Chapter 6
I don’t have enough time to process Ale’s text before he’s calling me.
“I can’t believe you went and posted our breakup on social media,” he says as soon as I pick up. No Hello, no How are you holding up? Nothing.
The word breakup hurts in my gut. I thought we were “on a break.”
“It was an accident,” I tell him.
“An accident?” He huffs. “An accident is when you butt dial your doctor, Marianto. What the hell were you filming us for?”
Three steps short of my car, I stop. His words are fists squeezing my heart. I feel my cheeks warm. I’m such a fool. I was so excited, hiding my phone in the napkin holder, missing all the signs.
A light breeze grazes my skin. A dog is barking in the distance while I tune out the sound of people talking as they move around me.
The sky is a striking blue, no clouds in sight.
The outline of El ávila—the mountain that rounds the valley that is Caracas—is perfectly visible, and I look to it for strength.
Part of me doesn’t want to answer Ale’s question and make an even bigger fool of myself.
The other part says, Hey, it’s Ale, we can tell him anything.
This is the part that wins. “I thought you were proposing.”
The line goes silent long enough that I manage to get into my car, but I know he’s still there. I feel him as if he was sitting beside me, fumbling with the A/C so the airflow doesn’t hit him in the face, the way he always does.
Alejandro curses under his breath, almost in defeat.
I’m not sure he even meant for me to hear, but to me it’s like he whispered it into my ear.
It takes me back to that first time he kissed me outside my building.
To his hand cupping my face, his thumb drawing circles on my cheek; his out-of-breath, rapid one-word responses, and the smile that followed.
I swallow through the lump in my throat and blink until my eyes don’t sting anymore.
“I’m sorry about the video,” I whisper. Ale sighs, but stays silent. “Do you think we could…I don’t know, talk about it over coffee or something?” I force a smile into my voice. “My treat.”
Ale clears his throat. “I don’t think so.”
His words knock the air right out of me. “But last night…” I attempt. “You texted.”
“We should probably not see each other for a while.” His tone is final.
“Ale.”
“Goodbye, Maria.”
He hangs up before I can get anything else out. I stare at my phone, needles prickling my eyes. Even though I’m sitting in my car, I feel like I’m falling. I’ve been pushed off a cliff. My future is nothing but fast-approaching waves crashing against sharp rocks, and there is no one to catch me.
Inhala, exhala. Do not cry.
People in Caracas mind their business, they hardly stop for anything.
So there’s no reason why I should believe they would stop for me, but I do.
I picture an old man bent outside my window, telling me to get it together.
I picture a little girl asking her mother why the lady in the red sedan is crying.
My phone vibrates in my hand. My heart races, hope igniting in my chest, before I realize it’s just an alarm.
Pick up Mamá at the airport.
“Perfect,” I mutter, laying my head on the steering wheel. I don’t care who’s watching.
—
My usual olive coloring is gone, replaced with pale, tight skin, like a mask.
My hair is tangled and matted from tossing and turning all night, pulled up in the messiest of buns.
The cloud of defeat around me is dense. I can’t believe I marched into Eugenia’s office looking like this.
I can’t believe I’m going to let my mother see me like this.
I groan, looking into the rearview mirror at the line of cars behind me.
I see a couple jump into each other’s arms, a cutesy airport reunion that makes me nauseous.
Thirty seconds later, there’s a knock on the passenger side window that makes me jump.
My mother waves enthusiastically. She’s in a green velvet jumpsuit, a travel pillow resting on her shoulders.
No llores, no llores, no llores, I repeat in my head five hundred times as I unlock my car and climb out to help her with her luggage.
It’s amazing that I have any tears left.
You’d think I’d have run out by now. But as soon as I’m out of the car, she rushes to my side and pulls me down by the neck, wrapping me in a soul-crushing hug I had no idea I needed this much, and I break down.
I’m twelve years old again, waiting for her to come home from shooting to let her know my best friend died from a stroke.
I’m fifteen, begging her to come with me to find my dog, who escaped while I was taking out the trash.
And she was not able to make those things better; my friend was still dead and my dog was still missing, but she hugged until there weren’t any tears left.
She held me like she knew. Now, in this parking lot, clinging to each other in the midst of the busy airport, the thrum of engines and whirr of propellers from planes taking off above our heads, she holds me like she knows.
