Chapter 20
That night, I’m finally settled in bed, stuffing myself with second dinner, when my hotel phone rings. It scares the absolute shit out of me, and I jump, spilling a forkful of rice and beans across the white comforter.
“Ring, ring, Hardy Boy,” says a familiar voice on the other end of the line. “The front desk connected me to your room. What are you up to?”
“I was just catching a replay of your match, actually,” I say as Diego speeds across my TV mid-rally.
“How am I doing?” he asks, and I can hear his smirk through the phone.
“You’re down a set, but I have a feeling you turn things around.”
“Sounds like you should come over for champagne, then.”
“And miss the end of this?”
“I’ll tell you what happens.”
Today’s incident was a close call, and I really should get some rest. But I could be on my deathbed and still have someone wheel me across traffic to see him. Plus, a glass of champagne could settle my lingering nerves. That’s not a habit I want to get into, but temporarily, that could do it.
I give my teeth a good brush again. It’s not a great night to be near my mouth, and I need to be prepared for anything—especially with our flirty exchanges. I shouldn’t get my hopes up, though. I’ve had enough good luck for one day.
—
Half a dozen workers dressed in perfectly cut suits stand at attention across the sparkling lobby of Hotel Renée. “Excuse me, sir,” a bald one says, stopping me just before the wall of elevators. “May I help you?”
“Oh, no, I’m just visiting a…friend.” It still feels surreal to say Diego Cruz is my friend.
“Of course, sir. Right this way.” Instead of leading me to the elevators, he takes me to a marble reception desk. “Guest’s name and room number?” he asks, lifting a phone with a gloved hand.
“Uh, 1105.” After a brief pause, I add, “Mr. Cruz,” and immediately regret the mister part. I don’t know…It felt appropriate. When he hears the name, the suited man tilts his head exactly one degree, sizing me and my gym shorts up. He reluctantly dials.
“Yes, Mr. Cruz, I have a—” He looks at me, summoning my name.
“Mr. Hardy,” I say. Shit, I did it again.
“—a Mr. Hardy here to see you.”
He listens, nodding, and after a moment, he hangs up the phone. “No, sir,” he says.
“What?”
“He doesn’t know you, sir—unfortunately.”
“I just—I just talked to him,” I stutter, heat rushing to my face. “Are you joking?”
“No, sir.” He stares at me blankly, and then adds, “Yes, sir.”
“What?” I repeat, utterly confused.
“He made me do it. I apologize.”
Jesus f-ing Christ. I shake my head as a smile eventually finds my lips—just a small one, though, because this motherfucker really put me through it, getting me all worked up in a bougie place like this.
“Please, let me show you to his suite,” he says, gesturing.
“No, no, I can find it,” I say, heading back to the elevators. “You’re a mean little guy.”
“Not by choice, sir,” he responds lightly.
—
Diego hangs out of his door, waiting for me, as I turn down his hallway. “Hey, how’d you get up here?”
“You’re so stupid,” I say, shaking my head.
“You believed him.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
He wraps his arms around me and squeezes extra tight in his tank top, and that’s all it takes for me to forgive him.
“Congratulations on our win today. We should arrive in a helicopter more often,” he says, leading me into the living room section of his gorgeous suite, with its plush furniture and with thick curtains draped against the windows overlooking the green expanse of Central Park.
It’s beautiful and expensive and completely at odds with his suitcases scattered across the room, hanging open on couches and tables, exploding with clothes and shoes.
“Shit, they didn’t give me glasses,” Diego says, disappearing into the bedroom for a moment.
I continue my tour, running my hand over an emerald-green Rolex bag sitting on the desk at the window, probably one of the many welcome gifts waiting for him on his arrival. And then another item catches my eye.
I roll a few colored pencils off a sheet of paper, revealing a drawing of the New York City skyline.
Buildings are sketched in browns, grays, and electric blues, reaching up the paper toward a giant tennis ball floating in the sky—a setting sun.
Its rays shine through the skyscrapers, up and over the Hotel Renée logo, bursting with energy and life.
The lines travel to the very edge of the page, unable to be contained by a small sheet of hotel stationery.
“Oh,” Diego says, returning with two water glasses and a bottle of champagne tucked under his arm. He lets out a chuckle.
“You did this?” I ask.
He shrugs as if it’s nothing. But it isn’t.
“This is…” I pause, searching for a way to describe it, to communicate how impressed I am, but I can’t quite find the words. “Diego, this is, like…art. Seriously, you could frame it and hang it in the MoMA.”
“I don’t know about that. It’s just something that I like to do at night, to wind down. And lately I’ve been using hotel stationery. Just for a little memory. Helps me remember where I’ve been, how I’ve been feeling.”
