19. Miguel
MIGUEL
NOW
Carmen’s spoon clinks on the edge of her teacup, adding to the other tinkling sounds in the tearoom.
Fine chinaware and lace doilies decorate each table occupied mostly by older women.
Looking around, I wonder at what point I started liking floral patterns and pastels, or if it’s just a phase that will end once we leave.
“What was wrong with the last guy?” Carmen asks, setting her spoon aside.
“Two words: finance bro. And I’m pretty sure he was straight. You’re no longer allowed to choose my dates.”
Bringing the porcelain cup to her lips, she samples the artisanal lemongrass blend and winces.
We haven’t been to a tearoom in years, but she likes to get fancy on her birthdays.
The curious thing about her choosing tea and finger sandwiches for today’s lunch, besides bringing her own gift, is that her birthday passed two months ago.
“Don’t be so quick to judge, Miguel. I’ve found many happy endings in a bar bathroom.”
I hold up a hand. “Stop right there. This isn’t The Carmen Show. We’re talking about me, and there are no public bathroom escapades in my story, except the time Graham stole a kiss.”
“The finance bro offered to remedy that,” she says.
The reminder of last night’s date sends a shudder down my spine, and not the good kind. “In explicit detail. Honestly, I don’t even know why I’m bothering with that stupid app.”
She places her floral cup on the matching saucer. “Don’t let a few bad dates ruin the experience. Think of them as learning opportunities.”
“I’ve learned there’s a bunch of sexually liberated people in this neighborhood, and I’m not one of them.
Maybe something’s wrong with me. It’s like I’m missing the wire in the brain that makes the promise of an orgasm a good motivator.
So far, the only person I’ve met who’s looking for more than sex is Patrick, or whatever his name is.
” My fingers find the bridge of my nose and squeeze.
“God, why can’t I remember his name? Am I allowed to rename him? ”
“There’s nothing wrong with being selective or staying true to your heart.” She waves off my follow-up questions. “And give your friend a nickname, like you do for everyone else.”
“I’ve thought about it but draw a blank every time. Nothing fits him.” I crumple up my napkin and jerk my chin at the chair between us. “What’s in the bag?”
She lifts the gift bag and sets it on the table. “Don’t shoot the courier. I was asked to pick up a package and hand-deliver it to you.”
“Graham,” I mumble, pulling out the paper stuffing. “Has he completely stolen your loyalty from me?”
She doesn’t answer, nibbling on a cucumber sandwich as she waits for the big reveal.
Inside the bag, there’s a flat white box tied with fuchsia ribbon.
A quick tug unravels the satin bow, and I lift the lid to find a photo album with a berry-red leather cover.
Engraved on the front, in silver script, is the word Favorites.
Each double-sided page contains sleeved photos of me and Graham taken over the years. The majority of them look familiar because they came from the memento box sitting on my TV stand.
The pictures we had printed and framed while we lived together are still at his house.
I didn’t think to take any with me when I left, so I made prints of my own.
You don’t realize how impersonal digital photos are until the thing you love most is gone and you need something tangible to fill the void.
As I flip through his favorite memories of us, a truth hits me. He burglarized my apartment, and I shouldn’t be smiling so big.
I snatch my phone off the table, thumbs flying across the screen as I navigate to my contacts before sending a message.
Me
YOU’RE A THIEF!
Graham
I have no idea what you’re talking about.
Me
Liar! You stole these photos from my apartment.
Graham
The photos in your possession?
Me
What did you hope to accomplish with this crime?
Graham
You finally unblocked me.
I type and delete several witty responses, but another text comes through before I can choose the perfect one.
Graham
Do you like the album? I added some pics of my own. The one of us cuddling on the lounger is a favorite.
I remember the taste of strawberry on your skin.
We’re shirtless in the selfie he’s referring to. I’ll never forget the day I spilled a slushy drink all over myself. He cleaned every drop of it with his tongue.
Me
You need to stop this.
Graham
Never.
“What’s he saying?”
I squeak and clutch my chest. “Oh my god. I forgot you were here.”
“Yeah, I kinda figured as much.” Carmen rolls her eyes and dips her sandwich in dill sauce. “Are you planning to share what he said with the rest of the table?”
I drag the album closer to me. “Nope. There are some things I keep to myself.”
