13. ARIA
13
ARIA
T he lazy contentment of the morning shatters as Pedro’s phone buzzes on the counter. I peek over his shoulder, my heart immediately racing as I catch sight of Tío Juan’s name. The message flashes across the screen: Heading back with Gretchen. She’s dying to see the swag from the convention. See you soon!
Panic floods my system, and I can feel the blood drain from my face. My mind kicks into overdrive, desperately searching for an escape route. Before I can stop myself, words tumble out of my mouth. “Oh shoot,” I blurt, wincing internally at how fake I sound, “I've got this...thing. A work thing.”
Pedro’s eyebrow arches skeptically. “A work thing? On a Saturday?”
I nod vigorously, feeling my cheeks burn with embarrassment. “Yeah, big client. You know how it is.” The words taste bitter in my mouth, each syllable another betrayal. I want nothing more than to come clean, to explain everything, but the fear of facing Tío Juan and Gretchen—and the consequences that would follow—keeps me trapped in this web of deception.
Relief washes over me as Pedro doesn't press the matter. “Alright, you can fill me in later,” he says casually, though I can see the questions in his eyes.
Grateful for the out, I latch onto it. “Definitely. I'll give you the play-by-play on all the thrilling client action.” My attempt at humor falls flat, even to my own ears.
I throw myself into action, scurrying around the apartment to gather my scattered clothes. Every second feels like an eternity, knowing that Tío Juan and Gretchen could walk in at any moment. The weight of my lies presses down on me, making each movement feel heavier than it should.
My impending exit leaves a void, and the apartment is suddenly quieter as I throw on last night’s jeans and sneakers and hastily pull my messy hair into an even messier bun. The silence in the air seems to hold the echo of our laughter and vague promises of catching up on fictional client emergencies.
As we stand at the door, guilt gnaws at my insides. “I'm sorry for running out like this,” I say, breathless from both the rush and the anxiety coursing through me. “I wish I could stay, but...”
Pedro’s easy smile only makes me feel worse. “No worries. Duty calls, right? Now go, before I change my mind and handcuff you to the bed.”
I laugh, the sound easing some of the tension in my chest. But when he lands a goodbye kiss on my lips, the tension returns as I’m filled with guilt and a deep longing to stay and come clean about everything. But I can’t. Not like this, with my boss staring down my neck. The time will come for the truth, but it’s not now.
I manage a grin, leaning in for a quick kiss. The brevity of it breaks my heart a little—I want to linger, to forget about the complications waiting just outside the door. But I can't. “I'll text you later,” I promise, hoping that when I do, I'll have figured out how to untangle this mess.
With a final nod, I slip out the door, my footsteps echoing in the hallway as I make my way toward the elevator. But as I reach for the call button, a familiar laughter drifts up from the elevator shaft—Gretchen and Tío Juan, unmistakable and moments away from discovering my hasty departure. It’s like the universe is playing a cruel joke on me, a twisted rom-com subplot gone horribly wrong.
Desperation grips me, and I dash towards a maintenance closet behind me. With a quick glance to ensure I'm unobserved, I slip inside, my breath catching as my foot lands in a mop bucket, the water sloshing over its sides.
Hiding there, cramped among the mops and the smell of cleaning chemicals, I realize I forgot my Invisalign on the nightstand. The laughter and voices of Gretchen and Tío Juan filter through the door as they enter Pedro’s apartment, their presence a sharp reminder of the web of lies I've entangled myself in.
Once their voices fade, I venture out, my heart heavy with the weight of my actions. The sight of my sneaker, soaked in gray water, is a visual metaphor for the mess I've made. I'm horrified—not just at the situation, but at myself. How did I end up here?
I make my way out of the apartment building and back onto the familiar streets of Manhattan. Walking back to my apartment, the city around me feels strangely muted, as if I'm moving through a bubble of my own tumultuous thoughts. With each step, the turmoil within me grows, a chaotic blend of regret, confusion, and a deep-seated fear of what lies ahead. How can I possibly explain this mess to Pedro?
The memory of waking up in Pedro’s arms this morning, safe and cherished, clashes sharply with my current reality. The ludicrous excuse of a work emergency that I concocted in a moment of panic feels like a symbol of the larger facade I've been maintaining—a desperate attempt to shield myself from the consequences of our intertwined pasts and the complex web of our present situation, like a kid trying to hide a broken vase behind a throw pillow.
