Chapter 22 #2
“A ver.” He taps his chin with his index finger. I bite the corner of my lower lip, amused. “What’s the real reason you swore off dating someone from the entertainment industry?”
“I told you the reason.” It was when we were at the mall, and he asked what I liked about Ale. It feels forever ago.
“Not all of it,” he retorts.
Pushing his hair back with one hand as he holds himself up with the other, he seems energized.
His T-shirt slides up on one side, revealing a thin strip of tan skin.
My eyes follow the movement of the fabric, until he absentmindedly pulls it back into place.
Eyes on his torso, I ball a green Post-it, puncturing my hand in the process. Look up, I command. I look up.
Simón is staring at me, waiting. I swallow. My throat is dry.
“My mother,” I finally say. “Growing up, she wasn’t around much.
I’m not the kind of woman to play it cool and pretend I’m looking to go with the flow.
I want marriage, I want children. I want security, someone I can trust to be there for me when I need him.
And I don’t want to subject any future children I might have to the same life I had. ”
“You know that could happen to anyone, in any field of work, don’t you?”
I nod. I do. But it happened to me in this field of work. If I can lower my chances of coming second to someone’s career, I will.
I don’t want to play this game anymore. I throw my little green ball and it travels in an arc between us. It lands about two feet shy of where he is. Game over. We look up from the ball at the same time.
I scramble to my feet. “That was fun.”
Simón stands up too. “It was. Should we go?”
“Simón, I can’t leave.” I gesture at the mess we’ve left in our wake.
Scripts piled up, ready for delivery, plus more to print; discarded foam containers and plastic cutlery from our dinner; about a thousand paper balls tracing a path from me to him.
If Mileidy comes to the office tomorrow and finds this mess, she’ll have my head.
“But you can. You should leave. I’ll stay here. Forever and ever and—”
Simón crosses the space between us in two strides. “I’m not going to leave you here alone.”
He grabs a chair from the desk we’ve been using all night, turns it around before sitting with arms crossed over the backrest. Oh, for the love of God.
“That’s not fair,” I say. Out loud.
Simón frowns. “What’s not fair?”
You, sitting in front of me like that, looking at me like that, offering to stay with me like that.
I clear my throat. “You shouldn’t have to endure this with me.”
He huffs, drumming the fingers of his right hand on the back of his left. “What’s not fair is you having to go through dozens of scripts for no reason.”
“The reason is that Mileidy told me to.” I shake the list of edits she had a PA give me for emphasis.
I squat and start picking up the balls. No way in hell am I exploring this place at the witching hour in search of a broom. Simón somehow manages to roll his eyes out loud as he pushes from the chair and joins me on the floor, so close our noses would touch if I lost my footing.
“What if I tell you we need to go?” he asks, and I feel the warmth of his breath against my cheek.
I meet his eyes. They’re the color of cedarwood, framed by long lashes that could catch snowflakes if given the chance.
Why am I thinking about snowflakes on eyelashes?
“What if I need you to drive me back to the hotel?” he continues. “Who would you obey then?”
I can’t hold his piercing gaze. Not when his hair is sticking up in all directions after he ran his hand through it one too many times, not when his hoodie is rolled up to his elbows and he’s wearing ripped jeans and exhaustion like he was born for it.
“Mileidy.”
Simón huffs, rolling his eyes. “Sure.”
The word has a low timbre, a rasp. And a hint of disbelief. With a second, final glance my way, he shakes his head, smiling, as he piles up neon paper balls in his hands.
I force myself to remember Alejandro.
Alejandro also smiles. Alejandro also says sure—mostly in a condescending way, but still. Alejandro is also male. Focus.
“So, um.” I stand up, adjusting my clothes, and take two steps away from him for good measure. “What’s next in the plan? I can hardly show Alejandro I’m having a blast when the only thing I do is watch kids sing for money and get you coffee.”
Simón’s eyes shoot up. “We can always show him he’s not the only one in line for your heart. That’s item number four on my list, if memory serves. Sit back down.”
“What?”
Simón drops to the floor and immediately crosses his legs. “Floor, Maria Antonieta,” he says, patting the space next to him.
For what feels like forever, I stand beside him, looking around.
I don’t know who I’m expecting to find; we’re the only ones here.
Judging by the bright red numbers on the clock over the door reading 12:32 a.m., we’ll continue to be the only ones here for a while.
But this tiny action, sitting by Simón on the cold floor of this deserted office, is the kind of thing I would never do under normal circumstances.
The Marianto I am at my core doesn’t sit on the floor beside hot singers.
The Marianto I know myself to be wouldn’t have allowed Simón to stay behind in the first place.
He should be resting. I should be working.
But the me that’s here tonight, looking down at him as he looks up with a daring glint in his tired eyes, wants to let go for once.
To not do what’s expected even when no one is watching.
I sit on the floor. Cross my legs. Silence the voice of my first-grade gym instructor saying I shouldn’t cross my legs. Simón cocks his head to one side, grinning, as he appraises me. One second passes…two…three…
Simón sighs, shaking his head once.
“So…” I venture. “How do we do this?”