“And how are you feeling here?” I ask, holding up his drawing to him. “What does the sunset mean?”
“Well,” he says. His hand briefly brushes mine as he takes the paper. “That’s not a sunset. It’s a sunrise. And it means I was feeling—am feeling…” He pauses. “It’s a brand-new day, and anything can happen.”
It’s a simple explanation—cliché, even—but it sends goose bumps up my arms.
“Where did you learn how to draw like this?”
“Nowhere, really.”
“So you’re just naturally good at everything you do?”
“Shut up,” he says, and I jump as he abruptly fires the champagne cork into the bedroom. “Okay, now, this has bubbles in it…” he says, starting to pour.
“Yeah?”
“You’re not going to get burpy, are you?”
“Oh my god,” I groan. “It’s out there? It’s a thing now?”
“It’s a small thing. A loud thing. It’s going around.”
“Oh my god,” I say again, dragging myself to the couch and promptly collapsing. “I’m viral again.”
“You’re okay, Hardy Boy. Burp all you want around here—just not directly in my face.”
“Give me that,” I say, grabbing a glass and taking a gulp. Diego laughs and takes the opposite side of the couch.
We sit there for a moment, not sure what happens next, as an animated show plays quietly on his TV.
“What are we watching?” I ask him, breaking the silence.
“We’re watching my favorite show, the first thing I put on in every hotel room. Before I unpack, before I take my shoes off, Phineas and Ferb goes on. And it also puts me to bed every night.”
“Oh, so you’re like fully obsessed.”
“There’s only four seasons, so I’ve seen every episode many, many times.”
“And it never gets old?”
“No, that’s why I like it. I know every episode by heart, so it’s comforting to have it on in the background. In every episode, I know what happens. I know how it ends,” he says.
“Okay, yeah, I get that. I have a comfort show too.”
“What’s yours?”
“I don’t want to say.”
“So, you can learn all these things about me but I get nothing?”
“Fine. It’s…Gilmore Girls.”
Diego points to his face. “See? Do you see any laughing or judgment here?”
“I do not.”
“Exactly. I’m happy you have something that brings you comfort. What do you like about Golden Girls?”
“Gilmore Girls.”
He smirks. I shake my head. “I don’t know. I guess I like the banter. It’s…soothing.” I take another sip of champagne, because apparently, I’m someone who says soothing now.
“How are the bubbles treating you?” Diego asks.
“I’m fine.”
He hesitates, studying me from across the couch. “What was that about today, all the burping?”
“Yeah, it was nothing, really, just something I ate, I think.”
“That’s what you said in the interview.” He pauses. “I don’t know if I believe it.”
My grip tightens on the ridges lining the water glass. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know. When you fell during practice, and during your match today…you do this blinking thing…” He trails off, waiting for me to fill in the blank.
Instead, my eyes find the floor. I thought I was good at masking my anxiety symptoms, hiding them so that people generally have no idea what’s happening inside my head, my body, and it’s pretty humiliating to find out I’m not fooling anyone.
“Sorry,” he says. “You don’t have to talk about it.”
I don’t have to talk about it. Or…I could take another swig of what I assume is very expensive champagne and trust this guy who seems to care about me. I swirl the liquid in my glass and watch the bubbles collect at the top.
When I turn back to him, he’s there, patiently waiting, his leg up on the couch, not rushing me at all. I’ve been complaining about invasive questions all week, and here I am, at the door of another one.
“Why did you fall that day?” he asks.
“Why did you run to my rescue?”
Diego smirks, looks away. I got him a little.
He meets my stare again—with those soft brown eyes that contrast almost everything else about him. They suck the truth out of me.
“It was an anxiety attack.”
There. I finally said it. My pulse accelerates, but I continue.
“I have them from time to time. Sometimes they’re easy and sometimes they’re not.” I pause, searching for words to describe the feelings I try to keep buried inside. “They creep up, and I get weird symptoms, like dizziness, pressure in my head, my face. Difficulty breathing.”
“And you were feeling that during practice?”
“Yes.”
“Because you were nervous to be next to me?”
“Oh my god, stop. No.” If it were anyone else saying this, I’d be annoyed at the joke, but I don’t mind the humor here, to lighten the mood. “They’re not even really triggered by one thing. Everything just…compounds,” I say, echoes of Helen in my words.
“And the burping…?”
“Right, the burping. I haven’t been able to figure that one out. Something about the shortness of breath…It makes me feel better to, ya know, get it out of me.”
“Well, now I feel bad about making fun of you.”
“Honestly, it’s kinda funny, so…I get it.”