Chapter 22
Jade
Carlos and I have traveled separately again, and the tension in the event room is thick enough to cut with a knife.
We’re setting up for the presentation in Luxembourg, and we’ve barely said two words to each other. He arrived first and when I walked in, he gave me a curt nod and went back to arranging brochures.
I’m wearing the red wrap dress today, the one I bought in Amsterdam that Rebecca said makes me look like I run the company.
I take care with how I look. I always have—maybe because for most of my early life, what I wore was out of my control—God-fearing women didn’t dress like I wanted to.
Now I choose everything. The earrings, the lipstick, the particular shade of red that makes me feel like I belong in any room I walk into.
I’m keeping my promise to myself. Professional distance only. Three presentations left, and then I never have to see him again.
But god, it’s awkward.
I connect my laptop to the projector, hyperaware of where he is on the other side of the stage. Every time I glance over, he’s focused intently on whatever task he’s doing—organizing materials, checking his tablet, anything to avoid looking at me.
This is what we’re doing now, apparently. Pretending the kiss never happened. Pretending the past few weeks of getting closer never happened.
Fine. I can do that too.
Attendees start filing in, and I busy myself with last-minute slide checks I don’t actually need to do. Anything to avoid the suffocating silence between us.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore.
“How was your weekend?” I ask in Spanish as we finish setting out the last of the brochures. My voice comes out stiff, formal—a rote greeting, nothing more.
“Good,” he says without looking at me. A pause, then: “How was your date?”
I blink. “What date?”
His eyes finally meet mine, and there’s something sharp in them. “Your weekend in Rome. With your friends.”
“That wasn’t a—” I stop myself. Is he being deliberately obtuse? Or is he just making conversation? I can’t tell anymore.
“How was your date?” I ask, unable to keep the edge out of my voice. “The woman you met in Barcelona? That date?”
Carlos’s eyes widen and he takes two steps toward me, leaning in. “That was not a date,” he hisses. “My god—that’s my nuera.”
“Wait, your . . .” That’s a word I don’t know. Not daughter, hija, I know that one, or sister, hermana.
“Daughter-in-law,” he finishes for me in English. His voice is tight. “Do not joke about me dating my son’s wife!”
I sputter. “You have a son?”
“Yes.” Carlos straightens and glances around. No one is paying attention to us, but attendees are starting to fill in.
“You took her up to your room,” I accuse.
Carlos clenches his jaw. “Diana is breastfeeding. She pumped before dinner and left her bag in my room.”
“Breastfeeding,” I echo.
“Yes. For my granddaughter.”
My mind is reeling. A son. A daughter-in-law. A granddaughter. The woman I saw him with was family.
But instead of relief, I feel something worse—a yawning gap opening up between us.
“Oh my god,” I say, my voice dropping low. “Carlos, you have a granddaughter and I didn’t know? After everything—”
“What ‘everything’?” His voice is defensive now. “We’re colleagues, Jade.”
That stings. “Colleagues,” I repeat flatly. “Is that what we are?”
His jaw clenches. “What else would we be?”
“I don’t know, Carlos. You tell me. Because last week you kissed me in a hotel hallway and now you can barely look at me.”
He glances around sharply, making sure no one is close enough to hear. “Keep your voice down.”
“Don’t worry, I wouldn’t want to be inappropriate,” I snap.
“Jade—”
“No.” I’m angry now, really angry. “You get me to open up and tell you my most embarrassing story. You know about my childhood cancer, my stage fright, everything. But I don’t even know you have a son? A granddaughter? An entire family?”
“I don’t talk about my personal life,” he says, his voice hard.
“No shit. You get me to be vulnerable and then you use it against me—you told Rebecca about falling off the stage—but when I turn it around to you, all you did was remind me of my riding crop that became Izan’s toy. That’s not sharing.”
Carlos stares at me. But he doesn’t deny it, doesn’t explain. He just looks at me with those shuttered eyes like I’m a problem to be managed.
“I didn’t even know you had a son!” My voice is rising again and a throat clears somewhere nearby. I’m reminded that we are not alone.
I take a breath, trying to steady myself. “You know what? Forget it. You’re right. We are just colleagues.”
I grab the brochures from my stack and shove them into his hands. He catches them reflexively, surprise flickering across his face.
“Jade—”
“I need some air before the presentation.”
I walk away before he can say anything else, my heart pounding. Behind me, I can feel his eyes on my back, but he doesn’t follow.
Good.
I find an empty hallway and press my back against the cool wall, closing my eyes.
A son. A daughter-in-law. A granddaughter.
An entire life I knew nothing about.
And why would I? We’re just colleagues. He said it himself.
The kiss was . . . what? A mistake. A moment of weakness. Something that meant nothing to him.
I was so stupid. Building fantasies while he has a whole life—a family, responsibilities, a settled existence in Madrid.
