Chapter 12 #2
“Next,” the cashier calls.
I shake my head. The man has known me for a total of six hours. He’s still very much in the “idol” category of my brain. He needs to move to the “boss” category. He needs to be another Eugenia.
“What will you have?” I ask.
“Café,” he says. “Negro. And a side of whatever you recommend.”
I recite the order to the cashier.
“Won’t you have anything?” Simón asks.
“That’s okay, I’m—”
“Marianto?”
Simón turns around before I do.
My blood rushes all the way to my feet at the sound of that voice.
I can’t move. Alejandro hated driving downtown because of the traffic; he always complained whenever I asked him to come here with me.
He hated how small this coffee shop is, how loud the music is, how crowded it gets at night.
This is truly the last place I would have expected to run into him. Yet…
I draw in a calming breath before turning around to face him.
Alejandro stands right behind us in line, his eyes scanning Simón, who stands several inches taller than him.
I swallow a gasp—there’s a woman next to Alejandro.
A colleague? They’re both in gray scrubs, both looking as sleep-deprived as I am after days of denying myself eight hours of sleep.
She’s a bleached blonde, judging by the dark roots sprouting from the top of her head.
Shorter than him, something I’m not. Curvier than me too. And standing very close to him.
I don’t have the higher ground here, and I know it. I’m here with Simón, after all.
But I’m not the one who asked for a break. It’s only been eleven days. And this is my coffee shop. How dare he bring another woman to my coffee shop? Was he expecting to run into me? Make sure I see and get the message? I don’t know how many more stabs I can take before I bleed out.
“Ale.” The word floats out of my mouth. I hate that my brain didn’t use his full name.
His eyes go from Simón to me, then back to Simón.
Simón takes a step forward, offering his hand. “I’m Simón.”
Alejandro nods, still confused. “I know. I love your band, man. Nice to meet you.”
“Thank you,” Simón says.
“Marianto is a huge fan as well, but I’m sure you already know that,” Ale adds. A faint note of sarcasm prickles his otherwise chill tone. Simón nods. “So, what are you doing here? Are you on tour?”
Ale’s eyes flick to me for half a second.
His companion walks around me with a soft “Excuse me,” to get to the cashier.
Alejandro crosses his arms over his chest, looking more threatening than thrilled to meet the man who inspired him to learn how to play guitar.
He ended up quitting after the second lesson.
Simón leans over in my direction. “Can I disclose what I’m doing here?”
I have no idea if he can, but I shake my head.
Simón tsks. “It’s still a secret.”
Alejandro narrows his eyes, clearly annoyed by the answer. He turns to me and says, “Are you…working together or…?”
“It’s classified,” I say.
“What about Eugenia?” Ale asks.
The barista places a paper cup and a brown paper bag on the counter, and I grab them like they’re my lifeline. The last thing I want to do is explain to Ale and his friend that I was fired after our breakup went viral.
“Muchas gracias,” I tell the barista, then turn back to Simón and hand him his coffee. “We gotta go. It was good to see you, Ale.”
As I rush to the door, Simón takes a sip of his coffee and sighs. “Perfect.” To Ale and his silent companion, he says, “It was nice to meet you.”
I think Ale says something else, but I don’t hear it because I’m already pushing the door open and marching toward the car.
No voy a llorar.
Because Camacho women don’t cry in front of people.
I slam my door with shaking hands after climbing in.
Simón’s demeanor is slower, calmer. Maybe even a bit hesitant.
He places his cup between us on the console while he fumbles with the seat belt.
My gaze is fixed ahead, where Ale’s car is parked.
I can almost smell the leather seats, feel the smooth surface of the glove compartment I opened whenever I wanted a mint.
How did we become two people who stand in front of each other and don’t know how to act?
I miss him. I wish I’d been in the coffee shop with him.
I wish I’d been the reason he endured the hassle of driving downtown and dealing with rush hour traffic. It’s been eleven days. My eyes sting.
I’ve been driving in silence for about five minutes when Simón asks:
“Ex-novio?”
