The Ex-Perimento

Chapter 1

Special occasions require special dresses. And special dresses are often the ones that don’t let you breathe.

I shift in my seat at the Aula Magna de la Universidad Central de Venezuela, trying not to call attention to myself.

The crunch, swoosh of tulle over linen doesn’t help.

But the dress was a gift from my boyfriend, and even if Alejandro can’t remember which fabrics give me a rash, at least he was thoughtful enough to get it for me in the first place.

Plus, it’s his graduation. The right thing to do was to suck it up and wear the thing. That’s what love is.

To my right, an elderly woman with a soft cloud of stark-white hair gives me a sympathetic look.

She pats my knee over the armrest between our seats with a wrinkled yet perfectly manicured hand.

Her golden bracelets click with the movement.

I attempt an apology but the warm lights of the auditorium dim, a subtle shut up to everyone present.

The auditorium is charged with an atmosphere of eager solemnity. Vibrant, billowing banners float against the white of the vaulted ceiling, a perfect contrast with the classy elegance of a theater, like a marriage between the modern and the timeless.

I can’t help but grin as dancers dressed in folklore attire take the stage, the opening to the grand event.

The last time I was in this room, five years ago, it was for my own graduation.

I walked across that stage to receive my journalism diploma.

The sense of accomplishment I felt back then, the pride at having something mine and mine only remains unmatched.

There is nothing quite like crossing an item off your list of plans, knowing you’re on track to building the life you want.

Tonight is no different. I’m not the one becoming a doctor, sure. But Alejandro’s achievement feels as much mine as it is his. We’re in this together.

After several performances and graduates being called one by one, it’s Alejandro’s turn.

His stride is long, precise, and calculated.

Just like him. Every step he takes—now and any other day—is premeditated, careful.

It’s why we get along so well, how we’ve managed to stay together four years.

It’s a quality that has only ever worked in our favor.

I hold my breath as the medical school faculty director slides the medal over his head.

My chest swells with pride. He did it. For the last four years, I’ve seen how hard Ale has worked for this moment—the sleepless nights, the tears of frustration, the never-ending exhaustion and strict diet of caffeine and protein. No one deserves it more than he does.

Jumping to my feet, I join the eruption of cheers.

From the stage, Alejandro seems to find me amid the crowd and everyone else in the auditorium disappears.

I know it’s impossible, I’m not remotely close enough, but I can still pretend it’s just the two of us here.

I can fantasize that the grin splitting his face, so wide he can barely keep his eyes open, is directed at me.

Alejandro swallows hard before he blinks, looking away. He marches tall and proud offstage, followed by another graduate whose name I forget as soon as it’s said.

My eyes sting as I take my seat. He did it.

For the past several months, ever since he told me his graduation date, I’ve pictured what the rest of our lives will look like.

Now we’re one step closer. The plans we’ve discussed and dreamt of while he was studying on my apartment floor late into the night are taking shape before my eyes.

Him: a respectable neurosurgeon. Me? An arts journalist. International recognition, of course.

A house in La Lagunita (the best neighborhood in Caracas); three kids (two boys and a girl); and a golden retriever named Scott (in honor of the toilet paper). It’s all mapped out.

Not until after I graduate, though, Ale would say whenever I brought it up.

Well, he’s graduated. Our future is starting here, tonight. I’m sure of it.

—

Alejandro holds on to my hand as we get out of the taxi to join his graduation party. He’s ditched the robe for a dashing baby-pink button-down. He’s rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and is wearing a brown tie to match the khakis he decided to wear. And I’m…still in this scratchy dress.

I check the time on my phone: 9:32 p.m. We’re going to be here for about two and a half hours.

Alejandro will want to leave at midnight, because he leaves every party at midnight.

That means in approximately three hours I’ll be in the comfort of my own bed, wearing pajamas, and watching an episode of New Girl to calm my mind down. I can do this.

“No phones tonight,” Ale says beside me. “You promised.”

