Chapter 20
Jade
Something is wrong.
I noticed it the moment I arrived at the venue this morning. Carlos was already there—of course he was—but when I walked in, he barely glanced up. Just a quick nod, then back to his tablet.
Not like the past few weeks, really, when we’ve been . . . different. Easier with each other.
Not like yesterday, when he tugged my hair and kissed me in the hotel hallway.
I kept waiting for him to say something—good morning, how did you sleep, should we talk about what happened—but he just stood on the opposite side of the stage, reviewing his notes like I wasn’t even there.
Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I walked over.
“Carlos,” I said.
He looked up, and for just a second, our eyes met. But then he looked away, like the sight of me made him uncomfortable.
“The presentation,” he said, his voice stiff and formal. “It will go well.”
That was it. No smile. No warmth. Just those careful, professional words that sounded like we were back in week one of this tour when he could barely stand to be in the same room as me.
“Okay,” I said slowly, confused. “Thanks?”
He nodded once and turned away.
And now, standing in front of four hundred people giving my presentation, I keep trying to catch his eye. To see if there’s any sign of the Carlos who kissed me, who ran his fingers through my hair and looked at me like I was something precious.
But he won’t look at me.
He translates perfectly, professionally, like always. But he might as well be a stranger.
Did I do something wrong?
Was the kiss . . . bad? Did I misread everything?
Maybe now that he’s had time to think about it, he’s realized—what? That I’m leaving? I’m his colleague? That this doesn’t make sense? That it was just a kiss and nothing more?
All the reasons he wasn’t interested before.
Maybe I’ve been building this up in my head. Making it bigger than it was.
Maybe I’m the only one who felt something shift.
The presentation ends. I descend the stage steps and turn the switch—the one that goes from terrified to present, from hurt to here. I’ve been doing it my whole life and it still works, which is either impressive or concerning depending on how you look at it.
I field the usual questions, talk to the usual pharmaceutical reps. The whole time, I’m hyperaware of where Carlos is—across the room, packing up equipment, checking his watch.
Someone asks me a question and my attention gets pulled back to the mother I’m talking to. Her daughter is going through chemo, and too sick to attend tonight. I mentally slap myself and focus back in on the conversation, giving my full attention to this woman who deserves it.
When the crowd starts to dwindle, I catch sight of Carlos again. He’s standing by the elevator, at ease and way more relaxed than I’ve seen all day.
And then I see her.
The woman is beautiful—high cheekbones, generous curves, fashionable. She’s wearing bright earrings that draw the eye and probably make men want to lean over and whisper sweet nothings in her ear.
Like Carlos is doing right now.
Of course.
Of course he’s with someone.
This explains everything—the distance today, the way he won’t look at me, the stiff formality. He regrets the kiss. He went back to his real life, his real girlfriend or wife or whoever this is, and I was just . . . what? A moment of weakness? A colleague he got carried away with?
I watch him touch her lower back, lean in close to say something. She laughs, bright and easy, like they do this all the time.
She fits into his world in a way I never could. She’s elegant, put-together, settled. Probably has a career and a nice apartment and doesn’t spend her Saturdays buying riding crops in Chueca.
What did I expect?
I deserve a mental slap for that thought. I’m not jealous. I’m not. One kiss doesn’t mean he owes me anything.
It’s just the horniness talking. Please just be the horniness talking.
When the hotel staff shoos me away, I put my things up in the hotel room and retreat to the bar. It’s crowded, and it takes me almost fifteen minutes before I have a drink in my hand and a food order placed.
I check my phone and I have new messages in our group chat. Sara sent a picture from Austin. It’s the corner unit in a strip center, the facade plain other than the sun-bleached brick stained with the outline of a sliver of moon and an illegible business name, the signs having been freshly removed.
But even without the sign, I still know exactly where she is—the bar where the four of us became best friends.
Sara
OMG. It’s the end of an era.
Tessa and Emma have responded with crying emojis, and the chat is full of reminiscing about the times we met at Luna Wine Bar over the past decade.
I sip my cava and text back.
Jade
Less than two months until I move back! I can’t believe I won’t be able to have one last glass of wine there.
Tessa
I wish we’d known. I would have been tempted to fly back.
I snap a picture of my wine and send it to the group.
Jade
In honor of a great many wines consumed there.
I’m putting it on record: if any of us ever moves back to Austin and we can’t find a reasonable wine bar I will take it as a personal affront and I will not be responsible for my reaction.
Tessa
What would your reaction be?
Jade
Dramatic. Sustained. Legendary.
I stare at the picture Sara sent for a moment.
Sun-bleached brick, the ghost of the moon logo still visible.
Ten years of birthdays and breakups and ordinary Tuesdays in that place.
The night Tessa told us she was breaking up with James.
The night Emma admitted her marriage was over.
The night I got the Madrid offer and Sara said go, obviously, go before I’d even finished the sentence.
Jade
Emma, remember your 42nd? When Tessa accidentally ordered the magnum and we had to finish it because you refused to waste good wine?
Emma
I was ill for two days.
Jade
Worth it though.
