4. PEDRO
4
PEDRO
I ’m standing in line at my usual coffee spot, the kind of place that’s so busy, the baristas never recognize you and never learn your favorite drink, which is exactly the way I like it. Post show-mance breakup, Urban Grind has become my little haven in the bustling heart of the city, a spot where I can blend in, just another face in the crowd.
My phone vibrates in my pocket as I place an order for a medium breve cappuccino and step aside to keep the line moving.
Pulling out my phone, the screen lights up with Omar’s latest antics.
Yo, just bypassed the firewall at Port Authority. Feeling like Neo. Where’s my Trinity at?
His text beams with the pride of a gamer who just pulled off a perfect speedrun. I can’t help but smirk, tapping back swiftly.
Congrats. Now find a way to bypass the line at this coffee shop. I'm dying here.
His reply is instant, a testament to his chronically-online status.
Bro, just bounce. That’s my favorite life hack.
Before I can craft my witty retort, a flash of someone in the crowd halts me mid-thought. It’s her. The face that’s haunted both my dreams and LinkedIn suggested connections for what feels like an eternity.
Cheekbones that look like they were carved from granite and lips so full they could flip your world upside down. Her hair, dark and tumbling over her shoulders, always seemed to have a life of its own, a wild, untamed creature that refused to be contained. But it’s the way she carries herself, that potent mix of self-assuredness and fire, that cranks up the volume on my internal chorus of regrets to ear-splitting levels.
It’s been years, but she’s unmistakably Aria. She walks into Urban Grind as if she’s completely unaware of the seismic shift in the atmosphere that her mere presence brings, like a force of nature that doesn’t give a damn about the chaos it leaves in its wake.
I’m frozen for a second, memories flooding back—some good, some not so much, all of them hitting me with the force of a thousand espresso shots. As Aria steps into the queue, my instinct screams at me to hide as I duck behind the display of overpriced pastries and pray for invisibility. But as memories of our relationship flash through my mind like a highlight reel of my greatest hits and misses, the sound of my name cuts through the haze like a foghorn in the night.
“Pedro! Extra-hot skinny no-foam triple-shot vanilla latte!” the barista calls out, her voice loud enough to wake the dead and make everyone in the crowded cafe turn and stare.
I roll my eyes so hard I’m pretty sure I catch a glimpse of my own brain as I make my way to the pick-up counter. “Yeah, I’m Pedro, but that’s not my drink,” I say, trying to keep the annoyance out of my voice.
The barista’s mouth hangs open in confusion. “Are you sure?” she asks, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.
I try not to make a biting remark about how I would know my own drink order, but it’s a struggle. “Yeah, I’m sure that’s not my drink. I ordered a medium breve cappuccino. Maybe there’s another Pedro out there, living his best life with a triple-shot monstrosity?”
The barista squints at me, as if the idea of two Pedros existing in the same universe is enough to make her question the very fabric of reality.
“Are you sure you didn’t order an extra-skinny no-joy latte, sir?” The sound of Aria’s voice catches me off guard, like the first note of a throwback song, and our eyes finally meet, the world around us dissolving into insignificance.
“Aria?” I say, her name feeling both foreign and familiar on my tongue, like a language I once spoke fluently but have since forgotten.
Her dark eyes flit toward the barista’s name tag, a spark of amusement dancing in their depths. “Hey, Nova. Can you please get Pedro’s very masculine drink? What was that you ordered, honey? A cup of liquid testosterone?”
I can’t help but smile at her not-so-subtle attempt to charm me, the banter between us still as easy and natural as breathing. “I ordered a very manly keto cappuccino. Gotta watch my macros, you know. Wouldn’t want to lose these gains,” I say, subtly flexing my bicep.
Aria smiles as a different barista behind Nova hands me my cappuccino, the aroma of coffee and steamed milk mingling with the scent of her perfume. “Congratulations,” she says, her voice laced with a teasing edge that sends a shiver down my spine. “Looks like you’ve finally achieved peak bro status.”
I hang back for a couple of minutes while Aria adds cream and sugar to her coffee, watching as she performs this simple task with a grace that borders on mesmerizing. As she strides toward me, her hips swaying to a beat only she can hear, I make my way to the entrance to open the door for her, a gesture that feels both chivalrous and slightly ridiculous .
