17. My Epic Mistake
17
My Epic Mistake
ANDREW
Mother: When do you arrive in Barcelona?
Me: The 23rd
Mother: So late? Only two days before the wedding?
Me: It’s an arrangement. Not a vacation
Mother: Ah, yes. The Arrangement.
Mother: When will I see you?
Me: You saw me last Sunday
Mother: When will I see you IN BARCELONA?
Me: Not until the dinner the night before
Mother: All right. See you then.
I opened my eyes to the sun setting between the hotel curtains I’d been too tired to close. Even though we’d been in business class with seats that lay almost flat and Carly had slipped on an eye mask and nodded off, guilt had kept me awake on the flight.
She didn’t know yet that my mother would be at Brad’s wedding.
I sat up and scrubbed a hand through my hair. How long had I slept? Shit, was this jet lag? I’d heard of it, but I’d always thought it was a joke or something limited to those unlucky people flying in economy. I’d always been the guy ready for a meeting or a meal or a run when I landed in a new city.
Not today. I slapped my cheeks to wake myself up. I needed a shave. And the world’s longest shower. And—I glanced at the tented sheets over my crotch—to take care of that before I saw Carly.
Earlier, after I’d trailed her through the airport and pulled her suitcases (yes, plural) from the belt, she’d found us a taxi to take us to this hotel, not the one Brad and Hayley had chosen, but a narrow building with a stone facade and wrought-iron balconies a few streets off the main tourist area. I vaguely remembered Carly telling me this was her favorite place to stay in Barcelona.
It was an older building, though considering the long history of the city, Barcelonians probably considered it new. The interior was slightly shabby but clean, the antiques polished to a lemony shine.
Carly, who’d insisted on arranging and paying for all our travel expenses, had booked too late to get us separate rooms. She’d checked with me before reserving a two-bedroom suite. After the sleepless twelve-hour transatlantic flight, I’d given the suite’s living room a cursory glance, grunted, and shambled into one of the bedrooms. It had a large bed and a private bathroom, and for that, I was exceedingly grateful.
With old-man slowness, I eased out of bed, located my shave kit and fresh clothes, and trudged to the bathroom. Feeling slightly more human half an hour later, I walked out of my bedroom into the living room.
Carly sat on the claw-foot sofa, flipping through something on her tablet. Outside the window was dark. What had she done while I slept through the day like a dead man? She didn’t look nearly as rough as I felt, and the lamplight gave her skin a soft glow and sparkled off the blond highlights in her hair.
“Morning,” I said and winced. I might have washed the travel off my skin, but there was no rinsing the jet lag from my brain.
“Good evening.” She smiled, but it didn’t crinkle her eyes the way her best smiles did. “Hungry?”
When my stomach answered for me, I clapped a hand over it. “Yeah.”
She stood. “Dinner is usually served later here, but we can find something to eat, especially if we go to a tourist-friendly spot. Let me?—”
“Hey. Is something wrong?” She didn’t usually talk this fast. Had I offended her earlier by marching like a zombie to my room? Should I have offered to escort her out? Yikes, I was a terrible wedding date so far.
“No.” She bit her lip. “I guess I’m feeling…melancholy. Barcelona is one of my favorite cities, and Brad and I came here at least once a year while we were married. I walked around the neighborhood while you were asleep. I didn’t think it would affect me like this.”
God, I wanted to put the bastard in the ground for making her sad. “You’re grieving your marriage. I get it.”
“Not really. I think I’m more…bitter? Brad used to stay on US time so he could take calls from his clients, and we hardly ever did things together. I’m pissed that he’s taken the city I loved and…”
“And associated bad memories with it?” I finished when she didn’t.
She nodded.
“It doesn’t have to be like that. We can make good memories. We’ll mock Brad. What kind of loser can’t come up with a unique place for his destination wedding?”
That earned me a laugh. A quick ha, but I’d take it and the smile that crinkled her eyes.
Twenty minutes later, we found a restaurant serving food in the off time my confused stomach had chosen to eat. We sat at a lopsided table for two on the sidewalk. The concrete still held some of the heat the winter sunshine had baked into it, but with the darkness had come a chilly breeze that the patio heater fought. Christmas lights stretched across the street from the buildings above, glowing against the inky sky. Golden reflections from lighted stars and trumpeting angels sparkled in Carly’s eyes.
People strolled past us, holding heavy shopping bags or being towed by dogs. Carly patted each pup and cooed to them in Spanish. Meanwhile, I sniffed the scent of roasted meat, spice, and garlic that wafted from the restaurant’s open door and let the ambiance wash through my tired brain.
