Chapter 7
Day one of trying to win my boyfriend back starts as any other day: with my laptop and a spreadsheet.
Research tells me couples get back together reasonably fast if the issues that led to the breakup are minor, which I believe ours are.
If you really think about it, we’re not even broken up, we’re on a break.
And breaks sometimes get fixed. Like when Rachel regretted the break immediately after.
It’s a horrible example. The thought makes my throat close up, but it does happen.
It’s only been three days since the restaurant, I remind myself.
This is all normal. Crying is not a sign of weakness.
It’s a sign of being alive. It’s a sign of holding too much love inside your heart and realizing it has no place to go.
Everyone in my position would cry. And I’m alone. I’m allowed.
I need to keep these facts at the ready, to pull them out whenever I need to. It’s normal, he does love you, you didn’t make it all up. It’s temporary, couples get back together reasonably fast when the issues are minor. Our issues are minor. They are.
Outside my bedroom, the clank! of something metallic hitting the ceramic floor reminds me that I am, in fact, not alone. That my mother could barge into my room at any second, so I’m not allowed to cry until she leaves because the last thing I want is someone fussing all over me.
I focus on my spreadsheet again. It’s empty. How am I supposed to plan an article on how to get my boyfriend back when the only thing I want is to call him and beg him to come to his senses? That’s not very Ellas of me.
Groaning, I lean back on my chair. A soft squeak echoes around my bedroom, a sound I’d never noticed before, and I realize I can’t remember the last time I sat at this desk with enough time to lean back, enough time to look up at my ceiling and notice a crack by the top right corner or the cobweb on my lamp.
It’s past eight in the morning. I should be at my pastel cubicle, a cup of steaming coffee next to me, giving people advice on how to live their best lives, how to spice their relationship up, what kind of gift to get for the one-week anniversary.
I should not be sitting in my bedroom at an old desk, on a squeaky chair, plotting how to get my life back with a tightness in my chest like God is choking me.
What is it old ladies say? Dios aprieta pero no ahorca.
“God squeezes but doesn’t choke, my ass,” I mutter.
I sit back up. The screen is still empty.
My brain is empty too. And the only person I want to talk to about this wants a break from me.
The urge to call him is so strong, I feel it radiating from every pore, electricity coursing through my body, making it almost unbearable to sit still.
I just need to feel some kind of familiarity.
I’ve been falling into a dark hole for the last three days and there seems to be no bottom, nothing to hold on to, nothing to anchor me or steady me.
Screw it.
I move from the desk to my bed. Sitting cross-legged, I grab a pillow and place it on my lap. Before I can regret what I’m doing, I pull up his contact and compose a text.
Yo: this is so hard.
I study the words, their edges and curves, and the little arrow by the corner waiting for me to tap it and hit send. The last time Alejandro and I talked was two days ago, but each painful minute has felt like an eternity.
I hit send before I can regret it.
The next few seconds are excruciating, adrenaline burning just under my skin.
I know Ale is awake. I know he’s most likely sitting at his breakfast table, pretending plain coffee is a meal before he rushes out the door to the hospital.
I know he drinks coffee while reading the news on his phone.
And I know that when he’s done, he catches up on any messages he might have received while he was going through his morning ritual.
So, come on, Ale. Read it. Catch up with me.
“Carino, I’m leaving!” Mom announces from the hall, startling me. “Dios te bendiga!”
A gush of air escapes my lips as I press a hand to my chest. “Okay, have a good day!”
My phone vibrates in my palm. I hadn’t noticed he was typing back.
Ale: I know.
He knows?
I push the pillow aside. Hope flares in my chest. Maybe I won’t even have to write that damn article. Maybe he’s having his Rachel moment. And I didn’t sleep with anybody, so we should be fine. He knows. It’s hard for him too. And if it’s hard for him too—
Another text comes through.
Ale: but it’s for the best
No. It isn’t.
Ale: you may not realize it now, but we both need this.
Ale: it’ll be good for us. You’ll thank me one day
Yo: are you sure about that?
It takes him a full minute to reply. I hold my breath for the entirety of it.
Ale: no
I stand. Pacing my bedroom, I conjure a message that will convince him of what an awful idea this is. We belong together. Everyone thinks so. By everyone I mean me and my readership. If he’s not sure, then whatever issues he thinks we might have, we can work through together.
Ale: I have to go, my shift starts in ten minutes and I haven’t left the house.
My text is only half done. I backspace until it’s gone.
Yo: okay. Have a good day.
I wait five full minutes. He reads the text but doesn’t reply.
The lack of response stings, but not enough to dim the realization that this so-called break is as hard on him as it is on me.
I can work with that. All I need to do is remind him of the days when he was so sure about me that he didn’t mind entertaining my silly dreams of marriage and kids and homes; the days when he didn’t mind making himself the hero in all of them.
I don’t know how well this will work out, this…
experiment. But it’s the first spark of an idea I’ve had since walking out of Eugenia’s office.
Standing in the middle of the room, still clutching my phone for dear life, my spine straightens.
That’s it. As soon as the word “experiment” crosses my mind, I see my article.
Not a “How-To.” An “Experiment.” Adrenaline courses through my body as I yank a drawer open and grab my notepad and a pen and start scribbling.
The Get Your Ex Back Experiment.
The Felices Para Siempre Experiment.
The Ex-Novio Trials.
These are all terrible, but when I tell Eugenia, we’ll figure it out.
The excitement of a sparkling new idea is enough to make me forget about the reasons why I need to write this article in the first place for all of ten seconds.
My previously blank brain is not blank anymore.
I pitch the idea to Eugenia before I have time to overthink it. She replies within seconds.
Eugenia: no
I deflate. Then another text follows.
Eugenia: El Ex-Perimento.
My eyes skim the words over and over until they sting.
I feel myself smile. It’s perfect. A series of experiments, trial and error, with one goal in mind: happily ever after.
Slowly, it takes shape in my head: a walk down memory lane—a throwback to the happiest moments of our relationship—highlighting some of the most romantic spots in Caracas.
Eugenia will have no option but to promote me after reading it.
I start listing the places we’ll visit first, my heart pounding as my hand cramps. This will work. I know it. My life will be back to normal in no time.