Chapter 5
Carlos
“Fernando,” I say, a warning in my tone. “Do not throw that ball.”
My son—all six feet of him at twenty-nine years old—contemplates the ball in his hand and then my dog. Izan has his eyes glued to the ball, walking backward while begging for Fernando to toss it.
It’s hard to deny an old man what he wants.
And, predictably, Fernando stops. Izan sits. And Fernando throws the ball across the field. Izan shoots off at his fastest, letting out a ripping blast of gas as he lurches into a trot after the ball.
“You’re going to kill my dog,” I mutter, and we both watch Izan chase after the ball, which is, admittedly, not a very fast pace for a dog. Izan may be past his prime, but he still enjoys long walks to the park and suckering Fernando into throwing his ball.
Carmen, my four-month-old granddaughter who is strapped to my chest, giggles as we stroll behind my dog. The lake with the rowboats is behind us and ahead of us is the long stretch of manicured trees in the thick of the park.
Retiro Park is big, and it’s a warm and sunny day.
March’s weather is capricious in Madrid, and today it finally feels like winter may be over.
The last few weekends were cold and rainy, so it feels like most Madrilenos are outside today.
The trees are budding, the grass is reviving, and the air is fresh and crisp.
Diana, Fernando’s wife, leans in and coos at her daughter, and a burst of love glimmers in my chest. It’s surreal how perfect my life is now.
Twenty-something years ago my late wife and I moved into Chueca with Fernando, then a toddler, because it’s what we could afford. Fernando grew up as the neighborhood did, and the queerness of Chueca was the community we needed, even if you wouldn’t have known from looking at us.
That’s why it irked me so much when Jade was surprised to learn I lived here. I belong here.
I spot Izan ambling back toward us with a ball in his mouth—but not our ball. There is a smaller dog following him, jumping along and yapping, trying to reach the ball in his mouth. A woman trails behind.
Fernando laughs.
We slow to a stop as Izan sits at my feet looking up at me. Regardless of who threw the ball for him, he always comes back to me. It isn’t the smartest thing for him to do, since I refused to throw the ball very far.
Fernando crouches down. “Who did you bring back with you?”
The smaller dog sniffs him, circling, and the woman—I assume, the owner—catches up.
I bend over slightly, causing Carmen to laugh, and command Izan to give me the ball. Fortunately, this time he drops it right away, unlike Jade’s riding crop.
“Is this yours?” I ask the little dog, offering the ball. I have to crouch down, which puts Carmen’s feet in sniffing range for the little dog, and Izan woofs at it, protective of my granddaughter. It’s okay though, because the ball is deemed more interesting, and the dog runs off with it.
“Yes it is,” the woman says, putting her hands on her hips, a teasing edge to her voice. “Your dog stole it.”
I’m lucky he didn’t swallow it, I think.
When I straighten, the woman is cocking her head. Her eyes travel over the baby strapped to my chest, down to my black jeans and up again to my face. She smiles and I glance at Fernando, who looks smug.
I narrow my eyes.
Did he intentionally aim for this woman?
She’s roughly my age, and behind her I can see a blanket and a book spread out on the grass.
There’s no one lounging on the blanket or chasing after the dog.
She’s attractive, but I don’t feel anything .
. . other than maybe mild annoyance at my son.
This isn’t the first time we’ve “stumbled” upon a lone woman.
Not that I’m interested in dating. Anyone. I know that I won’t ever feel the way about someone that I did with Marisol.
Which is one of the many reasons I said no when Jade asked me out. She’s too . . . colorful. Loud. She’s the kind of woman that visits a sex shop. With a friend.
Seeing her outside of work just reiterated that. She’d look youthful, trendy. Things I have no interest in.
I shake my head, half to get Jade out of my mind, and half in sympathy for the woman in front of me.
“Sorry,” I say, and give her a quick smile. “Enjoy your Sunday.”
“You, too,” she calls back, turning to chase after her dog.
My son nudges me. “Smile. And ask her name!”
I roll my eyes. “I’m not looking for a relationship.”
“Dad, you deserve love,” he points out.
“I have love. I had love,” I insist. And I mean it. Whatever I had with Marisol was real, even if it wasn’t the right shape.
“Romantic love.”
He always brings up this idea that I need a romantic interest in my life. I don’t. I’m perfectly happy with the life that I have now.
Fernando knew his mother and I weren’t compatible. And a few years ago, in an unusual reversal of roles, Fernando took a quiet moment to ask me if I was attracted to anyone at all—if I was maybe asexual.
It didn’t feel right. Marisol and I were abstinent for other reasons when we were first dating, but I had wanted her—had married her and made Fernando and struggled with incompatibility and the lack of being desired. I had grieved, in a way, and then accepted it.
And we were a family, she wanted us to be a family, regardless of her sexuality.
Now, I have more important things in my life than sex and relationships.