When the server arrived, Carly ordered sangria, and I chose a local beer. He set a dish of olives on the table to go with our drinks. Starving, I reached for one and popped it into my mouth. The salty flavor burst on my tongue, and I rolled my eyes skyward. It was the best thing I’d ever eaten.
“Welcome to Barcelona,” Carly said, smiling.
“Oh, my god. I may never leave.” I grabbed another olive and moaned. “You come here every year?” I asked.
“Before the divorce.”
It was my opportunity to help her make better memories, some that didn’t involve that asshat, Brad. “What do you like best about Barcelona?”
“Hmm. The sangria.” She toasted me and drank. “The food, the sunshine, the slower pace, the beaches, the people. Everyone here is so kind, you’ll see. And the fashion.” She sighed, the same way I had when I’d eaten that first olive.
“The fashion? You don’t prefer Paris or New York?”
She shrugged. “Those places are better known. And I love them, too, especially New York. But Barcelona has a unique style and some up-and-coming designers I follow. But overall, I love the energy here, the sense of tradition mixed with edginess and the laid-back sense of not taking itself too seriously but still wanting to look good.”
I leaned back in my chair. Even after a transatlantic flight, she looked better than good. How’d she do it? “How did you get interested in fashion?”
She traced a finger up the stem of her wine glass. “I grew up in Dallas, which has its highlights, but it isn’t really a fashion mecca, you know? There’s lots of fancy boots and the occasional Stetson, but it’s more conservative than avant-garde.
“My mom and I didn’t travel much, other than road trips for pageants. One time, she took me to New York for a long weekend. We stayed with some friends from her pageant days. And it happened to be Fashion Week. Her friends took us to watch as they unloaded racks of clothes from a truck. I didn’t even see any of the models, but everyone there was so…so dazzling. Glamorous. Put together. There was this one woman…” She trailed off, a faraway look in her eyes.
I leaned forward. “What was special about her?”
“She…she was so clearly in charge. She was stylish, of course. Driven. Clearly paid attention to details and knew exactly how everything should be. Everyone listened to her. Deferred to her. And it hit me. Right here.” She tapped her chest. “I wanted to be like her. No, I wanted to be her.”
“And now you are. You’re all those things: stylish, driven, in charge.” Along with her beauty, it was what had sparked my crush all those years ago.
Her forehead crinkled. “I’m nothing like her. I’m starting my stylist business from scratch. I’m begging for clients and styling people at a discount, hoping they’ll tell their friends I did a good job. I’m nowhere near where I thought I’d be at forty—” She snapped her mouth shut.
Fucking rules. “You are successful. Everyone admires your fashion sense. Your intelligence. Your determination. Your management skills. When I was younger, I thought you were the most beautiful, best-dressed woman I’d ever seen. I still do.”
Her cheeks pinked, but her jaw remained clenched.
“You always seem so…effortlessly confident.”
“Effortless.” She snorted. “There’s a lot of work behind the appearance of effortlessness, from time in the gym to hours scouring the fashion blogs to introspection and assessment of one’s features and sense of style. Then the years spent gaining self-confidence. The biggest lie in fashion is hashtag-woke-up-like-this. Behind every party, every outfit, every”—she made air quotes—“candid selfie, there are countless hours of preparation. Your mother knows all about it.”
“Wow.” I blinked. “I’ve never thought of that.”
“You wouldn’t. It’s different for most men. But surely, you’ve worked hard to be up for a vice president position at—” Her smile was rueful. “At your age. What do you love about your job?”
“That’s easy. I love math. I’ve always liked the precision, the unambiguousness of numbers. I can work with data to build models that we can use to make predictions.”
Before I said the next thing, I took a deep breath. “My models help people secure their futures. There was a time, right after Dad died, when we were struggling. His business was still in the startup phase, and it wasn’t earning a lot. Mom had one kid in college and three more lined up behind him. She tried to hide it, but I knew she worried. So, when I got my little inheritance—it was all earmarked for my college fund—I invested it. When it did well over the first six months, I asked her if I could adjust the family’s portfolio.”
The server startled me when he stepped up to the table. “Ready to order?”
Carly looked at me. “Do you mind if I…?”
“Sure. Of course.” I’d studied Chinese in high school, and although I knew a few Spanish words and phrases, the Catalan on the menu looked like Greek to me.
“Any food allergies, or anything you don’t like?” she asked.
“No, I’m good. I mean, you’re not going to make me eat brains or testicles, right?”
She exchanged a look with the server.
“Right?”
She smiled. “No. I usually skip the criadillas too.” She ordered a few items in deliberate Catalan. Grinning, the server left.