Walking past the familiar landmarks on my way home, I can’t help but replay the morning’s events in my mind, each step echoing with the weight of my hastily made decisions. The thought of Gretchen discovering my presence at Pedro’s apartment sends a shiver down my spine. If she had seen me there, everything would have unraveled instantly—the untold story of Pedro and me that I've carefully hidden from her, my unauthorized visits to Pedro’s apartment. It’s a house of cards, and I'm the fool who keeps building it higher, even as the wind threatens to topple it all.
And then there’s the cease and desist letter and NDA from Jessica, adding yet another layer of complexity to an already fraught situation. It’s not just the legal ramifications that haunt me; it’s the stark realization that despite the closeness Pedro and I share, there are still vast gulfs of unspoken truths between us—secrets that have the power to topple everything we’re trying to build. Our second chance is so full of landmines, it’s more akin to a Michael Bay movie on steroids.
As I finally reach the quiet of my apartment, my phone buzzes—a message from Jessica waiting like an uninvited guest at a dinner party. My heart sinks; I know this conversation could tilt the precarious balance of my professional facade. It’s a reminder that no matter how much I try to compartmentalize my life, the walls between my personal and professional worlds are about as sturdy as a cardboard box in a hurricane.
As I unlock my apartment door, the vibration in my pocket halts me mid-motion. Glancing at the screen, I see Jessica’s name flash. I take a deep breath before answering, bracing myself to enter the lion’s den armed with nothing but a toothpick and a prayer.
“Hey, Jessica, what’s up?” I try to keep my voice neutral, despite the anxiety knotting in my stomach.
“Aria, we need to talk.” Jessica’s voice is crisp, tinged with an edge that immediately puts me on high alert. “I'm beginning to question your commitment to this project.”
I frown, confusion and a hint of frustration mingling. “I'm not sure what you mean. I've been following the plan we agreed on.”
“Have you, though?” There’s a pause, and I can almost picture her scrutinizing expression through the phone. “Because from where I'm standing, I haven’t received an update from you in over a week. It seems like you’re either not spending enough time with Pedro, or maybe you’re spending too much time with him without letting me know first. Which is it?”
I can’t believe the audacity of Jessica, speaking about Pedro as if he’s a toy she’s graciously allowing me to borrow. Her sense of entitlement grates on my nerves, fueling a growing resentment that I struggle to keep in check.
But I can’t deny that her accusation stings, more for its proximity to the truth than anything else. “Jessica, that’s not fair. I'm doing everything I can to?—”
She cuts me off. “And then there’s today. Pedro reached out to me. Did you know? He asked me to meet him at his office. Maybe I don’t even need your services after all. It looks like he’s coming back to me all on his own.”
That stops me cold. Is she implying he’s trying to get back together with her? I take a deep breath to stifle my growing frustration at the way her manipulation knows no bounds, then respond with the calm of a hostage negotiator, “Jessica, I assure you, I've been completely professional in my approach with Pedro.”
Jessica scoffs through the phone. “For your sake, I hope you’re telling the truth. You’re still under contract.”
The conversation ends abruptly, leaving me with a bitter taste in my mouth and a growing sense of unease. Jessica’s suspicion, coupled with her lying to me about Pedro, implying that the mediation hearing is some kind of date, feels like a noose tightening around my neck, and I'm the one holding the rope. But, is she lying or…is Pedro lying about the mediation?
The delicate hope I grasped onto with Pedro last night seems to be deflating like an overcooked souffle.
I draft a message to Pedro, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, then for some extra—much needed—comic relief, I take a selfie with a Snapchat face filter and attach it to the text. “Made it to the client meeting. Crisis averted,” I type, hoping the light-hearted delivery will offset some of the guilt gnawing at me. It’s a smiley-face Band-Aid on a gunshot wound, but it’s all I have right now.
“Glad to hear it. Though I have to say, I'm a bit jealous of this client getting to see your beautiful face while I'm left here all alone,” he writes back, followed by a winking emoji.
Just as I'm about to respond to Pedro’s message, my phone buzzes with another notification from Instagram. This time, it’s a tagged post from Tío Juan. Curiosity piqued, I tap the notification and what I see makes my heart drop.