I get a selfie back from Tessa. She’s on the balcony of her apartment in the summer evening.
Jade
Emma? Sara? Pour one out for old times’ sake.
Emma
Hold on, Santo is getting me a glass.
Jade
Wine delivery. That’s the dream.
Emma
Pretty sure Sara is out with Zoe.
Also, I can’t get my own wine because . . .
The next text is a picture of Emma, her hair up in a bun sitting cross-legged on a couch, a full glass of wine in hand. There’s a black pillow on her lap and a textbook on the arm of the couch. Santo must have taken the picture.
Oh wait, that’s not a pillow. That’s the black void cat named Zola that Santo spoils.
Jade
You look so comfortable with that fur ball in your lap.
I can’t wait to see you all. Just two days left!
The conversation shifts to the plans for the weekend, where we will fly into Rome and drive out to Santo’s villa in Castel Gandolfo, a quaint lakeside town in the Italian countryside.
Also known as the house where Emma and Santo discovered prostate massages.
There will be no prostate play on this visit; instead, we’ll do very unsexy things like tour the summer palace of the pope. Nothing gets me closing my legs like picturing the pope doing . . . well, anything.
Our time here is winding down. I have six more weeks living in Madrid. After this, there’s only one trip left with my friends before our year of adventures is up. When the August break starts, I’ll fly back to Austin and resume my old life.
My old life, which is a good life. A real life, not a year-long experiment.
My apartment will be exactly as I left it—I have a subletter, but she agreed to keep my things—I’ll have to catch up with my team, and my gym will still be there with its aggressive air conditioning and its parking lot.
I’ll get back into my routines. I’ll stop eating dinner at ten p.m.
I’ll stop walking everywhere. I’ll stop having coffee in the window watching my neighborhood—Lavapiés—wake up. I’ll stop being a person who goes to the market on Saturday mornings because that’s just what you do here, not because you planned it.
I’ll go back to my old life. Austin means my team—six people who’ve been running the next phase of trials without me, who send updates I skim at midnight and who deserve a senior scientist who actually shows up.
It means work I’m proud of, a career I built deliberately, a program that will go on whether I’m there or not but goes better when I am.
I’m surprised, every time I think about it, by how little I want to.
And Carlos knows that my time is coming to an end. That’s why he’s pulling away.
That’s why it was just a kiss.
My phone buzzes with a new message.
Emma
How are the presentations going? You’ve been quiet.
Jade
Fine. Good, actually. Getting better.
Tessa
And Carlos?
Emma
Yeah, how are things with Mr. Uptight?
I hesitate, my thumbs hovering over the screen. What do I even say? We kissed and now he’s avoiding me? I think I misread everything?
It’s easier to focus on facts than feelings.
Jade
I saw him with a woman tonight. Young, beautiful, clearly someone important to him. And things have been weird between us all day.
Emma
Did you ask him about her?
Jade
No.
There’s a pause. The three dots appear and disappear several times.
Sara
Jade, honey. You’re leaving. Even if she’s not a romantic thing . . . does it matter?
Tessa
Yeah. Do you even know if he wants a relationship? Or was it just—I mean, you said he turned you down before.
Emma
We don’t want to see you get hurt over something that’s temporary anyway. You know?
I stare at the messages, something cold settling in my stomach.
They’re right.
They’re absolutely right.
Jade
You’re right. I’m being ridiculous. It’s nothing.
Sara
Not ridiculous. Just . . . be careful with your heart, okay?
Jade
I will.
The conversation shifts to weekend plans, and I force myself to focus on that instead. Tessa’s on deadline, trying to get a magazine layout finished before her flight. Sara’s trying to coordinate with Chris’s recording schedule.
A laugh catches my attention, and I glance up. I’ve got a prime view of the elevators, and therefore I can see that Carlos is back.
With the woman.
Carlos is laughing. I rest my chin on my hand and watch.
This is who he really is. This is his real life.
And I’m just the colleague passing through.
Sometimes, it’s easy to forget how handsome he is.
He’s good-looking with all that tension in his body, but I rarely get to see him like this.
Carlos wears his age well, and while I’ve been attracted to older men in a theoretical sense (George Clooney can hop into my bed any day), Carlos is the first one I’ve really felt that pull toward.
Carlos presses the up button for the elevator. Are they saying goodbye? Oh, please don’t get into the elevator together . . .
Damn. Carlos holds the door open and the woman steps in.
The elevator doors close and I look down at my wineglass.
I was being ridiculous. Building something out of nothing. One kiss in a hallway doesn’t mean anything. Not when you’re temporary and she’s—whoever she is—permanent.
He probably regrets it. That’s why he was so weird today. That’s why he couldn’t even look at me.
And honestly? That’s fine. That’s for the best.
I have presentations to finish. A tour to complete. A career to think about. Rebecca’s watching my performance, and the last thing I need is to get distracted by feelings for someone who was never available in the first place.
Whatever I thought was happening between us . . . isn’t.
I drain my wineglass and signal the bartender for another.
I just need to get through four more presentations, keep things professional, and then I can go home and forget any of this ever happened.
It’s better this way.
It has to be.