Chapter 2
Jade
A few days later, when I arrive at my boss’s office, Carlos is already there, treating her to one of his rare smiles. It fades the second he sees me.
His gaze sweeps over my body—my bright blue suit that hugs my hips just right—and he turns away with a scowl.
His coldness could land as a slight. I decide not to let it.
There’s a particular pleasure in being relentlessly warm to someone who’s trying to freeze you out—it takes away their only move.
I smile my best smile, the one that’s cost me nothing and clearly costs him something, and take the seat next to him.
“Buenos días,” I practically sing.
“Jade, looking forward to this weekend?” Rebecca asks.
She’s the most aspirational person in my life.
Tall and statuesque with boatloads of confidence, Rebecca is always impeccably dressed—seriously, I upgraded my wardrobe because of her—and she’s also living the single, child-free life, albeit at least a decade older than me.
I know she’s divorced, but I don’t know if the child-free part is by choice or takes an emotional toll or if, like me, she’s been dealt a hand and thus embraced it.
She’s also British, but fluent in Spanish and French. ?Súper sofisticada! Je suis tellement jalouse! Yet another reason to admire her.
“I really am. I’m going to London for the weekend with my friends,” I explain to Carlos.
Having lived in Hampstead for several years, Rebecca has tons of advice.
We chat about my plans, and Carlos sits quietly next to me, one ankle resting on his knee.
We’re talking in Spanish, and of course, Carlos is multilingual anyway, but he doesn’t join in.
Finally, Rebecca weaves her fingers together and leans against her desk, switching to English, which clues me in that we’re getting technical.
“Jade, I have a proposal for you.” Rebecca’s smile is bright, but there’s something calculated in it that makes my stomach tighten.
“One that will require you to work closely with Carlos.”
Next to me, Carlos shifts in his seat.
“We’d like you to participate in our summer presentation tour,” Rebecca continues. “It’s a series of events across Europe—Vienna, Zurich, Barcelona, and several other cities.”
My wanderlust perks up at the city names, but then Rebecca adds, “You’d be giving the presentations. About our products and the clinical trials.”
My stomach drops. “Presentations?”
“To industry professionals, pharmaceutical reps, and patients.”
“How many people?” My voice comes out smaller than I intended.
“Several hundred per venue.” Rebecca says it casually, like it’s nothing.
The room tilts slightly. My hands grip the armrests. Several hundred? I’ve given presentations to small groups before, usually covering extremely technical topics, but never have I stood in front of hundreds of people.
Well, except for that one time that landed me in the hospital. My hand unconsciously moves to my wrist.
“Carlos will translate,” Rebecca continues, “and handle the marketing logistics, including coordinating with our partner organizations at each stop. You two would be traveling together for about eight weeks, off and on.”
Next to me, Carlos clears his throat. When I glance over, he’s looking at Rebecca with an expression I can’t read. Not quite displeased. Not quite . . . anything.
Two months. Traveling. Together. Standing in front of hundreds of people while he watches.
“Why me?” I manage. “Half my team knows the product better than I do.”
Rebecca leans forward. “Because this isn’t just about the science, Jade.
Yes, there will be pharmaceutical reps and industry professionals.
We’re cohosting several stops with a European patient advocacy network.
They’re bringing their patient community to us.
Cancer survivors. People who’ve been part of our clinical trials or would have benefitted from them. ”
My breath catches.
“People who would benefit from meeting someone who understands what they’ve been through. Not just as a scientist.”
That lands. Hard.
Because she’s right. And because this is, if I’m being honest, exactly why I went into drug development in the first place.
Not the data. Not the papers. The idea that a sick kid somewhere—a kid like I was—might have one less thing taken from them.
I didn’t choose biochemistry because I was good at it, though I am.
I chose it because I knew what it felt like to be on the other side of the research.
I do understand the fear, the loss, the strange grief of losing your hair. The weirdness of it growing back but differently, and so even when your hair is socially acceptable, it still doesn’t feel like you.
That’s why it’s so hard to have this other, irrational fear.
I know it’s irrational. If Rebecca and Carlos knew why I didn’t really want to do this, they’d look at me with confusion or pity.
How can someone whose job is facts and numbers—even worse, someone who is usually confident and a fighter—be ruled by stage fright?
I feel Carlos’s attention shift to me. When I risk a glance, his expression has changed—curiosity, maybe? But before I can identify it, it’s gone, replaced by his usual careful blankness.
But standing in front of hundreds of people? With Carlos translating every word? With reporters watching?
“What if Carlos does the presentation?” I blurt out.
Rebecca raises an eyebrow. Carlos turns to stare at me.
“Someone has to translate,” he says, his tone flat. “Not everyone speaks English.”
The implied obviously stings. Like I’m naive for even suggesting it.
When I turn to glare at him, I catch him looking at me—really looking, his dark eyes tracking over my face like he’s searching for something. Then he blinks and looks away.
“I know that,” I snap back. “I meant you could present in English and someone else could translate.”
“There isn’t anyone else,” Rebecca says smoothly. “Carlos speaks five languages. He’s been doing this tour for years. He’s essential.”
Essential. The word hangs in the air between us.
“And so are you, Jade,” she adds.
Rebecca hands me the stack of papers. “Think about it. Check the schedule, make sure it works with your timeline. This would be one of the last major projects before you return to Austin.”
One of the last things I do in Madrid. One of the last chances to make a real difference.
I sit with that for a moment. In eight months I’ve learned where to get the best café con leche within walking distance of the office, which buho—Madrid’s late-night buses—will get me back home, that my corner tienda owner’s name is Fermín and he saves me the good tomatoes if I come before he closes for lunchtime, which here is 2 p.m. Small things.
The kind that accumulate without your noticing until one day you realize that navigating a new city no longer requires effort—it just requires memory.
That you live somewhere now rather than visiting it.
Austin is waiting for me. My apartment, my team, my gym with its aggressive air conditioning and its parking lot. I know all of that too.
I’m just not sure I miss it.
I take the papers, their weight heavier than they should be.
Carlos and I walk to the elevator in silence. When the doors open, he holds them and waits.
“Are you going to do it?” he asks.
I look down at the schedule in my hands. Marseille. Geneva. Valencia. Cities I’ve never seen. Patients I could actually help.
And two months with Carlos, watching me stand in front of hundreds of people, waiting for me to fail. Risking my professional reputation—maybe even my job.
“I don’t know,” I say honestly.
He looks at me doubtfully. “You should think carefully. These presentations . . . they’re important.”
Important. Like I’m not capable of understanding that.
I step into the elevator. “I know they’re important, Carlos.”
The doors start to close, and for just a second, his face shifts. But before I can read it, the doors shut, and I’m alone with the strangest feeling that Carlos didn’t want me to say no.