38. Miguel
MIGUEL
NOW
After a full day of wallowing in isolation, with no human interaction whatsoever, I’ve forced myself to leave my apartment and reenter society. It’s a decision I regret while standing in the doorway of the conference room at work.
The strap of my messenger bag digs into my palm, I’m squeezing it so hard.
My neat stack of floor plans from Friday’s design meeting are not where I left them.
No, they’re spread across the opposite end of the conference table, where a preppy brunet in a tight polo shirt marks one with a red pencil.
“Andrew.” I unclench my jaw to get more words out. “What are you doing here?”
“Someone forgot to invite me to Friday’s meeting, so I’m adding my suggestions.”
“The design meeting.”
He drops the pencil and stands, shoving his chair back. With his hands flat on the table, his corded forearms bulge. “As the lead structural engineer, I should be involved in every design phase. You, and only you, try to keep me from doing my job. What’s your problem with me?”
In the calmest tone I can manage, I say, “I have no problem with you. I’m simply trying to maintain focus in the meetings and not waste time.”
“Bullshit.” As he comes closer, I back away, pulse racing. “I think my presence bothers you because it means you’re no longer the smartest person in the room.”
“Not true.”
“Without me, there’s no one to challenge your ideas. You’d rather surround yourself with people who agree with everything you say.”
I glance at the door. In our current positions, he’s blocking my escape route. And the conference room is too small, offering nowhere to hide from the brutal truths he’s dealing, blow after blow.
He must sense my panic, because his expression softens. “What happened to you, Miguel? We had fun competing during our first year of college. But when we teamed up for the group project our final year, you were different. The least bit of negative feedback would set you off.”
Our last year of school was when my ex began criticizing me at every turn.
Academics was the only area where I felt like I could do everything right and do it well.
Andrew took that away because he’s as smart as me, if not smarter.
Also, he looks like my ex, another reason I limit my interactions with him.
Desperate to end this exchange, I offer a concession. “You’re great at what you do. One of the best in your field.”
He attempts a smile. “I know. And so are you. So can we please stop this petty, nonexistent rivalry and work together? We made a great team, once.”
“Our combined brainpower was invigorating,” I say, and the admission costs me nothing.
“Exactly. Think of how unstoppable we’d be with our combined experience. We could be partners in this, Miguel. We could run the collective together once Greg retires.”
My heart stops, shut down by a bold, slaps-you-in-the-face kind of epiphany. I’m a terrible partner. I may not even be a good person. Hell, I can’t be bothered to remember people’s names.
Mama Mary, am I…a narcissist?
With a mental note to research my symptoms later, I straighten my shoulders. “I’ll try to do better.”
Andrew pulls out a chair. “Great. And I’ll accept your non-apology if you look at my suggestions with an open mind.”
Wednesday, March 1st
Three’s a crowd in my apartment: me, Carmen, and her massive tote bag of judgment. Hands on her hips, she soaks in my agony, one pile of clutter at a time, starting with my sewing table.
“Was there a sale on royal blue satin and seashells?” She rattles the jar of shells I bought from Ms. Darcy.
After my run-in with Andrew on Monday, I went to Linens & Lace for some retail therapy, my version of pregaming before stitch therapy. It didn’t help. This is the second day I’ve called in sick to work, and I haven’t touched my sewing machine.
“Those are embellishments. I’m planning to make mourning pj’s and a matching robe. And in case you missed my texts, blue represents the ocean and narcissism.”
Her eyes narrow on the kitchen counter. “You’re supposed to be making progress, not descending into the pits of takeout-container hell. This place is a pigsty.”
I cleaned yesterday, moving the empty glasses from the living room to the kitchen. My energy depleted fast, so I curled up on the sofa where I’ve spent the last twenty-four hours in the same outfit. Look what I’ve become…a textbook, narcissistic sloth.
Well-versed in my emotional needs, Carmen waves a bag of sour tamarind candy in my face. The yellow packaging matches her leggings and zippered hoodie. “Go shower and get dressed in comfortable clothes. We have somewhere to be. You can eat the candy on the way.”
An hour later, I’m standing near the ticket counter in a neon purgatory with the taste of sugar and chili powder on my tongue. The chaotic atmosphere consists of slides, trampolines, loud music, and screaming children.
“What is this nightmare, and why have you brought me here?” I ask.
“It’s called an indoor aerial park. We’re here to have fun.”
Her outfit makes more sense now, as does her hair parted in the middle and woven into two long braids. I peek at my checkered blazer, chinos, and black loafers. We have different definitions of comfort.
Carmen pays an exorbitant entry fee and drags me to a sea of trampolines.
After an intense argument about wearing grippy socks, and some light shoving on her part, I’m bouncing up and down close to the far wall.
My feet never leave the mat. On the next trampoline over, she jumps high and twirls, singing along to pop hits and having the time of her life.
