Chapter 15
The following Monday, we’re in Studio B, where Tu Manana is produced. A morning show that covers everything from celebrity gossip to the hottest new recipes, it is one of VeneTV’s most successful shows. It’s only fitting that the stars of Talento V make an appearance.
Am I having a blast? No. I’ve been up since four. No one can have a blast when they’ve been up since four, have downed six cups of coffee, and are battling a growing migraine. Judging by our stars’ faces, I’m not the only one.
Once the director is finished, our stars scatter around the studio.
I follow Simón to the interview set, which is modeled after a very orange living room.
He sits on the couch, picks up a black acoustic guitar resting on a stand beside it, and props it on his lap like muscle memory requires it.
Behind him, a flat-screen TV shows a video of El ávila, our emblematic mountain, through a window.
Every thirty seconds a blue-and-yellow macaw flies by.
Simón leans to his left, closer to the neck of the guitar, his ear almost pressed against the wood as he begins to tune it.
He looks up when he senses my presence, smiling. His eyes wrinkle at the corners when he smiles. I hadn’t noticed that before. They must Photoshop it out of pictures.
“You cut your hair,” he points out, a hint of surprise in his tone.
Like that, he’s the first and only person to notice.
My previously mid-back-length hair now comes to my shoulder blades in beautiful, soft layers, while asymmetrical bangs cover my forehead, ending above my eyebrows.
Alejandro would absolutely hate it, which is partly why I did it.
I was supposed to get a makeover as one of the experiments.
I wanted to look like twenty-three-year-old Marianto to remind him of the good old days, but I was in a fit of rage two days ago after Experiment #3 didn’t work and he never replied to my text.
Alejandro was the one who insisted I grow it out, so I decided to chop off half of my hair instead.
I force myself to smile back. “I did. Here.”
I hand him a water bottle—room temperature because he has to sing today, as Google suggested—which he accepts and immediately takes a sip.
“Gracias,” he says, lips glistening. “You look great. It suits you.”
Oh? A warm sensation spreads throughout my body and my cheeks flush. His kind eyes twinkle with amusement at my embarrassment. I clear my throat with a nod.
“I should”—I gesture to somewhere behind me, I don’t know where—“get back. But, um…let me know if you need anything?”
A corner of Simón’s mouth twitches upward, his eyebrows pinching together in curiosity. An open book. He looks like he wants to say something else, but I’m already retracing my steps.
I should get back? Where am I supposed to go? I work for him, my whole job is to be where he is.
“Mamita.” My mother intercepts me.
“Don’t call me ‘mamita’ in the workplace, please,” I say. “It’s unbecoming.”
She pats my cheeks. “I’ve called you that since you were a baby, I’m not going to stop now that we’re colleagues.”
She continues her path to join Simón at the interview set.
Colleagues. We’re not colleagues. She’s a TV show host and I’m an assistant.
I take a deep breath. I remind myself why I took this job in the first place.
It’s not about my mother, it’s about being able to survive while I get back to my real life of an adoring boyfriend, a job with so many perks it’s hard to imagine I ever took it for granted, and getting home at exactly 6:00 p.m., Monday through Friday, to an empty apartment.
Is that what you really want? an annoying little voice says. A life where every day is the same?
Yes! I scream back. That’s exactly what I want.
Security. Safety. A solid ground I can stand on, knowing nothing’s going to knock me off of it.
Around me, lights dim as the host of Tu Manana takes the stage.
I turn away, deciding to stand by the snack table. Simón will be tired after this; he’ll need fuel. Maybe a protein bar and a cup of bitter coffee he pretends to like. I have no idea what flavor of protein bar he might like—apple crumble, lemon pie, peanut butter and chocolate chips?
My phone vibrates in my back pocket. I take it out as I grab one of each bar—Simón will pick whatever he likes best. Or maybe he’ll want them all.
I put my phone on my ear, expecting it to be Mileidy because heaven knows the woman can sense when I’m not doing anything.
“Aló?”
Will eating a cupcake get me fired? I skipped breakfast. And the orange buttercream frosting looks delicious.
“Aló, hi,” a too-familiar voice says.
I freeze, any thoughts of a cupcake discarded. It must be a butt dial. But if it’s a butt dial, why is he saying hello? And if it’s not a butt dial, why is he calling me?