“Whatever it was put a smile on your face. I miss seeing it.”
I miss it too. No one makes me smile as easily and freely as Graham does. I’ve also missed his mischievous ways. Even when I’m throwing a hissy fit about his methods, the surprises awaiting me in the end are always thoughtful. And secretly, I’m excited to find out what he has in store for me next.
Saturday, January 28th
I’m testing my finger strength on the cell phone attached to my ear. Any second now, the metal casing might crack, hopefully before my gritted teeth suffer the same fate.
“Andrew, the designers have agreed on the number of closets in these units. We all signed off on the count during the concept design meeting yesterday. The one for designers.”
“I should be in those meetings,” he whines. Always with the whining.
Should Andrew, an architectural engineer responsible for structural safety, be at the concept meetings where we draw up the initial floor plans? Maybe. Technically, yes. But the meetings would last all day because he’d have outlandish opinions on every idea we toss around.
When the collective’s founder brought me on board and asked if I knew any qualified engineers, I immediately thought of Andrew. Enough years had passed that I’d forgotten he was a pain in the ass. He’s smart and does his job exceptionally well, but he wants to do all the jobs.
“That would be a waste of your valuable time. We need your input during the schematics phase, which starts next week.” I step inside the elevator in my apartment building. “I’m about to lose signal, Andrew. We’ll talk soon.”
“Mig—”
Oops! My finger must’ve slipped and ended the call.
The elevator doors shut, and I tip my head against the mirrored wall, eyes closed. Declining work calls on the weekend is one of my cardinal rules, but this violation is my fault. I should’ve checked the Caller ID before answering.
On the third floor, I’m greeted by a pleasant sight, one that instantly perks me up.
There may even be a skip in my step when I get off the elevator and walk toward Graham, who’s loitering by my apartment door with a backpack hanging from a shoulder.
His sunglasses make it hard to tell whether he’s contemplating life while staring at his sneakers or he’s asleep on his feet.
“I’m starting to think you injected a tracker into my neck.”
When he looks up, the forced smile betrays his exhaustion. “My life would be a lot easier if I had. Do you have plans tonight?”
“You could’ve texted me that question, saved yourself the airfare.” Lifting the food container in my hand, I say, “I have a date with enchiladas, a needle, and a pair of trousers. Another boring, quiet night in. You’re welcome to join me.”
He takes the container and sniffs it while I unlock the door. “Are these your aunt’s enchiladas with the arbor peppers?”
“árbol. And yes.”
“Sweet,” he whispers, counting them through the clear plastic.
We kick off our shoes, and he drops his backpack on the floor, stacking his hat and sunglasses on top of it. I reach up and ruffle his smashed hair to knock the strands loose.
“Do you need to get some work done?” I ask.
“Yeah, but I can do it later at home.”
“No.” My biting objection makes him flinch. “The movie’s important, Graham. Do your thing, and I’ll do mine.”
He sighs but relents, setting up a workspace on the coffee table. I pop our dinner in the oven and recite the Wi-Fi password to him three times. With the food reheating, I scurry to my bedroom and change into a soft blue tank top and sweatpants cut off below the knee.
Back in the kitchen, I fix our plates and drinks. “What are you working on?”
“We shot this morning, and I need to finish reviewing the dailies. Couldn’t get through them all on the plane.” His frustrated tone indicates there’s more to the story, but he’s not one to voice his complaints. I’d have better luck scaling a high-rise with socks on my hands and feet.
“If you need to get anything off your chest...” My offer trails off when I turn around.
He’s wearing earbuds and has his nose six inches from the screen.
I slide his meal next to his laptop and scarf down my dinner while standing over my sewing table.
The wool trousers from a resale shop were tailored for someone taller.
Soon, they’ll be custom fitted to me, once I decide if I want to add embellishments or restitch them with a different color of thread.
Graham remains focused on his task, oblivious to the snips, whirs, and sewing playlist coming from my corner of the room. The twentieth time I glance at him, he’s twisting the hair near his temple. I set the trousers aside and refill his water.
“Thanks.” An attempted smile fails to reach his eyes as he removes the earbuds.
“You’re having headaches again. Do you still take pills? Are they in your bag? I’ll grab one for you.”
