Chapter 18
“Are you sure you don’t want to come, Mamita?” my mother asks me, standing by the door in her sequin jumpsuit and tall boots.
I’m on my couch, in my comfiest pj’s, balancing a bowl of cereal on my lap while scrolling through old Caso Cerrado clips on my phone.
“I’m sure.”
“It won’t be the same without you,” she says, pouting. “Who’s going to drive me home?”
“You’ll find a ride.”
My mother sighs. “Bueno, I won’t insist. Enjoy your night.”
“Thank you,” I reply, bringing a spoonful of cornflakes up to my mouth.
She blows me a kiss from the doorway before walking out.
There’s only one party I wanted to go to tonight and it’s obvious I’m not going.
Spending the night watching la Doctora Polo dealing with a woman who is sure her husband is also her long-lost brother is the next best thing.
I bring another spoonful of cereal to my mouth, morbidly enjoying the screaming woman on my phone, until the video stalls, replaced by a familiar name flashing on the screen.
Alejandro. Calling. Like I wanted him to. And I’m in my pajamas, eating cereal.
Irrelevant. He can’t see me. But that does nothing to calm my racing heart, to help me push air into my lungs. The anxious part of my brain whispers, He’ll know. Hands shaking, I sit up and set the bowl down on the coffee table before I finally pick up.
“Aló?”
“Marianto, hi,” he says.
His voice is a time machine. My chest tightens at the way he says my name, like it’s a welcome surprise.
Soft in my ears, in stark contrast with the urban beat I catch in the background.
He could be sitting right next to me, talking about his day.
He could be pushing a stray lock of hair behind my ear.
He could be leaning over to kiss me. It physically hurts that it isn’t the case.
And I have to pretend I don’t care about those things anymore.
Like it was nothing, like we were nothing.
How can someone feel so distant yet so familiar at the same time?
“Feliz cumpleanos,” I say.
Ale chuckles on the other side. “I thought you forgot.”
I wince. “Of course not. I was just busy. Are you having a good time?”
Without me? I want to add. Is he having an amazing birthday without me?
“Yeah, I am,” he says. “Sounds like you’re having fun as well.”
Fun? I frown. I’m spending my night watching Caso Cerrado and eating stale cereal. This is the opposite of fun. “I don’t know about that.”
“Please, you’re famous!” Ale laughs, but it’s bitter. “Which surprised me, considering you always said the one thing you didn’t want to be was famous.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, a little harsher than I meant to.
“Marianto.” He says it like C’mon. “The picture.”
The picture…Simón’s picture? My first instinct is to laugh, but I’m too stunned to do it. I can’t help feeling pathetic.
“Is that why you’re calling me?” I ask. “You’re jealous of Simón?”
But deep down I know. Because I know Alejandro. And apparently so does Simón. Honestly, I should be happy that the experiments are working. That he called, that his jealousy means he still cares. Instead, I’m annoyed.
“No!” Alejandro snickers, the way he always does when he’s lying. “I wanted to invite you over. You did help plan the party, after all. You should get to enjoy it too.”
I helped plan it? That’s an understatement.
I booked the venue, the DJ, ordered the cake and the catering.
I spent hours on Pinterest saving decoration ideas.
I still have a board named “Alejandro’s 29th.
” Simón’s words rush back to memory. You want an invitation, I’ll get you an invitation.
I remember that night at the mall, talking at the terrace, Simón concluding Alejandro is predictable.
“I want to see you. Talk.”
I believe him. So far, Simón’s list has been working perfectly. If I want it to keep working, I need to stick to it.
“I can’t tonight.” I grimace, like it’s physically painful. I don’t know who’s more surprised, Alejandro or me. “I have plans with my mom.”
The line goes silent for one, two, three seconds. Over the background music I hear someone laughing and calling his name.
“You should get back to your party,” I say.
“Okay.” He pauses.
My eyes flutter closed. “Bueno, have fun.”
“You too.”
I hang up before I regret it. Then I get up from the couch. I have to go have a blast without my boyfriend. But first, moral support:
Yo: I need you to meet me at Cusika in thirty minutes.
Blanca: already here!
Blanca: your mom invited me.
—
Salsa is playing loud enough to make me wince every two beats.
I recognize my mother’s energetic yet slightly pitchy voice in Marc Anthony’s song and am immediately reminded of the time she tried (and failed) to have a career in music.
Moments like these are when I wish I were as brave as her.
The reality is that if I’d been the one to crash and burn, I would never touch a microphone again, the same way I never went back to ballet.
Sometimes, it’s like we’re different species.
I made my peace with that a long time ago.