Wait. The picture. Did it work?
I can’t believe Simón’s list actually worked. Looking over my shoulder, I put all the protein bars back on the table and sneak behind a metal ladder. I press my ring finger into my left ear to block any noise from the set.
“Hey,” I say, heart racing. “Are you okay?”
Because he must be dying. Why else would Alejandro call me after two weeks if he’s not dying?
“Sí, I’m good.” Huh. “You?”
Heart going into cardiac arrest, brain launched into turmoil, if you must know. I run my fingers over my chest, trying to soothe my pulse. The true answer to his question would reveal the chaos within me since the “break.” And does he really want to know? Do I even want to tell him?
I decide I don’t. “Busy.”
“With the Caballo de Troya guy,” he states. His tone is sharp, his voice tight and strained, and maybe even a bit angry.
Oh my god, I mouth. Is he jealous? Of Simón?
My eyes dart to the closest monitor, where I see Simón is laughing at the story of how my mother came to be on the show. His relaxed posture, leaning against the couch, hands behind his back, makes me feel like he’s actually in his living room.
I look away quickly, as if afraid Alejandro could see me. “As a matter of fact, yes.”
“You know, working for a member of Caballo de Troya feels like the kind of thing you would have shared with me,” he says. “I was a little hurt that you didn’t.”
Hope sparks in my chest. It shouldn’t make me glad, hearing I hurt his feelings, but it does. It means he still cares. And if he cares, we can save this. Having a blast without him is proving to be a success.
“I’m sorry, it’s a whole legal thing.” Not a lie, but it didn’t stop me from telling Blanca, so I could have easily told him.
“Oh.”
“Um, did you want something or are you saying hi?” I ask.
Please, be saying hi.
Alejandro clears his throat. I know him so thoroughly, I can perfectly picture him scanning his surroundings, looking for an escape.
“No, I—” He clears his throat again. “I wanted to ask if you remember the moving company I used last year? I’m supposed to be moving next month and I was wondering, since you helped me last time—”
My heart stops. Him moving is not part of the plan. Is he taking that job near his parents? That’s hours away from here. He can’t move.
“Where are you going?” I ask, voice trembling.
The thought of him leaving Caracas is unbearable. Thinking he’s not going to be at my favorite coffee shop again should fill me with relief, but it doesn’t. It hurts.
He takes a pause before he replies, unaware of my heart breaking on the other side of the phone. “Barinas,” he finally says. My hand stills over my chest.
He’s thinking about leaving. And if he’s thinking about leaving, then he’s not thinking about me.
“Do you think you could send me the contact info?” he asks.
Beyond me, and on the monitor, the host turns to Simón with a smile. “We’re cutting to commercial in a moment, but please—would you sing a little something before we do?”
Simón grabs the guitar from the stand. “Do you have a favorite?” he asks.
The host waves the question off. “They’re all my favorite.” Which is code for I haven’t heard any of them.
The opening notes of the song I’ve been listening to nearly every day for the past six months fill the studio. To me, they’re like a fist closing around my heart.
What wouldn’t I give to be loved like that again? Completely, almost maniacally. To feel at home. To have a clear path to happiness the way I make a clear path to everything else. The memories this song brings pile up until they harden into a lump in my throat. Alejandro is in every single one.
Simón’s eyes shift and suddenly he’s looking directly at the camera, at me. His smile becomes sheepish, as if he knows this might not be the host’s favorite song, but is sure it’s mine.
“Marianto?” Alejandro says in my ear.
“Sure, I’ll send it.” Because that’s what a friend would do. And Simón says I have to treat him as a friend.
I know that even if I didn’t still have the mover’s info, I would find it again just because he asked. Because it’s him. I would do anything just because it’s him.
“Y con ese regalo, we’re cutting to commercial. We’ll see you in a bit,” the host says, grinning so wide her cheeks must hurt. “Don’t go anywhere!”
The set, dead quiet one second before, rumbles with movement as soon as the cameras stop rolling.
I hang up before Alejandro has a chance to say thank you, then walk back to the snack table and grab a protein bar instead of the damn cupcake.
I’ll need the energy, if I’m going to do what I think I’m going to do.