Chapter 23
Carlos
“Good morning, Jade.”
“Good morning, Carlos.”
The formality sounds ridiculous even to my own ears, but this is what we’ve agreed to. Professional. Colleagues. Nothing more.
Jade arrived exactly at 7:30—not early enough that we’d have to make small conversation, not late enough to seem like she’s avoiding me. We’ve perfected this dance over the past few days.
I hand her the presentation clicker, careful not to let our fingers touch. She takes it with a small nod, no smile.
The Geneva venue is smaller than some of the others—maybe one hundred seats—but the setup is the same. I’ve done this so many times I could do it in my sleep. Jade moves to connect her laptop to the projector, and I step to the opposite side of the stage to arrange the remaining brochures.
We avoid each other, careful to maintain our distance like we might burst into flames if we get too close.
When she needs a cable that’s near me, she doesn’t ask me to hand it to her. She walks around, reaches past my shoulder, grabs it herself. I smell her shampoo—something citrusy—and have to force myself not to turn toward her.
“Excuse me,” she murmurs, already stepping away.
“Of course.”
I feel like an idiot.
The worst part isn’t wanting her. It’s knowing, with the particular self-knowledge of someone who took fifteen years to feel anything at all, exactly what it means that I do.
The presentation goes well. Jade’s presentations always go well now. She’s confident, connects with the audience, shares her personal story with the right amount of vulnerability.
I translate beside her, my French smooth and professional. I don’t watch her the way I used to—cataloging her expressions, noticing when she touches her wrist to ground herself, seeing the way her face lights up when a patient asks an engaged question.
I keep my eyes on the audience. On my tablet. Anywhere but her.
She clicks to the next slide and I translate, my voice steady. We’re a well-oiled machine. Two professionals doing a job.
No one is going to notice that we haven’t made eye contact once during the entire forty-five-minute presentation.
Probably.
Jade and I wrap up the presentation and make it through the Q&A. I’m packing up equipment when I hear a familiar voice.
“Carlos!”
I turn to find Paul Hoffman approaching with a broad smile. We went to university together, remained friends even though our careers took different paths—him into pharmaceutical sales, me into marketing. He lives in Lyon now, and I’d texted him earlier this week that I’d be near.
“Paul.” I hug him, genuinely happy to see a friendly face. “Thank you for coming.”
“Of course! I wouldn’t miss it.” He claps me on the shoulder, then his expression shifts to concern. “Though I have to say, my friend, you seem . . . off tonight. Not your usual self.”
My spine stiffens. “Off?”
“Your energy. You barely smiled during the entire presentation. Very serious, very closed off.” He studies my face. “This isn’t like you. Usually you’re so engaged with the audience, making connections. Tonight you were . . . I don’t know. Distant? Is everything all right?”
I force a smile. “Everything is fine. Just tired from the tour, perhaps.”
Paul doesn’t look convinced. “You’re sure? Because if something’s bothering you—work, personal, whatever—you know you can talk to me.”
“I appreciate that, but truly, I’m fine.” I need to change the subject. “How is Elena?”
He allows the deflection, launching into updates about his family, but I can see he’s not fully bought my reassurance. After a few minutes, he checks his watch.
“I should get going—dinner reservation. But Carlos, seriously. Take care of yourself. You look like you need a break.”
He walks away, and I’m left standing there with the uncomfortable realization that even Paul, who knows nothing about Jade or our situation, can see something is wrong.
I’m not hiding it as well as I thought.
By the time Jade finishes with the last attendee, I’ve packed everything up. I leave her laptop bag on the table for her and head toward the exit without saying goodbye.
I need a moment alone, to collect myself before heading back to my room.
The hotel bathroom on the event level is occupied, a small line forming outside. I don’t have the patience for it. I head for the stairs instead, climbing one flight to the second floor where I know there’s another restroom.
The second-floor bathroom is mercifully empty. I wash my hands, splash cold water on my face, and stare at myself in the mirror.
Paul is right. I look tired. Strained.
Two more presentations. Just one more week.
I dry my face. The problem is not that I don’t know what she wants.
I know. I’ve known for weeks. Jade is not subtle, and even if she were, I’ve spent enough time watching her to read the difference between professional warmth and something else entirely. She wants me. And I—
I want her. That is the problem. Not whether the feeling is there—it is, unmistakably, in a way I haven’t felt in so long I’d half-convinced myself I was finished feeling anything like it.
The problem is what I know about myself: that I don’t arrive at this lightly.
That when I let someone close enough to matter, they matter entirely, and there’s no taking that back afterward.
Marisol used to say I loved like a slow river. It takes a long time to get moving, she said, but once it’s going, you can’t stop it and you can’t redirect it.
Jade is leaving in two weeks.
If I let this happen—let her in, let myself want this properly—and then she goes back to Austin, I won’t be able to call it a casual thing that ran its course.
I know myself. It won’t feel like that. And I’m fifty-six years old with a granddaughter and a settled life, and I don’t know if I have the capacity to rebuild myself around another absence.
So I keep the distance. Not because she doesn’t want me. Not because I don’t want her.
Because I do. And that’s exactly what makes it impossible.
I head back into the hallway. The elevator bank is just ahead. I press the call button and wait, checking my phone.
A message from Fernando: photo of Carmencita covered in what looks like mashed banana. I smile despite everything.
This is my life. This is what matters.
The elevator dings. The doors slide open.
Jade is inside.
She’s leaning against the back wall, her laptop bag over her shoulder, her ponytail slightly disheveled. When she sees me, something flickers across her face—surprise? Resignation? I can’t tell.
We stare at each other for a long moment.
I could wait for the next elevator. There will be another one in a few minutes. That would be easier. Safer.
But I’m exhausted. Exhausted from the presentation, from maintaining this distance, from pretending I don’t think about her constantly.
It’s just an elevator ride. We’re adults.
I step inside.