She raises an eyebrow as she steps outside into the cool autumn morning, the breeze playing with the loose strands of her hair. “Such a gentleman,” she remarks, her tone equal parts surprised and amused. “And look at that suit. Things have certainly changed. Did you finally retire the hoodie and jeans uniform?”
I chuckle at the familiarity of our banter, the ease with which we seem to slip back into old patterns. “Yeah, the coding attire had to go. I’m more boardroom than basement now. Gotta dress the part, you know?”
Her laughter is light, a sound that I realize I’ve missed more than I was conscious of. “I see. So, what’s new in the world of tech?” she inquires, her tone punctuated with genuine interest. “Still trying to take over the world, one algorithm at a time?”
I pull out a chair at an empty outdoor table, the metal scraping against the concrete with a grating sound that sets my teeth on edge. She stares at it for a moment, as if she’s contemplating whether she’d rather take a seat or run away, her hesitation tangible. With a small shrug, she plops down into the wrought-iron chair, the action somehow both graceful and awkward.
Taking a seat, I lean back into a casual pose, the picture of nonchalance even as my heart gallops in my chest. “Oh, you know, breaking barriers, disrupting the status quo—the uzh,” I say, waving my hand in a vague gesture that could mean anything. “How have you been? You’re looking pretty sharp yourself. Finally decided to ditch the yoga pants and oversized sweaters? ”
She glances down at her cropped hoodie, the fabric clinging to her curves in a way that makes my mouth go dry. Leaning in slightly, her eager posture is a stark contrast to the slightly distracted look in her eyes, like she’s only half-present in the moment. “I’m fine,” she says, her voice carefully neutral. “Just trying to survive in this post-COVID world, you know? It’s been a wild ride.”
“COVID? What’s that?” I ask with a sheepish grin, the joke falling flat in the space between us. “So, what’s been keeping you busy these days? Still trying to save the world, one social media post at a time?”
She takes a sip of her coffee, her expression thoughtful, like she’s carefully considering her answer. “Same old, same old,” she says, her tone light but with an undercurrent of something I can’t quite place. “Still managing clients. Lots of ego-stroking and handholding. You know how it goes. It’s a glamorous life, being a professional babysitter for grown-ass adults.”
“Sounds like you’ve got your hands full,” I say, taking a sip of my own coffee, the rich, creamy flavor coating my tongue. “Must be tough, dealing with all those fragile egos and inflated senses of self-importance.”
She smiles, a hint of mystery behind it, like she’s privy to some secret joke that I’m not in on. “You could say I’m juggling a lot of balls,” she says, her words dripping with innuendo. “It’s a delicate balancing act, keeping everyone happy and satisfied. ”
I find myself caught in the pull of her presence, the ease of her laugh, the sharpness of her wit. It’s like we’re rediscovering each other, peeling back the layers of time and distance to reveal the people we used to be, the connection we once shared. Yet there’s a layer of unspoken tension, a sense of what-if hanging in the air between us, thick and heavy like a fog.
“And Tío Juan? Still the life of the party?” she asks, her smile hinting at shared memories, inside jokes and moments that belong only to us.
“He’s fully embraced the digital age,” I explain, pride and amusement mingling in my voice. “Started a vlog, ‘Juan Uncut’—one-take shots, no edits. He loves keeping it real, even if that means subjecting the world to his unfiltered thoughts and questionable fashion choices. he’s actually staying with me for now; well, until I can find a way to get him to leave. He…thinks he’s helping out… It’s complicated.”
Her chuckle resonates with a shared understanding, a recognition of the larger-than-life personality that is my uncle. “Always living life on his own terms,” she says, nodding. “And your mom? How’s she doing?” The question, seemingly casual, carries an undercurrent of genuine concern.
“She’s good, thanks for asking,” I respond, a touch of warmth in my voice. “You know, she still asks about you.” The words escape me before I can gauge their impact, hanging in the air between us like a loaded gun.
A flicker of discomfort crosses Aria’s face, a subtle shift in her expression. She opens her mouth to say something, but the moment is suddenly interrupted by the arrival of a young woman at our table, her enthusiasm a jarring contrast to the heavy silence that had settled between us.
