Chapter 14
Do you know where my mom could take some Pilates classes while my parents are here? Ale had asked me from the bathroom before his graduation.
And I, dutiful girlfriend that I was, had found a class at a gym in Las Mercedes, pulled some strings, and booked it for half the price.
According to my notes, Alejandro’s parents are leaving in two days.
I had already confirmed a couple days ago that Bárbara would still be attending the Pilates class today.
The class starts in ten minutes. I’ve never done Pilates in my life, but so help me God, I will be on a mat stretching my legs next to that woman because I have to make her love me.
When I make it to the gym, Alejandro’s mother is already standing by a pink mat.
My hands immediately start sweating at the sight of her.
Her dark hair is pulled into a tight ponytail.
She’s also wearing leggings and a sports bra.
Her body is fit. Like fit fit. Like Jennifer Aniston in that Adam Sandler movie where she fakes being his wife.
I know she turned sixty-five last year. This is a woman who takes Pilates seriously.
I, on the other hand, am a woman who was blessed with a fast metabolism and doesn’t really care for the gym.
There is a blue mat next to her, up for grabs. I walk toward it with intention. I don’t want to pretend I didn’t see her. But I also can’t tell her, Oh, hi, I came here because I knew you’d be here, and I want you to talk your son into getting back together with me.
Truth be told, I don’t want her to talk him into getting back together with me.
I want her to like me. Just like I want everyone to like me.
I can’t marry into a family that hates me.
I’ll be miserable. I want to go over our differences, smooth things out so when she gets home, she’ll tell Alejandro, Oh, I ran into Marianto today. What a lovely girl.
I don’t think that’s asking too much.
With my heart beating in my throat, I approach. “Mrs. Bárbara?”
Alejandro’s mother looks up from her phone. She blinks, seeming confused either as to who I am or as to why I’m here. I watch her school her features into a pleasant smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.
“Maria Antonieta,” she says.
“How have you been?” I go for a hug, but she raises both hands in front of her to stop me. Okay.
“I’ve been better.”
That’s it. She doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t tell me why.
“Oh, are you ill?” I ask.
She shakes her head once. “No.”
I blink. She blinks back. I shift my weight from one leg to the other. Simón’s comment on this particular item on the list comes back to haunt me. I hope Ale’s mother doesn’t feel harassed. For all she knows, I come here regularly. For all she knows, this is a total coincidence.
I try again. “So, how’s your—”
She taps her index finger to her lips, then points ahead. “We’re starting.”
The instructor is setting up the sound system and smiling at her phone. We are not starting.
Bárbara, Ale’s mother, turns her back on me, sits on her mat, and starts stretching. The class is an hour long. I can still save this. Her hesitance is understandable. Ale and I are in muddy waters; she doesn’t know what’s allowed and what isn’t. Let’s face it, I don’t know either.
I sit crossed-legged on my mat, facing the mirror.
Around me, every single person is stretching.
The instructor still hasn’t given us any instructions.
I watch, horrified, as every single woman here touches their toes, so flexible that their heads reach their shins.
It’s like they’re made of rubber or something.
My muscles tense when I try to do the same.
The backs of my knees hurt and they refuse to stay flat.
The most I can do is touch the tip of my fingers to the middle of my shins.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and quickly straighten.
I look like an edgy mannequin. Everyone else looks like a Cirque du Soleil contortionist.
The instructor finally settles on the music…and then she leaves. Disappears behind an invisible door. Around me, everyone starts shaping their bodies into some demonic form I’m never going to be able to make. I’m the only one standing, clueless about what to do.
I lean toward Bárbara. “Why isn’t the instructor instructing us?”
“This is an advanced class,” she explains without looking at me.
She’s too busy lifting her torso and putting her legs behind her head.
“Everything is on the board.” The only thing I see on the board is a list of animal names, the first one being “Scorpion.” “Which you, of course, know.” She side-eyes me from where she’s lying on the mat.
“Otherwise you wouldn’t have shown up. Who shows up to an advanced Pilates class when they’ve never done Pilates before in their life, right?