“No, I know.” I put my phone back in my clutch purse and smile. “It’s your night.”

Ale squeezes my hand in response. I squeeze back, inching closer to wrap my free hand around his elbow.

My job is probably our only sensitive subject.

As the metaphorical face of Ellas magazine, one of Latin America’s biggest online platforms, I need to be on my phone all the time.

Not to mention I also give relationship advice, which means getting a little personal about my own relationship.

But I don’t expect to be a reluctant influencer/love guru forever.

This job is leading somewhere; I’ve been working my way toward a promotion. It’s just a matter of time.

Ahead of us, the venue waits in all its romantic, rococo, French glory.

Tall ceilings, white walls, and Ionian pillars face us head-on.

Gold filigree shimmers where it’s hit by headlights from oncoming cars.

Booking Casa Versalles for tonight was nearly impossible.

I had to promise them a feature in any of our future “best spots to…” lists, but it was worth it.

Finding the perfect venue for Alejandro’s graduation party was the only thing his parents asked me to do. I had to do it right.

Music engulfs every inch of the premises. Below our feet, the bass shakes the ground with the beat of an old reguetón song that I haven’t heard in like five years. It’s 100 percent ruining the vibe. Imagine stepping into Pemberley and Georgiana Darcy is playing Bad Bunny.

We zigzag, dodging furniture as Ale stops every five seconds to greet someone.

“This place is a damn laberinto,” he yells over the too-loud music. “Who picked it?”

I trip over my shoes. “You don’t like it?”

“No, I—hey!” Ale interrupts himself when he spots his parents across the hallway.

Their faces immediately brighten at the sight of their son, ditching the scowls that will latch on to my memory forever. His mother, Bárbara, opens both arms to him, pulling him down for a hug that yanks his hand from mine.

As Ale’s mother turns to face me, her ruby-red lips curl downward and her eyebrows knit together in a disapproving frown. She lets out a sigh before speaking. “Maria Antonieta.”

I try not to flinch at the use of my full name. Before I can say a word, she turns to her husband and whispers something I can’t catch due to the damn music, but I know it’s about me.

Suddenly, the dress I’m wearing feels too…everything. Too short, too tight, too wrong, too much. I should have worn something else, something classier. Never mind that I didn’t even pick out the dress.

The shade of lipstick I chose is probably wrong too.

It’s too dark. She probably thinks it’s wrong for my olive skin tone (it isn’t) and that I should have picked something more along the lines of her lipstick, but she’s always right and I’m always wrong.

And who wears purple on their lips anyway?

Also, it’s not matte, it’s bound to smudge.

I’ll be forced to drink champagne, the lipstick will stain the glass, and they’ll all say I’m trash.

I run my sweaty hands down my dress. My second mistake.

Alejandro’s mother follows the trajectory of the movement with her eyes, fixing her attention on my godforsaken outfit. Her gaze moves slowly back up until our eyes lock. I attempt a smile. She does the same. We both fail.

Anxiety flares in my chest. Squirming under scrutiny is not how I pictured tonight going.

“Mauricio is here?” Ale asks, making me jump. “Give me a second, I’m gonna—” I grab his forearm, keeping him in place. He turns to me with an amused smirk. “It’ll be two minutes. Mi mamá doesn’t bite.”

“She hates me,” I whisper. In case the last four years haven’t been indication enough.

His eyes soften as he inches closer, grazing his fingers along my chin, a ghost of a touch because his parents are right there. “She doesn’t hate you. No one could hate you.”

I huff, thinking of my boss, half of my teachers, and my ninety-year-old neighbor from across the hall.

Shaking his head as if he could read my mind, he smiles and takes one step back. “Dos minutos. You’ll be fine.”

Before I can beg him to stay again, he’s gone.

It’s his night, I remind myself. He can talk to anyone he wants to. And I’m used to being alone at events. It’s part of being a journalist.

I turn back to his parents. “So, how—”

Aaaand I’m talking to no one. They’re gone. Perfect.