Mamá takes a step back, her deep brown eyes—the very same ones I have—searching my face as her thumbs brush over my cheeks, drying my tears. “Mamita, are you okay?”
My throat closes up again at the sound of a voice I’m more used to hearing over the phone nowadays.
She stands a couple of inches shorter than me: Her newly dyed caramel hair frames her tanned face in soft waves, baby highlights catching the sunlight, giving her a youthful look.
In my current state, she must seem like my younger sister.
I nod. “I’m okay. I missed you.”
It’s a lie. She knows it’s a lie. I wait for her to push, to call me out, but she doesn’t. She simply accepts it, pats my cheek a couple more times, and says, “I missed you too.”
—
“Okay, so this is the kitchen.” I point at it from the hall. “Mugs, plates, glasses are all in the top cabinets. Cleaning supplies are under the sink. And the oven doesn’t work, so I use the air fryer.”
I live in a two-bedroom, two-bathroom apartment.
The kitchen is two strides away from where we’re standing in the living room, which is the first thing you see when you walk through the door.
I’m renting it from Blanca’s elderly great-aunt.
It smells slightly of dust and mothballs, which made me develop a severe addiction to allergy medication.
It’s located in Altamira, which gives my online persona an air of sophistication.
To maintain the illusion, I only take pictures on the balcony, overlooking the city.
Inside, the apartment is mostly wood and orange tile floors that will clash with every single item someone might bring in. It’s like living inside a pumpkin.
Beside me, my mother frowns, assessing. “How do you make a cake?”
“I don’t.”
I buy cake. One slice, because I am one person, and my boyfriend doesn’t eat refined sugar.
Ex-boyfriend, my brain immediately corrects, and the weight in my chest returns.
“And how will I make a cake?” my mother asks, bringing me back before I drift too far.
“Do you need to bake a cake?”
She shrugs. “I might.”
“We can buy a cake,” I reply, taking a step down the hall toward her bedroom.
Out of all the things we could be talking about…
“Unacceptable,” she says. “I’m going to get you a new oven.”
I halt. “Why?” I don’t need a new oven. Hell, if we tried to fit a new anything in this apartment, a wall might fall on us. It is that old. “You really don’t have to do that. I don’t cook that much.”
“Why not?” She steps into the kitchen and starts measuring my stove with her hands.
“Well, because my job—”
The realization hits me before I can finish the sentence. My job. No more coupons or collabs with restaurants and coffee shops. If Alejandro and I don’t get back together soon, I’m going to have to start paying for food. Or worse. I’ll have to learn how to cook.
I clear my throat. “Anyway.” I point to the door down the hall. “That’s your room.”
Mamá beams, rushing to my side. “I get my own room?” She grabs my shoulders and squeezes me against her before walking around me to get ahead. “I thought we were going to bunk together in your room like when you were chiquitica.”
When I was little we had to share a room because that was all we could afford while she was out trying to become an actress, but I don’t remind her of that. She made it. And made it big. Now she can afford to buy me a new oven and everything. That’s what matters.
I follow her into my guest room. It’s bigger than mine; it came with a closet, dresser, and a king-sized bed. The only reason I didn’t take this room for myself is because Blanca said her great-uncle passed away in his sleep on that bed. I don’t tell Mamá this.
“Do you think my podcast set would fit in here?” Mamá asks.
“I’m sorry, your what?”
“My set,” she explains. “For my podcast. Can you help me set it up?”
“Uh—”
Goodness gracious, an oven and a podcast set. My left eye twitches. This is fine. It’s not like my life is falling apart. It’s not like I’m notoriously bad with change.
She springs up with a clap. “Oh! Would you be my guest?”
God, help me.
“My daughter, the influencer, ladies and gentlemen.” Right.
“We’ll talk about how growing up in the entertainment industry shaped your brilliant future.
” She pulls me down for what has to be the tenth hug in the last three hours.
“I am so happy to be here with you.” Her embrace tightens.
“This is going to be just like the old days. You and me against the world. Aren’t you excited? ”
I gulp. I suspect my shortness of breath has less to do with her grip around my shoulders and more to do with the dread settling in the pit of my stomach.
But she’s my mother. So I answer her question. “Ajá. So excited.”