But damn, if only I’d gotten her courage instead of her nose.
The air is thick with smoke and floor cleaner.
The bar itself is not big, which makes it easier for me to bump into one sweaty body after another.
There might only be fifty friends and crew members here, but it feels like two hundred.
The room is filled with small round tables and benches crammed inside.
At the far back, there’s a cement platform that serves as a stage, where I can see my mother having the time of her life.
As if by instinct, she spots me in the crowd and yelps, waving frantically.
A dozen heads follow the trajectory of her excitement toward me. I purse my lips and wave back.
Ducking my head, I walk toward the center of the bar, where I spot Blanca. She looks impeccable, her hair tied behind her back, bringing out her sharp yet delicate features. She grins down at her boyfriend, Gustavo, sitting on his lap with an arm draped around his shoulders.
“Hey,” I say.
Blanca turns her blinding grin to me. “Hiiiii!” she sings. “You’re here!”
“Yup.” I nod. There’s a red drink in a tall martini glass in front of her. “Is that yours?”
“Yes?” Blanca says. “It’s a cosmopo—”
Carrie Bradshaw’s classic. Very on-brand. I don’t usually drink, but tonight it feels appropriate and necessary. I grab it and inhale it. Bottoms up.
“Whoa!” Blanca pushes to her feet so fast I wonder if she got dizzy.
I hardly feel the burning sensation as the alcohol goes down my throat. The vodka hides under a fruity, citrusy flavor that really works for me. Blanca takes the glass away.
“That was good, I want another one,” I say, suddenly enthusiastic.
Suspicion flashes through her eyes. “Spill the tea, Marianto.”
I slump on one of the tall chairs, defeated. “He invited me to his birthday party.”
Even Gustavo knows what this is doing to me, if his wide eyes are any indication. “I’ll get you that drink,” he says, then bolts before I can thank him.
Blanca gently places a hand on my back, drawing little circles with her thumb. “Isn’t inviting you a good thing?”
I huff, slumping on the chair Gustavo was occupying. “He only did it because he’s jealous.”
Her eyes widen, hungry for chisme. “Of who?”
“Mm.” I don’t want to say it. So, I open Instagram, find Caballo de Troya’s profile, and show her instead.
Her eyes bulge. “Oh! Man, I gotta start following these guys, I’m missing so many of the juicy bits.”
I roll my eyes, groaning. “There are absolutely no juicy bits.”
Blanca pulls me closer to her, laughing. “I’m glad you didn’t go,” she says. “And that you’re here with us instead. Heaven knows we’re more fun than Alejandro and his snobby doctor friends.”
Predictable and boring. If Simón was right about the predictable part, then maybe Alejandro is boring and I’ve been laughing at bad jokes for the last four years.
I’m about to defend Alejandro for the millionth time when Gustavo comes back holding two identical drinks, one for each of us. I grab mine, ready to drink the whole thing in one go.
“Marianto—” Blanca begins, but something over my shoulder catches her attention.
“Buenas noches,” a thick Colombian accent comes from behind me.
I choke on my drink, jumping to my feet. I wipe my damp lips with my thumb before turning around to face Simón. “Hi!”
Am I drunk already?
As if reading my mind, Simón eyes the glass in my hand before his gaze slowly moves back up to my face. “You’re here.”
I nod a hundred times in ten seconds. “I am.”
Simón takes a step closer to me, so I can hear him over my mother’s second song of the night since I arrived. He smells like the leather jacket he’s wearing, crisp yet soft and well-worn. The faintest hint of cologne, but not too strong.
He leans into me, bringing his lips close to my ear so he doesn’t have to yell. His hand closes around my elbow. His touch is soft, feather-like. Not to grip me but to ground me, or himself. To give me attention. My heart goes boom, boom, boom, syncing to the music.
“So, I take it he didn’t—” he begins, breaking the spell.
“Oh, no, he did,” I yell, stepping back. “About an hour ago.”
Surprise flashes in Simón’s eyes, tipping his head to one side as his hand releases my elbow. With his other hand, he’s swinging a beer bottle between his fingers. “And you’re here.”
I shrug one shoulder. “I’m having a blast without him.”
Simón grins. “Is it weird that I’m proud of you?”
“Too soon to tell,” I say, ignoring the little flutter in my chest at the word “proud.” His eyes flash under the dancing lights in the club. He looks too pleased with himself. “This is my friend Blanca.”
Blanca takes the cue and steps between us, taking his hand. “Blanca, nice to meet you. This is my boyfriend, Gustavo.” Gustavo nods in acknowledgment.
“This is Simón.” As if they didn’t know that already.