Carly leaned forward. “I never knew y’all were in trouble after your dad passed. Did your plan work?”
“Yeah. It grew into a nice little nest egg. But then she married Charles, and he had enough money that no one worried anymore.”
“That’s impressive. And you did it all when you were, what, seventeen?”
“Sixteen.” I shrugged. “In the end, it didn’t really make a difference. But I liked it enough to become a financial engineer.”
“And now you’re rising to the executive suite.” She swirled her sangria. “You’ve never considered going out on your own like your dad and your brother? Calling the shots and basking in the glory of victory yourself?”
“Me?” I chuckled. “No. I’ve seen the entrepreneur life, and I don’t want any part of it. I like being a part of something bigger, working for the greater good and playing on a team. It’s like when I play soccer. I can take or leave the scoring goals. What I love is passing to a teammate and celebrating after they score. Besides, I like my weekends.”
She scrunched her nose. “Hmm.”
“Weekends are the best,” I insisted. “Sleeping in, cooking a big breakfast, maybe a soccer match or a long run. Forgetting all about work until Monday morning. My dad never took a break. And I won’t work myself into the ground like he did. Though I have a ton of respect for business owners like you.”
Respect? I swallowed. It wasn’t only respect I had for Carly. It wasn’t only lust, either. I’d had crushes before. On teammates. Classmates. College profs. I’d even had a humiliating, game-choking crush on a coach once. This wasn’t that, either. I thought of Carly even when we weren’t in the same room. I had fantasies that weren’t only about sex, fantasies about a future together when we’d come to Barcelona and she’d take me to a fashion show or a street full of boutiques and I’d love it. Because I loved her.
Holy shit. Did I love her?
“Are you feeling all right?” she asked. “You’re pale.”
I took a shaky breath. “Fine. Must be the lighting.” Our business arrangement didn’t allow for anything real. Definitely not love. I tamped my burgeoning, unwelcome feelings down.
Maybe it wasn’t actually love but a combination of jet lag and the romantic setting. Carly’s hair sparkled with red highlights, reflecting the lights strung in the branches of the potted tree beside us. Beyond the lighted stars above, the words Bones Festes glowed at the end of the street. It was all so perfect that it reminded me of a theme park decorated for the holidays. All it needed was a little fake snow.
To go with our fake date.
The server bustled up with the first plates and arranged them on the table. Good. Food would be an excellent distraction.
Carly passed me the plate of tomato-topped bread. “Try this.”
I lifted a slice and munched it. “Oh, my god,” I mumbled between bites. “This is some kind of culinary sorcery.”
She laughed. “Just fresh tomatoes, salt, good olive oil, and bread baked this morning. But it tastes magical, doesn’t it? Especially when you eat it outside.”
“I think I might have died on that airplane, and now I’m in heaven.” I devoured the next slice, leaving the last one for Carly. I pointed at the other dish, which held a half-dozen deep-fried spheres. “What are those?”
“Fried cheese. I figured if fried foods help with hangovers, they might help with jet lag too.”
Before she finished speaking, I crunched into one. The creamy cheese melted on my tongue. It came from a different universe than the fried cheese I’d eaten at bars back home. I moaned my approval.
The tapas kept coming, each dish better than the last. Well, except for the olives. I’d have to figure out how to smuggle some back home. But somehow, I knew they wouldn’t taste the same in San Francisco. I understood Carly’s passion for the city.
As I filled my belly, my jet-lagged brain cleared, and I remembered I had to tell her something that might ruin the Catalan Christmas magic. But I couldn’t delay it any longer. I straightened and sucked in a gust of chilly air. I was too tired to put it delicately. Maybe it was best to do it quickly, like that time Natalie enrolled in a cosmetology program and practiced waxing my eyebrows.
“So,” I said, “there’s been an unexpected development. My mother and Charles are coming to the wedding.”
She set down her wine. “What?”
“They weren’t planning on coming at first. But they changed their minds.”
“When? Today?” She blinked.
“No.” I looked down at the bowl of olives. They didn’t look as appetizing anymore. “At Thanksgiving.”
“You’ve known for four weeks and only decided to tell me now?” The women at the next table turned to stare. “What the hell, Andrew?”
Grasping her hand, I rubbed a circle on her palm with my thumb. I should’ve done this in private. “I was afraid you’d think it was a big deal?—”
“It is a big-ass deal! If Audrey sees us together, she’ll destroy me. I’ll never style anyone in San Francisco again. I’ll have to get a job at the fragrance counter at Bloomingdale’s.”
