that on purpose.
“Mutti said the last one was really nasty.”
“It was. We barely kept ourselves from saying things we couldn’t take back. He’s put me in a shit position with other clients now that they know information doesn’t stay secret with us.”
“You’re certain Papa’s the one who leaked it?”
“He’s all but said the words. If it wasn’t him, he ordered someone to do it. I can’t figure out who. I had Michael comb through the server to see where every email for the past two weeks came from and went.”
I’m certain he thinks less of me now that he’s surely read my exchange with Jorge. At best, he thinks Jorge’s a pervert.
“The IT guy Papa hired, so you’d break up with him?”
“We weren’t serious. We were friends who thought we might be more. He and I both know he’s better off as the head of our IT department than being my boyfriend.”
“True. And you wouldn’t be with Bastian if you were with him. Bastian’s definitely the better of the two.”
Yes, my sweet pediatrician boyfriend who works for ?rzte ohne Grenzen e.V.
It’s the German division of Médecins Sans Frontières—Doctors Without Borders.
We met two weeks after he returned to Germany after a year in Burkina Faso.
He’s leaving in two months for six months in Eswatini.
I had to look that one up. It’s formerly Swaziland—a small country bordered by South Africa and Mozambique.
He’s off to save children in dire poverty, and I’m fantasizing about a narco-trafficker.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
“He is amazing. I’m lucky I met him.”
“You’re lucky my boyfriend is your boyfriend’s best friend.”
I struggle not to flinch. I don’t need the reminder. We pass the mark where we usually speed up for a mile, so I push us to where neither of us can speak comfortably. There’s a curve in the Main River that allows me to look back at the trail we’re running in Grüneburgpark.
That man has to be Jorge.
There’s a guy with the right height and build to be Jorge, but the hat with a brim makes it impossible for me to tell.
His head’s lowered against a gust of brisk spring air.
Germany forgets spring is supposed to start in March, so it’s only in the mid-fifties today.
After my time in the States, I think in Fahrenheit and Celsius—which confuses the hell out of my family.
I have a beanie on to cover my ears since the wind’s cold.
This is a large and well-known park and only about a ten minute jog from some of Frankfurt’s best hotels.
I suppose it’s not a stretch for Jorge to come running here.
However, I’m disconcerted that he was at the same restaurant as Bastian and me.
I still suspect he was at our grocery store—at least ten miles from any hotel he’d stay at.
Somewhere luxurious I’m sure. Why’s he still in town?
I haven’t seen him or heard from him in nearly a week.
The man I spotted fades into what must be a club since there’re about fifteen people running together in a pack. I can’t see him or even the other runners as the trail straightens again.
“You trying to set a personal record?”
Heidi’s practically panting as we get to the next marker where we slow to a more comfortable pace. She’s faster and has more endurance than I do. She runs slower than usual when we go out together. If she felt like that was a hard pace, I must have been practically flying.
“Just trying to keep up with you, Schwesterlein.” Little sister.
“I like it better when you run like eine Greisin.”
“I’m only two years older than you. I’m not an old lady!”
“Your creaking toes would say differently.”