Chapter 26
Carlos
I wake up to a gray bedroom, the sounds of the TV coming from the living room and fading light sneaking in around the curtains.
Did Jade stay?
I flick on the reading light, noting my half-finished sandwich sits on the nightstand. Someone put it there. I dress in shorts and a soft shirt, glancing at myself in the mirror and grimacing. I still look like shit.
Izan knows I’m up. I can hear him huffing his nose at the bottom of the door. The sound of the TV disappears, and I swing the door open.
It’s not Jade. It’s Fernando.
Disappointment hits me hard and fast, but I recover. Of course. She is my colleague. We’re professional. Fernando is family.
“Dad,” he says, rising to his feet. “How are you feeling?”
“Groggy. Sweaty.” Again. I bend down to scratch Izan’s butt, and he whines in pleasure.
“Can you eat?”
I grunt.
“Come. I made you rice. Eat before Jade comes.”
I straighten too fast, and sway. Fernando rushes up, placing a hand under my arm. I try to wave him off—“Don’t bring this home to Carmencita”—but he insists on guiding me to the couch.
It’s made up as a bed. I glance at my wall clock—it’s just after seven in the morning.
Fernando slept here.
“Jade’s coming?” I realize I’m parched, and as if reading my mind, Fernando stands and fetches me a glass of water. I chug it down.
“She called me and told me you were sick,” Fernando explains. He returns to my kitchen and lifts a pot lid on the stove.
“How did she have your number?”
“She called me from your phone,” he explains. “Before she left last night. She was worried. She’s going to stop by on her way to work today.”
Work. I sit up. “We have the presentation in Marseille tomorrow.” The smell from the kitchen hits me: warm, starchy. I’m hit with the memory of making Fernando white rice dozens of times when he was sick.
“Jade does. You have to stay here. She can—”
There’s a knock on the door. Izan leaps up, nails skidding on the floor, huffing out little guaus of excitement.
Fernando opens the door, and there she is—dressed for work, her hair up in a ponytail. Her eyes dart to Fernando, then meet mine, and she gives me a small smile.
Izan greets her at the door, hopping and spinning in circles. Jade bends down to give him belly rubs, carefully avoiding the patch of hair that’s still growing back.
“Who’s a good boy,” she says in a soft, low voice, and my dog whines at her, trying to lick her face while still getting petted.
I watch from the couch where I’ve slumped over, completely relegated for Jade’s attention, and that’s fine. I’m just glad she’s here.
When Jade finally straightens, her eyes meet mine again. Cool, professional Jade inspects me. “How do you feel?”
“Better,” I say. “Who is going to translate for you tomorrow?” They need to send the right person. Someone who will handle the setup so Jade can focus on getting her nervous energy out, someone who’s going to be delicate with her on that opening line.
The corner of her mouth quirks up. “Stephan, from the La Rochelle office. He’ll meet me in Marseille.”
I relax a little. I know Stephan a bit, and he’s better than some random translator for hire.
“You must be Fernando,” Jade says, turning to my son with an outstretched hand. “I’m Jade. We spoke on the phone last night.”
“Yes.” He gives her a kiss on each cheek, and I watch him taking her in—the professional attire, the way she moved to greet Izan first, the casual way she checked on me. “Thank you for calling me. And for taking care of him yesterday.”
“Of course,” Jade says, and there’s that professional tone again. “Anyone would have done the same.”
“Not anyone would have brought him home and made sure he ate,” Fernando counters, and I see Jade’s cheeks pink slightly.
“Well. He looked terrible.”
“I’m right here,” I mutter.
They both ignore me.
“Would you like a coffee?”
“Oh, I couldn’t—”
“Please,” Fernando insists. “It’s the least we can do. You took care of Dad all evening.”
Jade glances at her watch, then at me, then back to Fernando. “Just one. I have a meeting at nine.”
Fernando disappears into the kitchen, leaving Jade standing awkwardly in the living room. She perches on the edge of the armchair across from me—not close, maintaining that professional distance.
“You really do look better,” she says.
“I slept for fifteen hours.”
“You needed it.” She glances around the apartment—probably the first time she’s really looked at it in daylight. She takes in the framed photos on the bookshelf, the worn rug, the organized chaos of my life. “Fernando seems to be taking good care of you.”
“He is.” I pause. “Thank you. For calling him. You didn’t have to do that.”
“You were sick and alone. Of course I called your emergency contact.”
Always so practical. So professional.
