Chapter 3
I think I’m gonna throw up. In a good way, if such a thing exists.
Sitting on a bench outside my apartment building, I run both hands down my legs, smoothing the folds of the soft pink pleated skirt I decided to wear.
I paired it with a silk spaghetti strap top in an effort to achieve a sophisticated yet casual look.
That said, the night is chilly and since I didn’t have a jacket to go with this look, I’m starting to freeze.
The weight on my chest doesn’t lift at that thought.
If anything, it grows heavier. I don’t know how to tell my body that this is a good thing.
Why am I so anxious? I can’t wait to marry Ale.
I can’t wait to have his cologne next to my perfume in the closet, for the hallways in our home to still smell like him even twenty minutes after he’s left.
I can’t wait to buy groceries for two instead of one.
I can’t wait to say, Oh, I have to check with my husband.
My husband. My family. Bound together by love and law, but most importantly by choice.
The pavement glistens under the streetlights. Thick white clouds crown the peaks of the mountains circling the valley that is Caracas. The cold wind bites my cheeks, making my hair dance.
I check my phone again, by inertia, and see it’s only been two minutes even though it’s felt like two hours. Maybe Ale is late because he’s driving carefully, or traffic today is particularly bad. Or maybe he died.
His car finally rounds the corner at 7:22 p.m., after I’ve called him five separate times.
As soon as I make out his frame through the windshield, all is forgotten.
The butterflies in my stomach bat their wings, the clouds part above me to let the stars and moon shine. I’m sure I even hear a bird chirping.
I push to my feet, smoothing my skirt again, as he slowly pulls to a stop. Legs shaking, I approach with a half grin. I pull the door open, flipping my hair over my shoulder, and find Alejandro…still in scrubs.
My grin falls as my elated heart drops to my stomach in disappointment.
“Hey,” he says, while scrolling on his phone. “You look nice.”
How would you know? the little duende living in my head asks, but I shush it.
He knows because he saw me as he was pulling up.
There’s no reason to think he’s lying. There must also be a good reason why he hasn’t changed out of his work clothes, which, as I climb into the car, I notice have specks of blood on them.
“Was there traffic?” I try not to sound upset, because I’m not upset. Traffic is not abnormal in Caracas. In fact, it’s the rule. It’s a possible reason for why he was late.
But he shakes his head, shifting the gear to get us back on the road.
I study his profile the way I do every subject Eugenia asks me to write about.
Analyze it. His jaw has a bit of stubble, unusual for him but not unheard-of.
His posture is so stiff his back isn’t even touching the seat.
He’s nervous. Or stressed. Or both. I’ve only seen him like this two other times.
The most recent was the day before his graduation. Ale couldn’t even eat. The other was when he asked me to be his girlfriend, four years ago.
It was January 27 and we’d been texting back and forth for months.
We’d gone out a couple of times with friends we had in common.
Every time my phone chimed with an incoming anything, my heart would gallop.
It didn’t matter if I was at work, or my apartment, or the bathroom.
Ale gave my life a much-needed buzz of excitement that I hadn’t felt in so long.
That day, we’d been texting nonstop. I’d had the most horrible day at work and he’d failed a test. It had been raining in Caracas all day; every inch of the city was cold, even the birds were hiding away.
Ale had asked me out the day before, just the two of us for the first time.
I had been waiting for months for Ale to gather the courage to ask me out.
Now, after this horrible day, I looked out through the window at the thick, white clouds looming over the mountains visible from my building and almost wanted to cry.
Then he texted:
Ale: what do we do?
Hands shaking, I replied.
Yo: what do you want to do?
Ale: I want to go out with you.
Yo: I want to go out with you too.
Ale: I’ll be there in 30
Back then he didn’t have a car. When he let me know he’d arrived, I rushed down and met him outside.
He was standing in front of my building, still as a statue, soaked to the bone, out of breath.
His lips were almost blue. The moment I opened the door, he climbed the steps two at a time.
He reached me, softly grabbed the back of my neck, and drew me to him, sealing our lips with the most romantic kiss I’d had in my life.
An incoming neighbor cleared his throat, startling us. Ale jumped back, blinking as he moved out of the way.
“Perdóname,” he panted. “I needed a win today.”