I gripped her hand. “She knows about the arrangement. She’s fine with it.” Fine was stretching things a bit, but I was certain my mother wouldn’t make a scene at the wedding. “You two are friends?—”
“That’s absolutely not true. We’re polite to each other in public.”
“She respects you?—”
“Another fallacy. She thinks I’m a low-class interloper.”
I’d never heard those words come out of Mother’s mouth. Besides, she viewed Carly as an equal; otherwise, she wouldn’t have fought her so hard. “That’s not true. She respects your talent and your success. She might have even envied you a little.”
Carly snorted. “Envy me?”
“She never stops talking about that boat party.”
“What boat party?”
I winced. I hadn’t meant to tell her that, but here we were. “The party on your yacht on Labor Day weekend, right after you’d married Brad. You wore a bikini.”
“You wear swimwear on a boat. In fact, I offered everyone swimsuits.”
I chuckled. “According to my mother, you were supposed to have another stuffy hotel ballroom cocktail party.” Carly would never do that. I admired her unconventional ideas. The way she twisted expectations to suit her purposes. The way I never did.
“I was?” She tilted her head. “I hosted it on the yacht because I loved going out on the water, beyond the city. Just me and the fresh air. I had no idea it’d cause such controversy. There were at least three other yacht parties that year.”
“After yours, everyone wanted to host one,” I said. “Mother couldn’t forgive you for your success.”
“Why didn’t Brad tell me what everyone expected?”
I raised an eyebrow.
“Brad,” she muttered. “But that was almost twenty years ago.”
I shrugged. “You made an impression. You certainly did on me.”
“I was so nervous. I don’t even remember what I wore.”
“A white bikini. With gold hardware between the—” I swallowed, remembering. Not only was her body incredible, but she carried herself with a confidence that made me see stars. “I took one look at you and had to spend the rest of the cruise inside, pretending to be interested in hearing about Derek van der Poel’s trip to Amsterdam.”
“I can’t believe you remember.”
“That bikini—and you—are impossible to forget.”
She pulled her hand from mine. “That was a long time ago. And it only proves Audrey’s going to make this week miserable.”
I tamped down the defensiveness that rose inside me. My mother meant well, but Carly was my date, and she was my priority this week. Because of our arrangement, I reminded myself.
“No. We’re going to have an incredible time. Not even Audrey Jones Hayes can stop us.”
“Really?” She winced when her voice quivered.
Protectiveness surged in my chest. “I promise to do everything in my power to help you enjoy yourself this weekend. I’ll shield you from my mother, from Brad, from anyone who threatens you. Plus, I’ll be your marketing assistant while you woo the other guests and turn them into clients.”
Her lips curled into a smile. “I don’t need you to fight my battles or be my assistant.”
“Let me take care of you.” I wasn’t sure where the words had come from, but they felt right. If I were at my ex’s wedding, it was what I would have wanted.
“Take care of me?”
“I’ll make sure you’re well rested and hydrated. I’ll distract you when you’re worried. I’ll remind you that you’re a goddess.” Tentatively, I reached across the table and smoothed a thumb over the crease between her eyebrows.
“That sounds…amazing.”
Maybe it was the magic of the Christmas lights or the jet lag that made my voice come out as a rumble. It certainly had nothing to do with our arrangement. “You are amazing.”
Clearing her throat, she moved the empty plates aside. Before she could shift it out of my reach, I snagged the bowl of olives. There were two or three left, and I was going to savor every delicious, briny bite.
“Be sure you’re drinking enough water,” she said with a nod at my glass. “Those olives are salty, and rehydration is important after a long-haul flight.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I said, reaching for the last one. She stilled, and I froze, replaying my epic mistake. I cringed. “I didn’t mean?—”
“I know. I know.” She wiped her hands on her napkin and placed it beside her plate.
I put my hand over hers. “I’m sorry. I’d have said it to any of my friends. It was a joke. A bad one.”
“It’s fine.” She flapped her other hand like she could wave away the heaviness that had settled over our table. “Mind if I ask for our check?”
“Let me pay for dinner. Please.” It was the least I could do after my gaffe.
“No. This is part of our arrangement.” She waved over the server.
The server had a handheld device to take Carly’s credit card at the table, and as soon as she’d paid, she stood. I fumbled to my feet and helped her put on her coat. When I rested my hands on her shoulders, she shrugged them off and with a brusque “Ready?” led the way back to our hotel.
She didn’t look at me again, not when we walked into the hotel and she greeted the front-desk clerk, not when we rode the crowded elevator to the third floor, and not when she opened the door to our suite.
“I’m tired. Goodnight.” With a vague wave, she shut the door.
I flopped down on the sofa, wide awake.
I’d fucked everything up, again.