” The sarcasm in her voice reminds me of Ale.
It’s amazing that after four years I’m just learning where he got it from.
“Right.” Her words immediately put me on edge, a bolt of anxiety shooting directly into my nervous system.
This is my new nightmare. Alejandro’s mother appearing at the foot of my bed, legs behind her head, telling me Who shows up to an advanced Pilates class when they’ve never done Pilates in their life, right?
Bárbara’s eyes shift away from me, looking at her own knees. A clear dismissal.
Carefully, I lie on the mat, the way she’s doing.
I steal glances her way every thirty seconds, just to make sure I’m doing this correctly.
I’m not sure I’m doing this correctly. Slowly, I start lifting my torso, but I can’t support my own weight.
My legs, which are still firmly on the ground, begin to shake.
This was a mistake. Frankly, I’ve decided I don’t trust anyone who does Pilates because where the hell are your bones? Nope. I’m leaving.
I start to lower the one leg I managed to lift, but a current of pain spreads through my spine. It’s so surprising, I let out a gasp. Oh, God. I’m stuck. My heart begins to race.
This isn’t happening.
I try again. It hurts again.
“Help,” I plead. “Please.”
“What was that, dear?” Bárbara asks beside me.
“Help,” I repeat. “I’m stuck.”
No more than a minute later the instructor appears above my head, frowning. She lowers my leg in one swift move without uttering a single word or caring about the blinding pain that shoots from my lower back to my toes.
I curl on my side as I hear her walk away. I’m gasping for air. Out of all the experiments, this was probably the worst. Whatever draft I end up delivering to Eugenia will feature nothing but a long chain of failures.
I push myself up. No one is paying attention to me; they’re all minding their own contortionist business. No one but Bárbara, that is.
“How do you feel?” she asks me. It’s the first time in four years I’ve seen her look at me with something similar to kindness.
I decide to tell the truth. “Foolish.”
She purses her lips, tilting her head. “A word of advice, if I may.” I nod. She reaches between the mats, crossing to mine, and pats my sore leg. “Getting someone to like you shouldn’t be this hard.”
—
Later, I’m in bed, with a bag of ice on my leg.
Experiment #4 (previously #6) was an utter failure, even though it produced a possible entry point into Experiment #8: Make him feel needed.
My leg is wounded. I could need him to help me get groceries or something.
I’m sure his mother will tell him all about the incident.
But I don’t feel like experimenting. I just want to have him with me.
I want to cuddle into his side the way I did whenever I got sick, his fingers playing with my hair because he knew it relaxes me.
I want to be scolded for drinking some herbal tea instead of going to the drugstore.
I want him to roll his eyes at me and make me soup and make sure I get the rest I need.
I want to be taken care of. My mother doesn’t count. I want Ale.
I get off Instagram and text.
Yo: Hola. Are you busy?
And I wait. I know Experiment #3 was supposed to be sending a “fake” text, but I don’t have the energy to fake anything. I miss him. I want to talk to him.
An hour passes. Then two. I’ve been trying to sleep but my body feels electrified with anticipation.
It’s well past ten. He’s probably asleep now.
If he hasn’t replied, he’s not going to.
I log back in to Instagram and find his profile again.
My heart receives a blow when I see he posted a story.
Eighteen minutes ago. He’s out with friends I recognize.
They’re at what appears to be a restaurant.
He’s slouching on a chair, holding a beer in his right hand.
He smiles lazily at the camera. He seems happy. Or lost. I don’t know.
A single tear rolls down my cheek, but I quickly wipe it away. How long is it going to take him to miss me? He wanted time. I’ve given him time. Why does it feel like instead of deciding that he wants me, he’s forgetting me?
I pull the list from my purse, study it again.
It doesn’t look clean and promising anymore.
With Simón’s handwriting, it looks exactly like the confusing mess the ordeal is turning out to be.
I run a finger over Simón’s words and wonder, for the first time, if maybe he’s right. What could it hurt to try?