Chapter 7 #2
I want to say that I saw him coming, because I’ve already seen photos of him, and should have been prepared.
I have no excuse for freezing because I did have some warning that he’s gorgeous, and there should have been a preparatory moment where my brain did the sensible thing and noted: the attractive man you saw online is now across the room.
Catalog this information and proceed with your normal, functional personality!
I wish I could tell you that’s what’s happening.
What’s actually happening is this: I look across Melissa’s living room, and I see Rodrigo, and I lose all sense of time, space, and logic.
He’s over near the kitchen doorway, holding a pink paper cup that looks like it was designed for someone else and which he is accepting anyway with a kind of quiet dignity.
He’s in a dark jacket and dark jeans, and he has the kind of build that comes from actual work— broad through the shoulders, reminding me of Greek statues— and his hair is dark and his jaw is— I mean.
His jaw is a situation. Carved and noticeable from every angle.
I know immediately, with the full-body recognition of someone who spent twenty minutes on an Instagram profile at midnight, that this is the man from the construction photo.
He is so much more handsome than his photos– exponentially more alarming in person.
Alana lifts a hand and waves at him. He sees her. He crosses the room.
“Rodrigo, this is Billie,” Alana says, with the bright, proprietary warmth of someone introducing two things they own. “Billie is Melissa’s best friend. She’s a head negotiator at a luxury real estate firm. Isn’t that incredible?”
Rodrigo looks at me. His eyes are dark and steady and give absolutely nothing away. He nods. “Hey,” he says.
That’s it. That’s the whole thing. Hey.
“Hi,” I say. I smile. I am aware that I am smiling slightly too much, which is something I do when I’m nervous.
“Rodrigo’s in construction,” Alana offers, looking at him with affectionate, performative exasperation. “He builds things. He also— tell her about the painting, Rodrigo.”
“It's just a hobby,” he says.
“He's incredible,” Alana says to me. “He paints these gorgeous?—”
“It’s just a hobby,” he says again. Firmly, but not unkindly. He’s looking at a point slightly to the left of me, like he has been brought to a party against his will and is processing his options.
There’s a beat.
“I love that,” I say, because I always try to fill the silence when the other person won’t. “The combination of building and painting. Like— making things in different ways. You must be a creative person.”
He looks at me. For exactly one second, something shifts in his expression— a small, genuine thing, quick as a blink, like a light catching briefly in a window. Then it’s gone.
“Whatever you say,” he says.
Alana links her arm through mine as if it’s something she’s done a hundred times. “I’m going to drag Billie to a yoga class with me,” Alana says the words as if she’s making a decision.
“I’ve never done yoga but I’d love to try it–” I start to say, but Alana interrupts me and continues filling Rodrigo in on a plan she’s made entirely without me.
“I’m going to take Billie to that yoga place I like in the West Loop, which is so close to us.”
“Sounds fun,” I say, hoping I’ll be able to keep up.
“We should all go,” Alana says, looking at Rodrigo.
“I don’t do yoga,” Rodrigo says.
“He doesn’t do yoga,” Alana confirms to me, as if this settles something. “But Billie and I can go, right? Like, a girls’ thing.”
“Totally,” I agree. “Although I’ve never done yoga so I might end up in Rodrigo’s camp and decide I don’t like it if I’m terrible at it.”
Rodrigo looks at me properly for the first time. I think for a moment that something is going to happen— that we’re going to have an actual conversation. Then he says: “Maybe you shouldn’t go to yoga. Especially if you know you won’t be any good at it. No te vayas.”
I blink. “I— what?”
“I think you might be too busy,” Rodrigo says. “With work. You said you're the head negotiator. Commercial deals. That is many hours, sí?
“I can make time for?—”
“You’d probably be better off,” he says, quietly, not unkindly but certainly conclusively, “sticking to your own friends and not making new ones.”
There’s a silence. It’s not a long silence, but it has weight in it.
Alana doesn’t seem to notice how uncomfortable things have gotten.
She’s already spotted something across the room— Melissa opening gifts— and she squeezes my arm.
“Oooh I have to explain something about my gift to Melissa! It’s a custom baby rattle from France— I’ll be back— Don’t go anywhere.
We have to finish our baby sheets.” And then she's gone, and I am standing next to Rodrigo, and neither of us says anything for a moment.
He takes a sip from his pink paper cup.
“Did you hear what I said?” he says, in a tone that is polite and absolute.
I blink, trying hard to believe this is actually happening.
“You told me… not to make new friends?” I ask helpfully.
Rodrigo nods. “Good,” he confirms. The silence settles between us.
“You’re a real talker, aren’t you?” I say, shaking my head at him. I put my hand in the air in a “stop” signal. “Hey now, don’t say so much all at one time! I can barely keep up.”
He makes a pained expression at me, then says, coldly:
“Perhaps you should go back to your game.”
He’s so cold. Almost… angry. Did I do something to make him mad before I’d even met him? What a jerk, I think.
I look down at my baby sheet. I look at photo five— the dark-eyed, serious infant with a mop of brown hair on his head. Begrudgingly, I write “Rodrigo (rude man)” next to it. I flip the paper over and show it to him.
“Were you this unhappy when you were a baby, or did it develop over time?”
He stares at me. I don’t know what’s come over me. It’s been a rough week, and maybe being treated like I’m garbage by this insanely attractive man is my breaking point? Who can say. All I know is: Rodrigo is rude.
And I can’t stand him.