Chapter 12
Yo: Simón Arreaza is my new boss!
Yo: Repito: Simón Arreaza is my new boss
Yo: that’s classified, by the way
Yes, I signed an NDA not two hours ago. But anyone in my position would have done the same thing.
Blanca: who?
“Simón Arreaza. From Caballo de Troya,” I whisper into my phone, deciding a voice note would work better to convey my current state. “The Colombian band Ale and I love. He’s my boss. Okay, not technically my boss boss, but I’m assisting him.”
Blanca: ooooohhhhhhh
Blanca: which one is he? The tortured one or the whorish one?
“Neither. He’s one of the lead singers,” I say.
I send her a screenshot of the band’s Instagram.
Yo: he’s the boy-next-doorish one
Blanca: he’s cute. Do you think he could be your rebound?
Yo: I am not going to sleep with my boss
Blanca: it’s just a thought. You could write a “How to get over your ex fast” article instead. Item #1: have a scandalous fling with your celebrity crush who also happens to be your new boss.
I huff. He’s not my celebrity crush. Sure, there was a time when I was twenty-two and single and I’d recently discovered this new band that I liked, and I might have had a crush on one of the lead singers and it might have been Simón Arreaza.
But I am not a twenty-two-year-old single woman anymore.
I have Ale. And Simón Arreaza from Caballo de Troya is my boss.
Crushing on your boss is highly frowned upon.
Yo: I know exactly the kind of article I want to write, thank you
Sitting in my car, waiting to drive the aforementioned boss to his hotel, I reach over the console for my purse.
I’ve been trying to pin down the best experiment to try next.
I smooth the list over the steering wheel.
I printed it this morning. I’ve gone through the first two items with little to no results.
The third idea is the easiest: Experiment #3: Send him a text that “wasn’t for him.”
Tomorrow is Saturday, which is perfect. Ale is free on the weekends.
I’ll pretend I wanted to text someone else with an A name.
Another man. Tell him I twisted my ankle and need help getting home.
Ale might worry and offer to come assist me instead.
We’ll start talking, I’ll be all damsel in distress, and before you know it, BAM!
We’re making out on my couch and we’re back together because he always said I’m a fantastic kisser.
A knock on my passenger seat window makes me jump.
Simón stands outside my car and waves. I toss both my purse and the list in the back as I unlock the car. They land next to a tower of documents he needs to sign by Monday. Why Mileidy refuses to simply email is something I’m not brave enough to ask.
“Hello!”
Simón Arreaza from Caballo de Troya is getting in my car.
“Hi,” I reply, opening the door for him to climb in.
Simón shifts, then shifts again. The man’s legs barely fit. I knew he was tall, but Jesus. I don’t think I knew what it felt like to look up at someone until six hours ago.
The click of the seat belt helps me focus on the task at hand. He slaps his thighs with both hands then gives me a firm nod.
I nod back, then start the car, but say nothing. The engine whines before roaring to life. I look to Simón, mostly out of embarrassment that my car isn’t in better condition. But he doesn’t seem to mind.
“Do you think we could roll the windows down?” he asks.
I nod my head. It works for me, I’ll save on gas.
“Do you mind if I—” Simón begins, reaching for the stereo.
Two seconds later, Caballo de Troya is blasting from the speakers. Blood rushes to my face as Simón’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise, the same way they did when he first saw me in Mileidy’s office.
When he turns to look at me, he’s grinning. “You actually like our music?”
Like their music? I’ve followed their career since they started, when not a soul knew who they were.
I own every album, a pink hoodie with their logo, and I have notifications on for the band’s Instagram.
I listen to them in the car, in the shower, when I’m happy, and most recently, when my boyfriend of four years told me he needed a break from me. His music is the soundtrack to my life.
“Don’t be embarrassed,” he quickly adds. “This is…” He can’t stop smiling.
“I, uh—” I turn the music off. I can’t talk to him and listen to him singing at the same time. “This is not how I planned to confess I’m a huge fan.”
Ears blazing and heart pounding, I focus on the road as if I was learning to drive for the first time.
“I hope you weren’t planning it for long,” he says.
“No, I had no idea you’d be my boss. I only applied because I…
” I trail off, flicking the turn signal before I turn to the right.
I’m sure he doesn’t care why I applied and I’m not going to bore him with it.