I flinch. Alejandro is technically not my ex-boyfriend. He’s also not completely my boyfriend. But the truth is too complicated to get into, so I settle for the easier answer, even though it kills me. “Yes.”
“You or him?”
“Him.”
“Recently?”
I nod. “Almost two weeks ago.”
Simón falls silent, takes a sip of coffee. I hit a pothole that has us both jumping.
Eyes ahead, Marianto.
“Sorry.”
I steal a glance at him and find him watching me. His eyes are pools of warmth, glistening with a gentleness that mirrors the tiny smile playing on his lips. Heat creeps up my neck and across my cheeks. With clammy hands, I turn my focus back to the road.
“He’ll be back,” Simón says.
“What?” I mutter.
“Your boyfriend.” Oh. Right. “I could tell by the way he was about to jump at my throat back there. When he does, you’ll either be the strongest couple on the planet…or you’ll realize that you don’t actually want to be with him anymore.”
I don’t care for the second scenario, but the first stirs hope in me. This is just a bump in the road. If Simón Arreaza, who made his career writing love songs, sees a semblance of hope, then I can too.
We spend the remaining minutes it takes to get to his hotel in a surprisingly comfortable silence.
It’s coated in companionship, for lack of a better word.
But people don’t become friends in a day and a car ride.
At the hotel, Simón unbuckles his seat belt, takes his paper bag and empty cup, and climbs out.
I wait for him to retrieve his mountain of documents from the backseat before I roll down the window.
He smiles at me from the sidewalk. “Thank you for everything, Maria Antonieta.”
“Just doing my job,” I reply. And what an odd thing to actually be true. “Hasta el lunes.”
He nods, that soft smile still dancing on the corner of his lips. “See you Monday.”
—
The silence when I’m making my way home is heavy.
Without Simón Arreaza sitting next to me, the last twenty-four hours feel like a fever dream.
Interviewing, getting rejected, then getting accepted; meeting Simón, taking him to my favorite coffee shop, running into Alejandro…
I’m convinced I will wake up at any second and this will all be a dream I’m having, induced by listening to Caballo de Troya way too much and by my constant fear that Alejandro will move on.
When I park, I retrieve my phone from the cupholder. If I were Alejandro, and it was me who’d seen him with someone else at a coffee shop, I would text.
Actually, I am Alejandro. I should text, ask who that woman is. Forget sending a fake wrong text. I will send a real, right text. It’s what any normal human being would do.
I check my messages. Nothing. No missed calls either. It’s like he doesn’t care that I was out getting coffee with Simón Arreaza. Hell, I would text just to get the scoop. Not even my pride would keep me from needing to know how that happened.
But I do have one email. From Eugenia:
Maria Antonieta,
How is the project coming along? Have you started?
I’d be more than willing to help you give it the best possible shape. Do you have anything to show me yet?
My stomach churns with anxiety as I stare at the screen.
No. I do not. The first experiment was an utter failure.
I don’t even want to think about the second one.
And Alejandro hasn’t given me the green light to share how we get back together with the world because he won’t even talk to me, much less get back together with me.
Buenas tardes, Eugenia,
It’s going great!
I’ll send you the first of the experiments next week, once I’ve finished drafting it.
Crap, crap, crap.
I stare at the words I just typed and hesitate, biting the inside of my cheek before I hit send. It’s a promise I’m not sure I can keep. But maybe this is exactly what I need. A deadline. It’s not lying, I could send her something next week.
I’ll brainstorm a bit right here in the parking lot, then go home with clear ideas.
I reach for the loose piece of paper, almost instinctively, because I know exactly where I left it.
But it’s not there. I climb into the backseat, feeling around every inch, under the mats, everywhere. It’s not here.
Where is the list—
I freeze. Not two hours ago, I threw the list back here and it landed on top of a tower of other documents, next to my purse. My purse is there, but no list.
My stomach falls to my feet. A wave of nausea washes over my throat.
Oh no. Oh no, no. My eyes fall shut. I can physically feel my blood draining from my face and limbs, a single word bouncing off the walls of my brain: No, no, no, no, no.
But it’s no use. I know, without a shadow of a doubt, Simón Arreaza has the list.