Chapter 2
The Way We Are
Coco
Marín gets to the party when I’m ready to leave, so I stay.
That’s just what you do when you see the guy you like out of the corner of your eye: pretend to act natural and try to look like a Parisian who couldn’t care less and doesn’t even know how chic she is.
Kind of a challenge when you happen to be nowhere near Paris, by the way.
I would’ve known he’d arrived even if I hadn’t spotted him in the crowd, because the vibe always shifts subtly when he’s around. He’s the kind of guy who people are just drawn to. He’s…magnetic.
I’m watching the stage where Aroa’s DJing when I notice a little commotion in the garden.
When I turn to look… There he is. He just got here, and someone is already fetching him a mojito as he greets everyone he crosses paths with.
As always, he’s brushing away that unruly lock of hair swooping across his forehead.
Up until last year, his hair was a lot longer, but one Saturday he got out of bed with the sudden urge for a change and cut it himself.
I found him in the bathroom, armed with scissors and a YouTube tutorial.
He just needed my help to touch up the back.
That’s Marín…renaissance man: He knows how to do everything.
Loren, my fabulous and sparkling best friend since high school, casts a glance in his direction. “He just got here and as always, he’s the center of attention the second he shows up, the bastard.”
“You’re just mad because he doesn’t even have to try.” I smile at him.
“Do this.” Loren points at my mouth and waggles his fingers like he’s wiping something. “You’re drooling, babe.”
I snort and roll my eyes, turning back to the stage where Aroa is remixing a campy song with a great track we love. I think it’s for Marín. She spotted him in the crowd too.
I look at the time and sigh. It’s not even late enough to gracefully call it a night.
It’s not like I’m not a party person. It’s just that…
those parties, the ones that are so “bougie,” so “cool,” so “Instagrammable,” they’re just not my thing.
Honestly…they drain me; this one is packed with people who would look down their noses at you even if you were dressed by a Coachella-coded stylist. They seem even more salty than I am that I had to come straight from work and didn’t even have the chance to change.
A couple of hipsters looked me up and down when I got here, I guess for wearing such a formal dress and heels, but I don’t care…
If I want to sell expensive things to people with money, I have to embody their image of the model daughter.
A couple drops of sweat slide down my back, and I bet I’ll be sloshing around in my shoes in no time.
Instead of wearing platform sandals or distressed ankle boots like the rest of the regulars, I’m wearing Salvatore Ferragamo heels, passed down from my mother, which I usually pair with a dress for work.
Right now, I would write an ode to my grimy Converse.
If I’d known when I left home this morning that Aroa was going to invite us to a big party, maybe I would’ve put on something more like the sequin top (which is so loose there’s the constant threat of a nip slip) she’s wearing.
No, I wouldn’t have. When we met Aroa, Loren, Blanca, and I were all so immediately intoxicated by that je ne sais quoi that makes her so unique, so stunning, so smiley, so optimistic…
so perfect. She’s one of those people you immediately want to be friends with.
I think that’s why I rallied and came to this party tonight even when I didn’t feel like it.
I want to rebuild the relationship we had before she started dating Marín.
I’m not the only one who feels like she ended up drifting away from us.
I turn around and ask Loren if he wants something to drink. If I can’t leave yet, the next best thing would be another drink to cool me off. He shakes his head and lifts his glass to show it’s still full, singing what he thinks are the lyrics, even though he’s getting them all wrong.
I slide up to the crowded bar. Still, I have to wait a long time, listening to some guy with super long hair and a beard bloviate about music. If Marín heard him, he’d punch him. I almost want to punch him myself.
Finally, clutching my drink, I move to the side, looking for a cool breeze, pull out my phone, and see a message from Blanca.
She’s saying she had to work late because it’s the last day before our trip and she has to get all her ducks in a row (well, what a surprise, the little workaholic) and that she’s going to have to flake on this one.
I imagine her putting on her martyr face as I read:
Blanca:
I know it’ll be one of those parties Aroa will say I’m the worst for missing, but the only thing that sounds good right now is taking off all my clothes and lying on the hallway floor, with my bare ass on the cool tiles, dramatically feigning my own death.
I answer completely honestly that she’s not missing anything.
Her response pops up right away.
Blanca:
Nothing to report? Is the whole gang there?