I look down at Carmen, her tiny fingers wrapped around Diana’s. Marisol would have loved being a grandmother. She would have spoiled this little one rotten.
“I’m not interested,” I say firmly. “I have everything I need.”
“I was thinking about my birthday.” Fernando changes the topic. “What if we went out to A Coruna? Spend some time by the seaside? Would that work with your tour schedule?”
I mentally roll through my calendar. Fernando is turning thirty in June, which is right in the middle of the presentations. He’s used to this; we often celebrate a few weeks before or after. “Mid-June, we have a week between Barcelona and Luxembourg.”
“You’re doing Luxembourg this year?”
“Yes, instead of Zaragoza.”
Fernando considers that. “Isn’t Mercedes’s family there? She must be disappointed not to expense a trip home.”
“Mercedes isn’t going this year. Jade is.” I pronounce it the American way—no guttural J, and a silent E.
Fernando twists to look at me, and when Carmen flails her arms happily, interrupting our view, Fernando reaches out and gives her a finger to grab. I can’t see her face, but I bet it matches the wide, goofy smile Fernando is giving her while she grips his finger.
Diana, on my other side, reaches out to touch her daughter too, and Carmen’s head whips around to focus on her mom, her feet kicking lightly against my stomach. Carmen gurgles and grabs her mom’s finger too.
The four of us walk along together, connected by Carmen’s firm grip for a moment, until she drops her dad’s hand and brings her mom’s finger to her mouth.
She lets out a little chuff too, and Diana sighs. “Someone is hungry.”
We pull over to a bench and make the complicated maneuvers that allow Diana to get situated nursing her daughter. I sit next to her, and Fernando sits on her other side to look adoringly at his child.
Well, he would have looked adoringly at his child, but instead Carmen turns fussy.
“Aye, you are hungry, little bunny,” Diana insists. “I’m right here.”
“Carmencita,” I coo, stroking her head.
After a few minutes, Carmen finally latches, and the four of us settle back and relax.
“So,” Fernando starts. “Jade? I haven’t met Jade. Is she English or American?”
“Fernando,” I growl.
“She must be attractive and single, otherwise you wouldn’t be so defensive already. Why won’t you ask her out?”
“She’s in her early forties, Fernando. I have a granddaughter.”
“So?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. There are many reasons I’m not interested in Jade. I’m not willing to tell Fernando about the conversation I overheard, but I am willing to tell him about the lunch thing. He’ll get a laugh out of that.
“I think she steals my lunch.”
Fernando looks up at me, his jaw dropped in astonishment. He throws back his head and laughs. “Why do you think she steals your lunch?”
“Well, someone’s been stealing my lunch. And it started happening right after . . . right after we had a disagreement.”
“Your lunch?” Diana teases.
“My lunch. The one I pack every morning. Leftovers; paella, tortilla. Last week someone took my bocadillo and left the wrapper in the bin.”
“The wrapper?” Fernando is delighted. “So they’re taunting you?” My son shakes his head. “Fifty-six years old and someone is stealing your lunch. Aye, only you, Dad.”
I spread my hands. “What do I do?”
Diana interrupts. “What was the disagreement?”
“What?”
“You said it started after you two had a disagreement. What was the disagreement about? Do you deserve a lunch thief?” The side of Diana’s mouth quirks up.
“No. I . . .” I sigh. Fernando is going to love this. “She asked me out and I said no.”
Diana and Fernando look at each other and then burst out in laughter. Carmen makes a fussy noise and Diana subdues herself.
“And you think that’s why she’s stealing your lunch?” Fernando asks.
“It started the very next day,” I defend. A few times I’ve gone to her office to see if she’s eating my lunch but she always has the door closed or is away.
“Maybe you didn’t let her down gently,” Diana muses.
“I know how to let a woman down gently.”
“You do have a lot of practice with that.”
“Hush,” I chastise her.
“Why did you say no anyway?”
“Does it matter? Clearly it was the smart thing to do.”
“Smart for your heart but not for your stomach,” Fernando says with a grin. “So you’re traveling with this lunch stealer for two months? Look, there are worse things than lunch stealing. Maybe you’ll start to like her.”
I might be able to get over someone stealing my lunch. But based on the conversation I overheard recently—Jade bragging to her colleague about her latest hookup and making inappropriate jokes—she has serious boundary issues.
It’s just a matter of time before drama starts. I just hope it won’t be while we’re touring together.
Two months. Twelve presentations. Hundreds of industry professionals and patients watching us represent the company.
Rebecca assured me Jade could handle it, but I have my doubts. The woman is obviously smart, but she can barely get through a staff meeting without her phone buzzing with personal messages. And now she’ll be on stage, representing years of research to people who actually need our products to work?
I rub my hand over my face. Maybe I should have pushed back harder when Rebecca suggested her.
But Rebecca’s right about one thing—Jade is extremely passionate about her job.
If only she could keep things professional.