I don’t even remember what I said. But we decided to stay in, and later that night, sitting cross-legged on my living room carpet, after having dinner delivered and laughing until we forgot why we were stressed in the first place, Ale asked me to be his girlfriend, and I said yes.
It’s that same stiffness I see in him now as he drives in front of Plaza Venezuela and flags hanging on tall poles wave in the wind outside. He’s about to do something that scares him.
I almost ask, Are you okay?, but he reaches for the stereo and turns up the music before I have a chance, and the rapid stringing of a banjo followed by a heavy bass booms in the car.
I recognize the tune as my favorite song by the band Caballo de Troya.
The fresh combination of pop rock with folk instantly puts me in a better mood.
Alejandro quickly changes the playlist. To reguetón.
I narrow my eyes at him. For someone who knows how much I don’t like música urbana, this is certainly A Choice.
A notification pops up on my phone.
Blanca: tell me EVERYTHING!
Right. Tonight is special. It’s just a song. It’s probably a ploy to distract me—being late, the scrubs, the music…it’s like he’s not being romantic on purpose. A classic move.
“How was your day?” I ask, because I can’t be alone with only my thoughts and Bad Bunny saying Tití me preguntó si tengo mucha’ novia’ as company.
“Good,” he says without even a quick glance.
His response stings. I get that he doesn’t want to seem romantic, but he doesn’t have to be rude.
And because Ale is nothing if not thorough in all his endeavors, he turns up the music. No more talking.
Fine. The city streetlights casting their warm reflection on my window are all the company I need.
I love Caracas best in the dark. There is nothing like a big city at night.
Tall buildings, so many lit-up apartments that it’s impossible to count.
I might as well be living inside a Christmas tree.
Everywhere you look, it feels like you’re there for the first time.
It’s more exciting, more enticing. That’s Caracas: wild and carefree by day, sophisticated at night.
The car is silent except for the soft hum of the sound system as one song follows another.
I steal a glance at my future husband. He’s staring ahead, eyes on the road, but seems lost in thought, so I let the wormhole that is Instagram suck me in.
I log in to my personal account, which is private and which I hardly ever check anymore, considering my entire following is from Ellas.
I’m swiping mindlessly from story to story until I land on Caballo de Troya and see a familiar flag.
I sit up too fast, and the seat belt yanks me back.
The colors are right—yellow, blue, and red.
Horizontally. In that order. I count the stars forming an arch in the middle; they’re all there.
It’s the Venezuelan flag. Posted by Caballo de Troya.
In a black-and-white picture, lead singer Simón Arreaza is looking down at the camera, strong eyebrows raised in silent question.
The next story is a comment box.
If, hypothetically, one of us went to Venezuela, where should he go?
Holy crap. All sweaty hands, I’m typing a reply before I register what I’m doing.
Caracas. I’ll give him a hypothetical tour.
My phone vibrates when Alejandro parks in front of a restaurant.
Oh god, I’ve been acknowledged. Not that it’s hard. They have a little over fifty thousand followers, which sounds like a lot for a regular person, but for a band…Ellas has ten times that.
A smile escapes me when I see the response: another black-and-white photo depicting Simón Arreaza with his signature messy hair and Caballo de Troya hoodie, giving me a thumbs-up.
“Are you okay?” Ale asks from the driver’s seat.
Face flushed, I lock my phone almost guiltily, even though I didn’t do anything. “Yup.”
Alejandro kills the engine with a sigh. “Okay.”
He gets out of the car first and walks toward the restaurant with his hands deep in his pockets.
Still in the car, I catch him sigh for what has to be the tenth time tonight.
He blinks to the sky and swallows. I feel bad for him.
I really wish I could end his misery, but I can’t ruin this moment for us with my impatience.
He planned for this proposal, he deserves to do it the way he wants to.
Whatever he has up his sleeve, when he finally asks, I will say yes.
Alejandro is perfect for me. Smart, funny…
ish. Responsible, reliable. Marianto friendly.
He’s not an artist, which is a plus. Growing up with an actress who was constantly traveling for work made me realize two things early on: that I wanted to settle down young, and that I’d never be happy sharing a life with someone in the same line of business as her.
I want an anchor, not a hot-air balloon.
Ale is my anchor. He has been for the last four years.