I write back:
Coco:
Nothing to report. Gus has been radio silent all day. Marín just made his appearance, and Loren and I looked like proud parents, standing here beaming over our friend. Aroa is DJing again. People are buzzing and half-wasted. And I want to leave already. As usual.
Blanca:
Send me a photo.
I pull up the camera app and point my phone, flash and all, at Aroa raising her arms in that “DJ getting fired up” pose. I send it without a filter or a caption.
Blanca pings back immediately.
Blanca:
Jesus, how gorgeous is our little vixen. Give her a big kiss from me and say congratulations for somehow doing yet another thing so well.
That’s the thing—as soon as Aroa told us she wanted to learn to DJ, we all knew she’d end up having a knack for it, just like everything else.
Aroa is one of those people who dabble in everything and yet somehow master all of it, and on top of all that, she’s super beautiful.
The female equivalent of Marín. Their thing, I guess, was a matter of fate.
“Put your phone down, woman. You’re at a party,” someone next to me whispers.
I jump and stifle a scream. He’s much closer than I thought.
“Jesus, Marín, you scared the shit out of me.” I clutch my chest and take a breath before turning and giving him a single kiss on the cheek. “I was just about to come find you.”
“Wild party?”
“It always is when Aroa DJs. She turns everything she touches to gold. So…are you gonna reward her with some cock?”
“Wanna see it?” He offers with a mocking glance.
“Nah. I don’t like seeing sad stuff.”
He lets out a chuckle and gives me a soft punch in the ribs, like you would to your bestie. What a cross to bear…
“What are you drinking?” he asks, looking at my glass.
“A virgin mojito.”
“Ah, like you.”
Now it’s my turn to laugh.
“You’re pretty late…with that joke and to the party.”
“You should never be the first one to get to a party.”
“Or the last. I’ve been ready to leave for ages.”
He grimaces and checks the time discreetly on his phone.
“I got off work super late. You look like a snob and a half in this dress,” he teases. “Did you borrow your mother’s best dress for VIP funerals?”
“Nope. It’s for your grandmother’s wedding.”
Marín laughs even though I can tell he’s trying to keep a straight face.
“We opened an exhibition today,” I explain. “So I had to pretend to be classy.”
“You are classy. It’s just your own brand of classy.”
That’s what my mother says, but she’s obliged to love her youngest daughter.
I glance back at Aroa. The rest of us are shining with sweat, but she’s glowing from a few strategic strokes of subtle powder highlighter she will have just dashed on, completely confident, not even looking in the mirror.
She’s so blond, so sun-kissed golden, with those intensely blue eyes and pert little nose…
“She’s so beautiful, that fucker,” I murmur.
“Yep.”
I catch Marín’s eyes on Aroa and feel a pang of jealousy.
Jealousy like the one Gus described a few days ago in one of his Instagram poems: “Jealousy like hot, smoking tar, oozing into a puddle in my chest.” But I swallow all of it: the jealousy, the tar, the idea that I’m projecting my ex’s poems onto someone else, not even giving a second thought to who actually wrote them.
I swallow it all down with a sip of my cocktail.
When I look back at Marín, he seems different.
“You good?” I ask.
“Yeah.” Marín peels his eyes off Aroa and looks at me again. “I’m just tired.”
There’s something dark in his eyes, which are usually so clear…
Sex? Desire? Longing? Lust? That pretty girl, the one bouncing and grinning behind the turntables, is no longer his. Not even a little. And nobody knows why.
He swipes the alcohol-free mojito from my hand and takes a swig.
“I thought you already had a drink,” I say slyly.
“It was going to be too strong.”
No other explanation necessary. Marín rarely drinks. Just a couple of beers if the occasion warrants it… But it has to really warrant it. I’m very well aware of his reasons for this, and I completely get his disdain for drunkenness, especially when it goes too far.
While I casually sway to the rhythm of the music, I see one of Marín’s friends making his way over.
“Angelito,” I say, announcing his arrival and nudging Marín.
“Great. He’ll worm his way into any event worth going to,” he says bitterly.
I raise an eyebrow, but it’s too late to ask. Angel is already in front of us.
“Man, it’s Anchovy and Sardine. How are you?”
“We’re here and very salty,” I retort cheekily.
At least two years ago, we earned the nickname “Anchovy and Sardine,” the ingredients of a snack that they call “A Marriage” in Madrid. And since we always show up everywhere together…
“Dude, we missed you at practice yesterday,” he tells Marín.