But her eyes keep drifting back to me, checking, assessing. Making sure I’m okay.
I tell myself this is what colleagues do.
What decent people do. She is practical and conscientious and this means nothing beyond that.
I am very good at telling myself things like this.
I’ve had eleven years of practice, and before that, an entire marriage in which I learned to receive love in its offered shape and not ask for more.
Fernando returns with a mug and a bowl, handing the coffee to Jade before giving me the rice and then sitting on the other end of the couch from me.
“So how long have you two been working together?” he asks, and I recognize that tone. It’s his “gathering information” voice.
“Since September,” Jade says. “Though the tour only started in May.”
“And how much longer?”
“Marseille tomorrow, then Seville. Then we’re done.” She says it neutrally, but something flickers across her face. “I fly back to Austin at the end of the month.” She smiles. “The American staff have to work through your August break.”
“Austin,” Fernando repeats, glancing at me. “That’s far.”
“It’s where I live,” Jade says simply. She sips her coffee and then eyes the bowl I’m carefully eating from. “Rice? Not soup?”
“No, just plain rice. Easy on the stomach,” Fernando says with a grin. “I’ve watched enough TV shows to know Americans believe in the curative properties of . . . what? Chicken noodle soup? Spaniards are more simple. I have many memories of Dad bringing me bowls of rice.”
Jade smiles into her mug, and I wonder what she’s thinking. If she’s thinking of me as a father, as someone who takes care of his son when he’s sick.
“I hate to miss a presentation.” I shake my head. “We only have one left now. I’ll be fine for the final one.”
“You’re not going to the final one,” Fernando cuts in.
“I’ll be better by then—”
“Dad.” Fernando’s voice is firm. “You’re staying home. Doctor’s orders.”
“You’re not a doctor.”
“I’ll call Diana,” he threatens.
Jade holds up a hand, placating. “Let’s see how he feels in a few days.” Then she tips her head back and swallows the last of her coffee. She checks her watch again. “I should go.”
“Of course,” Fernando says, standing. “Thank you again for taking care of him.”
Jade stands too, smoothing her skirt. She looks at me one more time. “Feel better, Carlos. And actually rest. No working from home.”
“Yes, Dr. Jade.”
The corner of her mouth quirks up, just slightly. Then she’s heading for the door, Fernando following to see her out.
I hear their voices in the hallway—Fernando thanking her again, Jade saying something about calling if I get worse. Then the door closes.
Fernando comes back into the living room, a knowing look on his face.
“What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He sits back down on the couch, that grin still playing at his lips. “Just . . . interesting.”
“What’s interesting?”
“You and Jade.”
“There is no ‘me and Jade.’ She’s my colleague.”
“Uh-huh.” He’s not even trying to hide his amusement now. “Is that why you looked so disappointed when you realized it was me and not her when you woke up?”
My face heats. “I didn’t—”
“You did. I saw it.” He leans back, crossing his arms. “And she called me from your phone last night, using your emergency contact info. Stayed until Diana came home from work at eleven. She made sure someone would be here with you. That’s not ‘colleague’ behavior, Dad.”
“She’s just being professional—”
“Professional would be telling you to go home and that’s it. And this morning? She shows up before work, clearly worried about you.”
“She’s conscientious—”
“Dad.” Fernando’s voice is gentle now. “You like her.”
The words land like a punch to the chest.
“Sure, as a—”
“Dad. I think she might feel the same way.”
“She’s leaving.”
“I noticed.”
We sit in silence for a moment. Izan has settled on top of my right feet, his warm weight a comfort.
“Even if . . .” I start, then stop. “It doesn’t matter. She’s going back to Austin. Her life is there. Mine is here. With you and Diana and Carmen.”
“Our lives are here,” Fernando corrects. “But Dad . . . we’re not enough of a reason to be alone.”
“I’m not alone—”
“You are, though.” He leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You have us, yes. And we love you. But that’s not the same as having a partner. Someone who brings you home when you’re sick and makes sure you eat and calls your family because she’s worried.”
“We agreed,” I say quietly. “Professional only.”
“Then why did she look like her heart was breaking when you said there was one presentation left?”
I don’t have an answer for that.
Fernando stands, collecting our empty bowls. “Just . . . think about it, okay? What you want versus what you think you should want.”
He disappears into the kitchen, leaving me alone with my thoughts and my dog and the ghost of citrus-scented shampoo still lingering in my apartment.
I may have feelings for Jade. I may like her.
And I’m running out of time to figure out what to do about it.