Three more presentations. I just need to get through three more.
The presentation is fine.
I deliver my lines, dredging up the energy to share my own story of survivorship. It’s harder now, and I’m struggling to feel like it’s worth it. Carlos translates beside me, and we don’t look at each other once.
When it’s over, I field questions from attendees, paste on my professional smile, and try not to think about the man who just called us “colleagues” like it was a weapon.
I don’t even like him. I’m just . . . attracted. Confused. Caught up in proximity.
That’s all.
After the last attendee leaves and I’ve packed up my laptop, Carlos approaches me. I don’t want to talk to him. I especially don’t want to talk to him when we’re alone.
But he stops a few feet away, hands in his pockets, looking uncertain.
“Jade.”
“Yes?” I don’t look up from zipping my laptop bag.
“Why are you so angry with me? It’s none of your business.”
The words hit me like a slap.
I finally look up at him. “Right,” I say, keeping my voice carefully level. “It is none of my business. But I’ve shared things with you and you’ve used them against me. Whereas I know nothing about you, except that you’ve never liked me. Oh, wait, that’s personal.”
His expression hardens. “Just because I have boundaries doesn’t make me a bad person. I’m just trying to be appropriate in the workplace.”
There’s that word again. Appropriate.
“When have I ever been inappropriate?” My voice is rising again and I don’t care. “Is this all because I asked you out on a date? You said no, and I moved on. I’m past it, Carlos.”
“Obviously,” he snaps back.
We stare at each other, the space between us crackling with tension.
“You really don’t think you’re inappropriate at work?” His voice is incredulous.
“Don’t you dare,” I hiss, stepping closer.
“I’ve had enough people tell me I’m too much.
Enough bullshit with people thinking that just because I dress a certain way I’m ‘inappropriate.’” I make air quotes with my fingers.
“Just because I want to look good, just because I don’t dress the way people expect a scientist to look, doesn’t give you the right to—”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“Then what did you mean, Carlos? Please, enlighten me.”
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “I just . . . we’re very different people.”
“No shit.”
“Just because I have boundaries—”
“Boundaries?” I laugh, but there’s no humor in it. “You kissed me, Carlos. You pulled my hair and kissed me and told me you wanted to take me to dinner. And then the next day you couldn’t even look at me. Don’t talk to me about boundaries when you’re the one who crossed them.”
He flinches. Actually flinches.
“That was a mistake,” he says quietly.
And there it is.
The words I’ve been dreading since he walked away from me in that hotel hallway in Paris.
“A mistake,” I repeat, my voice hollow.
“Jade—”
“No, you’re right. It was a mistake.” I hoist my laptop bag onto my shoulder. “We got caught up in the moment. The presentation went well, I shared something personal, and we . . . got carried away. It happens.”
“It’s not that simple—”
“Actually, it is that simple.” I force myself to meet his eyes. “You’re right. We’re colleagues. We’re very different people. I’m leaving soon anyway. This was never going to work.”
Something flashes in his eyes—regret? Relief? I can’t tell and I don’t want to know.
“So let’s just . . . finish the tour professionally,” I continue. “No more personal conversations. No more confusing the lines. Just work. Can we do that?”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he nods.
“Yes. That would be . . . appropriate.”
That word again. It makes me want to scream.
“Great,” I say with false brightness. “I’m glad we’re on the same page.”
I turn and walk toward the exit, my eyes stinging.
“Jade,” he calls after me.
I stop but don’t turn around.
“I . . . I am happy with my life.”
I don’t know if he’s trying to convince me or himself.
“I’m happy for you,” I say, and I mean it to sound sincere but it comes out bitter.
Then I walk out, and this time he doesn’t follow.
I make it to my hotel room before the tears come.
I sit on the edge of the bed, then lie back, then stare at the ceiling until I can’t stand the silence.
I put my earbuds in. Whoever killed the woman in episode four of this podcast is about to be named, and I’ve been waiting for this.
I will focus on that. I will absolutely focus on that.
I was so stupid. So incredibly stupid.
Now I have to admit to myself that I was hoping for something . . . more. My feelings are more than for a friend, more than for someone I’m attracted to.
I’ve been building something out of nothing, reading meaning into every smile, every touch, every moment of vulnerability.
He has a son. A granddaughter. A whole life in Madrid.
What did I think was going to happen? That he’d upend his entire settled, stable life for a woman who’s about to move to another continent?
I should have known better.
I sit on the edge of the bed for a long time. Eventually I reach into my bag, into the inside pocket where I keep the pictures I want to protect. The Valencia one. Carlos in the evening light, looking at me exactly like that.
I should take it out of the inside pocket. Put it somewhere less careful. It’s just a photograph.
I leave it where it is.
I wipe my eyes. Three more presentations. I can do this.
I have to.