“When can we leave?” I ask, yelling over the music. “It’s too loud, and I’m making a fool of myself in front of all these kids.”
“I’ll let you know when it’s time.”
She bounces to my trampoline and launches me in the air. My squeal is embarrassing, but I land on my feet and not my ass.
“Let’s make an honesty circle,” she says.
“There’s only two of us.”
Her fingers wiggle in my direction. “Join hands.”
I roll my eyes but indulge her. She squeezes my fingers in a death grip and forces me to bounce in a circle.
All the fun leaves Carmen’s face when she stares directly into my eyeballs. “Your friends would never say what I’m about to tell you. They know you’re sensitive and don’t want to hurt your feelings.”
“But you’ll gladly do the dirty work, so get it over with.”
“You self-sabotage.”
I scoff. “Ridiculous.”
“You’re doing it now. Instead of asking for help to fix things with Graham, you’re sulking and self-diagnosing conditions you don’t have, like narcissism.”
“I have many qualifying traits. Ask the internet.”
Carmen looks to the ceiling for help, which causes her to stumble.
Our bounces fall out of sync, and she screams as she nearly takes us both down.
By the time we find our footing and a matching rhythm again, her red cheeks look as hot as mine feel.
See? I’m not the only one who’s afraid of embarrassing myself in front of children.
She flicks a long braid over her shoulder and takes a steadying breath before continuing her lecture. “Are you self-absorbed? Yes. But you’re also empathetic. Real narcissists, like the jerk you dated in college, aren’t.”
Jesus, take the ghost of my ex and leave me be.
I’m tempted to fake motion sickness to escape this conversation, but curiosity gets the better of me. “Why are you bringing him up?”
“Because he’s the reason you can’t let go and have fun for even five seconds a trampoline.” We stop bouncing, and she drops my hands. “Now we can leave.”
Our trek through the parking lot is silent. Her sports car sticks out like a sore thumb among the family sedans and minivans. Once we’re inside it, she locks the doors but leaves the ignition off.
“I’ve been doing some reading about narcissism.”
“Here we go,” I mutter, pinching my nose. We haven’t put our seatbelts on, and she’s already trying to disprove my diagnosis.
“What your ex did to you was called gaslighting. He made you doubt yourself, to the point you tried to become someone different. Someone worthy. And when you were at your lowest, he ended the relationship, making it seem like there was nothing you could’ve done to be worthy of him.”
Often, I felt like I was dating two different people. A warm, attentive man in public and a cold, berating snake behind closed doors.
Flicking a hand, I say, “I got over him.”
“Emotionally, maybe, but not mentally.” She turns in her seat, lifting a knee onto the console. “Why did you stop seeing that Derek guy after a month?”
I take a second to place the name. Derek was the last guy I dated before meeting Graham. A forgotten blip in my history.
“He broke it off with me because I was taking too long to have sex with him.”
Her shoulders droop. “Oh. You never told me.”
“I don’t tell you everything.”
“That’s fair. Why didn’t you try to meet anyone after Derek, before Graham came along?” she asks.
I throw my hands up. “Jesus Christ, what’s with all the questions? I had a bad run with guys before Graham. Who cares? He’s nothing like them, so I’m failing to see your point.”
“You’ve made my point. Graham loves you unconditionally. He’d move mountains or cross oceans to be with you, which he’s proven already. So get your head out of your ass and move a molehill or cross a stream to be with him.”
Locking me in a car and yelling at me feels a little extreme for an intervention, but I see where she’s going with this. “Baby steps,” I say.
“Exactly. Take an actual risk for once in your adult life.”
“I have. I helped launch the collective and started my sewing account. I even wore cargo pants on a hike!”
Her cheeks puff out like she might explode, but she releases the air with controlled calm. “Your sewing account is private, Miguel. That’s not putting yourself out there. You’re choosing who gets to come to you.”
My account being set to private is the real reason my follower count remains low.
I accept friend requests from people who will likely support me and appreciate my work.
I’m damn good at constructing clothes, but not everyone will agree.
The fear of being judged on my skills, alone, has hindered my dream of reviving a long-lost fashion trend.
Carmen takes my hand between hers, a tender gesture that reminds me of when our abuela imparted life lessons. “Be honest with yourself. What’s the scariest thing you’ve ever done?”
“I told Graham the truth. That was pretty fucking scary.”
“And what happened?”
He stayed.
Any time I expose my weaknesses to Graham, he stays.
Because he’s steady. I’m out here flailing in an ocean of self-pity when I should be making my way back to him.
I told him I’d find a solution, but confronting the reason for my anxiety and fears is easier said than done.
To succeed, I’ll need help. To get help, I’ll have to trust people with my secrets.
And there are few things more terrifying than opening up about my past.