40. Miguel
MIGUEL
NOW
“You haven’t touched your margarita.” Preston uses his fingers to transfer fried pickles from the shared platter to his own plate. The serving spoon remains untouched.
My elbow rests on the table, chin in my hand. The pub is quiet, aside from the group huddled around the bar, celebrating happy hour too early in the week.
“I’m not in the mood anymore,” I say.
Zephyr delivers a sparkling water, my back-up beverage. He took it upon himself to add cherries. “This should cheer you up.”
I squint at him. “Are you clairvoyant?”
“I’ll never tell.” The beaded tassels on his vest knock together, sounding like a rattlesnake when he drops a kiss on Preston’s head and saunters off.
A furious blush clings to my friend’s cheeks when he shoves a pickle in his mouth, then speaks. “Why do you need cheering up?”
I slide my drink to the edge of the table so my mouth can reach the straw. “I’m sideways…or upside down. One of the two.”
“Been there. Would probably still be there without Victor. How are things going with him?” he asks, licking ranch dressing off his fingertips.
“Slow. He’s stingy with relationship advice, but we’ll see how tomorrow goes.”
“Give it time. Sort out what’s happening on the inside, then worry about the outside.”
I don’t have time. Graham and I have been texting again, shallow jokes and weather reports.
I’d rather spoon-feed my blood to a vampire than carry on like we’re friends.
It’s been over a week since I made confessions and promises, and I’ve gotten nowhere.
Attempting to sew my worries away hasn’t produced results, and trampoline therapy was a bust. I even bought a self-help book about meditation but fell asleep reading it.
I capture the straw between my teeth, slurping the fizzy water.
Preston and I haven’t known each other for long, and we aren’t besties yet or anything, but he’s a nice guy.
An honest one, from what I’ve gathered. I could test the waters with him, feed him some vague truth bombs, and see how he responds.
Rolling my shoulders back, I clear my throat. “Can I tell you a secret?”
“Sure.”
“Swear on your brand-new relationship you’ll never utter a word of what I’m about to say.”
He lifts a hand in the air, fingers pressed together. “I swear.”
Inhaling a deep breath through my nose, I release it on a rush of words. “I was in a secret relationship with a celebrity for years. He wants to get back together and tell everyone, but I’m scared because people on the internet are assholes.”
Preston’s expression is blank while he processes the information. “Are you messing with me? It feels like you’re messing with me, but I can’t tell when you’re joking.”
“Not joking.”
“Okay.” He rubs his hands together, as if we’re planning a coup. “Is he a singer? An actor? How famous are we talking?”
“An actor.” I press a fist to my mouth.
He leans in, his voice lowering to an excited whisper. “Is it Tyler Hawthorne? Or Lorian Jones from the robot movies?”
“Neither.” My nose scrunches up. “Why would you assume I’d go for jocks?”
“But I’ve heard of him?”
“Probably, but that’s beside the point. He’s famous. I’m not.”
“Huh.” Preston shrugs off the important detail, looking thoughtful while scratching his beard. “If he’s a good person and treats you well, maybe you should give him another shot. Lots of famous people date commoners.”
I rear back, nearly spraining my neck. “I’m not a commoner.
If anything, he’s the common one with the hiking and the junk drawers and the bare feet.
And don’t get me started on his domestic habits.
Without me, he’d wear dirty clothes and starve on a diet of fingernails.
Honestly, he still needs a lot of work.”
Preston’s eyes bulge. If I had to guess, he’s wondering how he found himself trapped in a booth with someone who’s spiraling over grooming habits and household chores.
I can’t help getting worked up over the state of Graham’s existence before I refined him.
It was truly horrendous. I’m not sure how he survived without me.
And I damn sure can’t survive without him.
Zephyr plops down beside his new beau, oblivious to my distress, and cuddles into his side.
I shouldn’t be jealous, considering I’m responsible for this love match, but I’d give anything to snuggle with Graham in a pub.
The night of speed dating, when he wore a disguise and we held hands, had been wonderful and long overdue.
There’s hope for me yet because I, Miguel Espinoza, no longer perish at the thought of brushing fingers in public.
After several beats of awkward silence, Zephyr asks, “Did I interrupt something private?”
I bang a fist on the table. “I’m marrying a celebrity.”
His doubtful gaze shifts from me to Preston, back and forth. “Does he know that?”