The woman’s eyes light up as she spots me, practically glowing with excitement. She leans in, her words tumbling out in a breathless rush. “I just have to say, the latest version of AI video tool is incredible!” Her gaze flickers between admiration and nervous energy, as if she’s meeting a celebrity.
I nod, forcing a polite smile as a prickling discomfort creeps up my neck. It’s flattering, sure, but there’s something awkward about this moment—standing here with Aria, hearing my post-breakup success praised so openly. I can almost feel the tension tightening between us, a silent reminder of everything that’s changed.
As I engage in this brief, surface-level conversation, I steal a glance at Aria, trying to gauge her reaction. There’s a knowing look in her eyes, a deep understanding of the world I inhabit—one where such encounters are common, yet rarely deeply satisfying. It’s a look that speaks volumes, a silent acknowledgment of the life I’ve carved out for myself, with all its trappings and challenges.
Finally, the woman takes her leave, her parting words hanging in the air like a heavy perfume. I turn back to Aria, meeting her gaze with a mix of sheepishness and resignation. “Sorry about that,” I say, shrugging my shoulders. “Occupational hazard, I guess.”
She waves off my apology with a dismissive gesture, her expression unreadable. “No need to apologize,” she says, her voice carefully neutral. “It’s a part of your world now, isn’t it? The fame, the adoration, the constant validation of your genius?”
I wince at her words, the subtle jab hitting a little too close to home. “It’s not like that,” I protest, even as a part of me knows she’s not entirely wrong. “It’s just...it comes with the territory, you know? But it doesn’t mean anything, not really.”
She nods, her gaze drifting to the people passing by on the street, their lives a mystery to us both. “I get it,” she says, her voice softer now, almost wistful. “It’s the price you pay for success, right? The loss of anonymity, the constant scrutiny, the feeling that you’re always on display.”
I’m struck by the depth of her understanding, the way she seems to see through the veneer of my public persona to the person beneath. The way she always seemed to understand me in a way that no one else could.
“Your latest algorithm changed my life, Pedro,” she says suddenly, her voice taking on a teasing lilt. “The way it tracks me across all browsers, it’s like you’re always watching me, always there in the background. It’s comforting, in a slightly creepy way.”
I lean back in my chair, a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth. “Glad to be of service,” I say, my tone matching hers. “We take our responsibility to spy on you very seriously. It’s all part of our master plan to take over the world, one invasive algorithm at a time.”
She laughs at that, the sound bright and genuine, a momentary break in the tension that hangs between us. As we sip our coffee in companionable silence, I find myself studying her, trying to reconcile the woman in front of me with the girl I used to know. She’s different now, more guarded, more cautious, but there are still flashes of the old Aria, the one who used to look at me like I hung the moon.
“So, I heard a rumor about your company,” she says, leaning forward conspiratorially, her eyes glinting with a mix of curiosity and something else I can’t quite place. “Is it true you’re trying to get funding from Larry Rubin? That’s a pretty big deal, isn’t it?”
Her words hit like a curveball. The funding round news is out there, but Rubin’s name? That’s not something I’ve been broadcasting. The fact that Aria’s keyed into that feels like she’s been keeping tabs on me, and I’m not sure how I feel about it.
I keep my tone light, even as my mind races. “You’re well-informed,” I say, taking a slow sip of coffee, trying to buy myself a second to think. “That little detail about Rubin hasn’t exactly made the rounds yet. How’d you get wind of it?”
She shrugs, a mischievous glint in her eye. “You know how it is. Client relations involves a lot of chatter. You’d be amazed what people say when they think no one’s listening.”
I set my cup down, my brain doing mental gymnastics. She’s still got her finger on the pulse, and clearly, she’s been paying attention to me. The question is, how much does she know? And why is she still so interested?
For a moment, the old Aria—the one who could charm her way into anyone’s confidence—flashes before me. And just like that, I’m reminded of the game we’re playing. Only this time, the pressure is higher, and I’m not entirely sure whose side she’s on.
But as she leans back in her chair, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips, I can’t help but wonder if she’s exactly the kind of ally I need right now. With the summit looming and my search for a new “Jessica” proving futile, maybe Aria’s unexpected reappearance isn’t a coincidence after all.
Maybe it’s fate throwing me a fire extinguisher in the middle of this burning mess I call my life.