“When you asked for recommendations on what to do in Venezuela, I figured you were planning a tour.”
“You saw that?” he asks.
I nod. “I’m the one who said she’d give you a tour of Caracas.”
His eyes widen. “Does that offer still stand?”
I smile. “Sure.”
I know it’s never going to happen. He’s here to judge a singing competition alongside other superstars. He’s not going to choose to spend time with me. But I am nothing if not polite.
We come to a stop in front of a traffic light.
I study his profile. His eyes are genuinely curious, no ill intent behind them as far as I can detect.
Unlike Eugenia, whose eyes are always catlike, preying on information she can later use to her advantage.
Or my mother, who seems perpetually ready to judge.
“What was your old job?” he asks.
The light turns green. I look away.
“I was a relationship advice columnist for a magazine.”
“Wait,” he says.
I steal a quick glance his way, trying to maintain a calm facade even as my stomach churns with anxiety. Please, don’t let him have seen the video, I think. Please, don’t let him know about me from the magazine.
The curiosity in his eyes changes to softness with a shake of his head. “Never mind. Did you like it?”
I don’t push. The fear of hearing, Hey, you’re the girl whose breakup went viral, is far greater than my need to know what he was about to say.
“I did,” I admit, but I’m desperate to change the subject. “Do you need anything before I drop you off at the hotel?”
“Is there a good coffee spot on the way?”
—
One of my favorite coffee shops sits comfortably in a corner—a small establishment embedded into a building like a fairy house in a tree.
It has a glass door under a red awning, no flashy advertisement outside except for its name—Artesano’s.
Unremarkable by all accounts, but people still find it.
On the drive over, Simón studies our surroundings.
The cathedral, tall and proud with its lampposts and iron fences, and the surrounding cobblestone give the impression of having traveled back in time.
Above us, wind ruffles the trees’ leaves with a soft swoosh, while cars honk on the highway.
If we don’t make this quick, we’ll get stuck in traffic.
Luckily, I find a spot nearby and make quick work of a parallel parking job. Something about having your favorite artist in the passenger seat leaves no room for error.
“Wow,” Simón says. “Doesn’t this place make you want to sit under a tree and people watch?”
“Definitely…But not right now,” I say, without looking at him. If I pretend he’s just another executive I have to get coffee for, maybe I’ll survive the day. “I have to get you back to your hotel so you can start signing all those documents.”
Simón smiles, pulling the café door open. “I think I like my idea better.”
I stand on the sidewalk for one second too long before he gestures for me to go in first.
“Thank you.”
The smell of coffee and fresh puff pastry hits me immediately, making my mouth water with anticipation.
The familiarity of the establishment welcomes me in—a black countertop and cozy tables, checkerboard tiles, golden light streaming in through the storefront windows.
A pop song plays in the background accompanied by the soft tinkling of mugs and saucers and the murmur of friendly conversation.
If we had time, we could sit at my usual table closest to the door and watch people pass, watch the streetlights outside sizzle to life one by one, hear the melody of the cathedral’s bells.
“Picture it,” Simón says, and I’m momentarily confused as to what he’s talking about.
“Sitting under the shade of a tree, you see two people walking down the street hand in hand. One of them laughs, tugging the other toward a store. The one being dragged toward the store looks over their shoulder, almost in fear. They’re afraid of getting caught. It’s a secret.”
And the thing is, I can picture it. Myself, sitting under that tree, writing a piece about this little bit of the city that transports us to a romance lived centuries ago. But I’m a journalist, not a novelist, and ultimately, I care more about the truth.
“Or,” I offer, “they’re afraid of getting assaulted in the middle of the street, because this is still Caracas and we all have PTSD.”
Simón laughs, the sound deep and raspy, as we take our place in line. “That too.”
“Is that how you write songs?” I ask, looking away. “You watch strangers living their lives and make up stories?”
I sense Simón shrugging. “It’s one of the several ways I write songs.”
“Interesting,” I say as we advance in line. I venture a glance. “Looks like we’re spending a couple minutes here. What’s my story?”
Simón looks away from me to study the counter. “I think I’d rather wait for you to tell me that.”
The prospect of being comfortable enough to do that sends a thrill down my spine. This is Simón Arreaza. Almost two weeks ago I was sobbing on my knees, eating Doritos off my apartment floor, while his voice sang about the very heartbreak I was feeling. And now he’s standing right in front of me.