“Not yet, but I’m working on it.”
Wednesday, March 8th
Victor’s legs are crossed, hands steepled under his chin. I grip both armrests of my chair and focus on his shiny black shoes. A faint ticking sound echoes in my head while he waits for me to speak, but there’s no clock on the wall.
“My first relationship was…not good. I’m not ready to go into detail, but he’s the reason I have so much anxiety.”
“Was this in college?” Victor asks.
“Yeah. It started in college and ended later.”
My fingers tighten on the chair, knuckle bones threatening to bust through my skin. I hate talking about my ex. Hate that he made me hate myself for so long and put this fear of judgment in me.
Victor’s deep, soothing voice reaches my ears. “Take your time. We don’t have to cover everything in one day.”
The lace on his left shoe is frayed at one end. It doesn’t bother me as much as it would have in the past. I don’t feel the need to mention it.
“He shamed me in every way imaginable, from how I presented myself in public, to my soft body, to how I performed in bed.” The first teardrop lands with a dull thud on my chinos before it registers that I’m crying in front of a stranger whose feet still haven’t moved.
“I felt more shame for letting it go on as long as I did. I didn’t even have the guts to walk away.
He finally got sick of me being a problem he needed to fix. Those were his words.”
Letting go of one armrest, I wipe my cheek on my sleeve.
“After him, I couldn’t trust myself, let alone put my faith in someone else.
So I stuck with people who’d known me before him and stayed in familiar places.
My world kept getting smaller. I distanced myself from everyone, including my parents.
And I only told one person the truth about what I went through.
My cousin.” Victor’s foot budges. I look up.
“That’s the most I can say about my past today. ”
“It was more than a good start,” he says, handing me a tissue from the box on the round table. “Other than your cousin, is there anyone you’ve learned to trust since then?”
“I take it you enjoy playing the hero?” I ask, pretending not to swoon at Graham’s chivalry as he hands over my wrecked bicycle.
“Sometimes.” His voice takes on a husky quality that raises my eyebrows.
I think this beautiful man is flirting with me, and the kindness in his eyes compels me to flirt back. “And if I prefer bad boys?”
A stunning smile lights up his entire face. Being the reason for it is the most incredible thing that’s ever happened to me.
“I could easily switch roles,” he says.
A smile teases my lips as I fold the tissue into a small square. “I met a guy on a beach once. A random twist of fate. There was something different about him, and I trusted him instantly. We talked for less than hour and went our separate ways.”
“Did you ever see him again?” Victor asks.
“Yes.” I scoff. “Not that he gave me a choice. He’s an impulsive, disorganized rule breaker and the real reason I’m coming here. Finding a way to be with him is the goal. A future with him means success, but I’m scared shitless.”
“What’s holding you back?”
I stretch my neck from side to side and take a deep breath, bolstered by the laws of patient confidentiality. “He’s Graham Kingston. His fame and my anxiety don’t mesh.”
Victor’s eyes flare before he schools the surprised expression into neutral one. “I see.” He scribbles on his notepad. It’s the first note he’s taken since I sat down. “Does Graham know about your ex?”
“Yes. He knows everything, and I recently told him how bad my anxiety really is.”
Victor writes another note. “How did he react?”
“He kissed me. Typical, unpredictable behavior,” I say, rolling my eyes.
Victor tries to hide his amusement, but the corners of his mouth lift a bit. “Have you told anyone you’re in therapy?”
“One person knows, the friend who gave me your name.”
He sets his pen on the notepad, folding his hands over it. “It’s good to have support. You know yourself best, so be specific about what kind of support you need. It’s rare to find success in anything without help from people who genuinely care about you and want you to succeed.”
“Vulnerability.” I shift in my seat. “That’s a big ask.”
“Then start with giving them something small.”
Confused, I frown. “Like a gesture?”
“Like an honest gesture…a small one,” he says, holding his thumb and index finger an inch apart.
I love small things. There’s a whole box of them on my TV stand—mementos I’ve collected over the years. Some people want flashy gifts, but the little ones have always held more meaning to me. Photos, bow ties, an empty candy bag from a bike crash. Even a folded name tag has sentimental value.
When viewed as a whole, the unsuspecting, little things often add up to something grand and spectacular. Like proof of a beautiful life with the most wonderful man who would do anything to help me succeed.
Nodding, I say, “Small is good. I can do small.”