Tío Juan posted a pic of himself, grinning ear to ear, wearing the Invisalign retainer I left at Pedro’s. The aligners, clearly not meant for him, jut out of his mouth in a comical fashion. It’s like a scene from a bad comedy, except the joke is entirely on me, and the punchline is my professional unraveling.
To make matters infinitely worse, both Pedro and Gretchen are also tagged in the post. The caption reads, “Trying on new smiles! Thanks, @Aria @Pedro and @Gretchen, hope this gets to the right doctor!” My stomach churns. I have no idea what that means, but Tío Juan’s attempt at humor has basically sent up a flare, alerting the world to my earlier presence in Pedro’s apartment, like a bad spy movie where the protagonist accidentally posts their location on Instagram.
Panic sets in. The thought of Gretchen seeing this sends waves of dread crashing over me like a tsunami of regret. She’s going to piece together the fact that I slept with Pedro, a.k.a. the asset. All because of a stupid forgotten Invisalign and a well-intentioned but misguided Instagram post. It’s like the universe is conspiring against me, using my own mistakes as ammunition in a cosmic joke at my expense.
I can practically hear the gears turning in Gretchen’s head, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place. I can imagine her reaction, the way her eyes pinch, the way her lips will purse as she puts two and two together and comes up with a scandal.
The thought of facing her, of trying to explain away the truth that’s now plastered all over social media, makes my stomach tighten. It’s a conversation I'm not ready for, a reckoning I've been trying to avoid like a trip to the dentist, but now, with one careless post, Tío Juan has forced my hand, like a sadistic dentist who’s just a little too eager to use the drill.
I can feel the walls closing in, the carefully constructed facade of my life crumbling around me. It’s like I'm in a room full of mirrors, and every reflection is a distorted version of the truth, mocking me with my own lies and half-truths, like a funhouse of my own making.
I can’t hide forever.
I take a deep breath, my fingers hovering over the keyboard once more. This time, instead of a joke or a deflection, I type out the truth.
Hey, I know things are crazy right now, but I think we need to talk. There are things I haven’t told you, things you deserve to know. Can we meet up later ?
My heart races as I hit send, the weight of my words settling in the pit of my stomach. It’s a risk, a leap of faith into the unknown. But it’s also a step towards something better, something more authentic than the life I've been living.
I don’t know what the future holds. I don’t know if Pedro will understand, if he'll forgive me for the deceptions and the half-truths. But I know I have to try. I have to give us a chance, a real chance, without the baggage of my job and my past weighing us down.
As I wait for his response, I can’t help but think of all the moments that led us here. The inside jokes that softened the tension, the arguments that left us raw, the subtle looks that conveyed things only we understood, and the touches that burned with longing. They were real, even if the circumstances surrounding them were not. And that realness, that connection, is something worth fighting for.
The minutes tick by, each second feeling like an eternity. And then, finally, my phone buzzes with his reply.
Man, I’m looking at this pizza-face image and staring at your text as I wait for Jessica and her lawyer to get here. This is weird timing. But yeah, we can meet later. I’ll hit you up.
I cringe inwardly as I remember grabbing his phone impulsively last night to change my contact image in his phone to a cartoon pizza character, Pizza Steve, who’s wearing sunglasses and a delicious smirk. I’m really not surprised that I made yet one more bad decision.
Perfect. I was thinking maybe I could go to your place around 7? Unless you have plans.
No plans. Do you want me to swing by and pick you up on my way back from the office? I usually head out around six-ish.
I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll just meet you there at 7. I have some errands to run tomorrow. I’ll probably head to your place right after work. Oh, before I forget, I think I might have left my Invisalign at your place. Could you keep an eye out for it?
Sure thing. I'll do a sweep of the apartment. If I find your dentures, I'll guard them with my life.
I smile and let out a deep sigh as a mix of relief and anticipation washes over me. There. It’s done. I took the first step. Now, I just have to take the next. And the next.
As we say our goodbyes and I set my phone down, I can’t help but feel a hint of promise, a glimmer of possibility amidst the chaos and the uncertainty. Isn’t that what love is, anyway? It’s not a fairy tale or a rom-com or a carefully scripted narrative. It’s raw and real and sometimes painful, but always, always worth it. Right?
And as the sun sets outside my bedroom window, painting the skyline in shades of orange and gold, I can’t help but feel a sense of foreboding as I imagine how Pedro might react to my confession tomorrow. Will he be my St. Peter or will he banish me to hell?
Well, I never was a good Catholic.