He slumps on the sofa while rubbing his eyes. “I stopped taking them because they upset my stomach. My doctor thinks I should get tested for glasses. She also suggested Botox injections.”
“But you haven’t made those appointments.”
My statement garners no response and doesn’t need one.
Graham has appointment anxiety. He hates making them and going to them.
I used to hover like a governess until he’d pick up the phone or go online to schedule a haircut or flu shot because he’d keep putting it them off. Eventually, I took over the job.
I stretch out on the chaise end of the sofa and pat my thigh. “Come here.”
He lays his head in my lap, hands resting on his stomach. The second my fingers run through his hair and my nails drag over his scalp, he lets out a full-body sigh.
“Filming just started, and you’re not taking care of yourself.
And I’m not talking about yoga or whatever you’re doing for exercise.
I’m talking about sleep. All this travel between time zones will catch up with you, and I don’t want to be the reason you’re distracted from making the best film possible. ”
“I think I had panic attack on the first day,” he says.
My hand stills. He may not complain, but unlike me, he’s brave enough to speak his truths out loud when we’re alone. This one is worrying, because the last thing I’d ever want is for Graham to suffer with recurring panic attacks or crippling anxiety.
“Have you had others?” I ask.
“No. It didn’t last long, but I was scared. After everything I’ve sacrificed to get here, what if I fail?” His tired eyes wander upward, looking lost even when they connect with mine. “I can’t do this without you, Miguel.”
“Yes, you can. You already are.” I scratch behind his ear, near his hairline.
“When I helped launch the collective, you were in Italy and called every day to encourage me. I needed that because I shut down from stress, but you’re different.
No one has to push you into action. You take the initiative, get things done, and do them well.
So, no, you don’t need me. And you won’t fail. ”
The music continues playing while I treat him to a soothing head massage, one of many I’ve given him over the years. Somewhere along the way, my lap became his favorite pillow, and I miss holding him like this.
When I think he’s fallen asleep, he speaks again. “Remember the day I met your family?”
I snort softly. “You thought my parents would warn you about hurting their baby boy, but my brother’s the one who cornered you in the kitchen.”
Graham smiles. “He threatened me with the might of the entire Marine Corps if I stepped out of line.”
“Ricky’s a teddy bear.”
My brother Enrique is five years older than me. When we were kids, he’d scare off anyone who looked at me funny. At eighteen, he enlisted in the military, and I lost my fiercest protector. We rarely see each other now.
Graham’s quiet grunt reaches my ears, followed by his slurred speech.
“I didn’t tell you everything he said. He told me, ‘If there’s ever a day when Miguelito isn’t the first or last thing on your mind, show your ass out.
’ Then he went on to explain all the ways he’d ruin my life.
” There’s a long pause as Graham balances on the edge of oblivion.
“I’ve never let him down, Miguel. Never will. ”
Only a minute passes before his breaths even out.
I should move and let him get more comfortable, maybe turn off the lights and cover him with a blanket, but I can’t.
Not yet. Not when there’s no guarantee I’ll have the opportunity to care for him like this again.
To watch him sleep peacefully. To pretend I have the right to love on him after breaking his heart.
After five more minutes of being selfish, I force myself to move. Carefully, I slip out of my spot without jostling him and place a light kiss on his forehead. “Que duermas bien, mi amor.”
His fingers latch on to my pants. “Don’t leave me again.”
A sob blooms in my throat, swift and painful. I choke it down and release a shuddering breath instead. Climbing over him, I wedge myself in the narrow gap between his body and the back of the sofa. Out of habit, he turns to his side and folds me in his embrace, our legs tangling together.
With my cheek pressed to his chest, I listen to the vitality of his steady heartbeat and breathe in his calming scent. Tears well in my eyes, and I snuggle closer, burrow deeper, until the comfort of his presence consumes me and he’s all I can feel.
And in the silent night, while no one is listening, I whisper a confession. “Soy el actor. Fingí ser valiente, pero te enamoraste de un cobarde. Lo siento.”
When I wake the next morning, alone under a blanket, a note has replaced Graham’s laptop on the table.
Saturday. Dinner and a cocktail. 7:00?
My hand trembles as I read the address written at the bottom through blurred vision. I cover my mouth, but the sob I kept buried all night rips out of me anyway. I’m going home.