“Right,” Simón says. “First, we need something that’s undeniably yours. Something someone else probably doesn’t have.”
That’s easy. “This bracelet?”
I shake my wrist the way I often do when I’m too anxious.
Charms ding-ding together, and my chest loosens a little.
I’ve had it since I was fifteen. My mother gave it to me.
She’s been adding a new charm to it every year since then.
The first one was a lipstick. Now it has several books, a globe, a telescope, and a few pearls.
It’s such a part of me now that I never think about it, the same way I don’t think about breathing, or the same way I never think about dropping several pens in my purse before going out.
Simón studies my bracelet like the storyteller he is. I don’t know how I know, but he’s trying to figure out the best way to ask for the tale behind it. Unfortunately for him, that book has closed.
“That and my fixation for hibiscus tea every Wednesday,” I add.
Simón checks his watch. “It’s Wednesday.”
“Oh, it’s already on the way.”
He chuckles. “Why Wednesdays?”
I fumble with the lipstick charm on my bracelet.
“At Ellas, Wednesdays were Fitness Day. I had to post health content, diet food. Couldn’t post about coffee and cookies.
Instead, I posted about salads and tea.” Simón gives me a thumbs-down.
I laugh. “I know. Hibiscus tea is the only tea I liked, so it became like my signature drink. After a while, I didn’t even have to pay for it anymore.
We drove so many people to the café under our office, they owed us money.
” I sigh, wishing I could have a cold brew of hibiscus tea right now.
“There were a lot of perks to that job.”
“Is that why you want it back?” Simón asks, nudging my knee with his. “The perks?”
Some days, yes. But not always. “Mostly I miss knowing I was good at something, and people knew I was good at it. I don’t want to start over somewhere new.”
Simón nods, hm-ing. “Is that why you want Alejandro back too? Because you’re afraid of starting over with someone new?”
My head snaps toward him. I’m gaping, I know I am.
I can’t help it. The tightness in my chest comes back full force, two fists squeezing my lungs, while a secret third hand punches me in the gut.
Simón doesn’t look away. The opposite, actually.
He scans every inch of my face, giving each feature individual attention.
He studies each eyelash and eye freckle.
The air is charged. He swallows. I follow the movement of his throat bobbing.
This is Simón in HD and in private. No photo or video does him justice.
I look away first. “Who said I was afraid?”
He doesn’t move. His eyes burning the side of my face almost feel like a challenge. “Aren’t you?”
My throat goes tight. Maybe it’s sitting on the floor next to the man who wrote lines like Tell me how you like your coffee in the morning, your bedtime routine each night, what does the weekend look like, if it’s you and I; maybe it’s the fact that his relentless questions feel like he’s genuinely interested in me, which I haven’t felt in…
forever, now that I think about it. Whatever it is, I want to tell the truth.
And I hate that. I hate that it’s him who gets to pull it out of me, that things with him always get out of control.
Not in a crazy, I’m-going-to-find-my-bra-hanging-from-a-ceiling-fan-tomorrow-morning kind of way.
More like an I-can’t-get-you-to-follow-the-script kind of way.
In a you’re-always-challenging-me kind of way, and the competitive, straight-A asshole in me does not want to back out. So, I don’t.
“What about you?”
Simón chuckles. “What about me?”
“What are you afraid of?”
Simón gives me an infuriatingly knowing smile. “Do you really want to know, or is this your way of putting me back in my place?”
I want to laugh. Of course he knows my question for what it is. Of course he sees right through it, through me. It’s like he was born with a Maria Antonieta manual that he wasn’t able to open until now. It’s unnerving.
I shrug instead. “Answer it anyway.”
Simón sighs. “Bueno. I guess I’m afraid of failure.” He pauses, fidgeting with the hem of his jeans. “As cliché as that might sound.”
“Failure of what?”
He huffs. “Anything? Everything.” His voice is thick, speaking faster as the words rush out of his lips.
“I’m scared of failing so spectacularly I’ll resent music for the rest of my life.
I’ve sacrificed so much for it—time, a billion different job opportunities.
Love.” He swallows. “I’m afraid I’ll wake up one day and realize it was all for nothing.
That I’ve been feeding myself, my family, and my friends lies upon lies.
That I could have fewer gray hairs at twenty-eight or sleep more than five hours a night…
that I could have been happier sooner, doing something else. If that makes sense.”
I don’t realize it, but I’ve been inching closer to him as he speaks. When he’s finished, my hand is resting on his knee. I don’t move it. He turns to me, eyes a little lost, breathing unevenly.
“It does,” I say.
Simón nods, lowering his head as he blinks.
When he looks at me again, his expression is determined.
His smile is back, but it’s not as wide or genuine as before I challenged him to bare his soul to me on the office floor.
And before I can decide against it, I reach out and grab his hand.
Surprise flashes across his features. It takes a second before his fingers close around mine, warming every inch of skin he’s touching.
I focus on that and not on the fact that I’m holding Simón’s hand.
“You’ll be okay,” I whisper. “I’m going to make sure of it.”
“So will you.” Simón squeezes my hand softly. “And so will I.”
I don’t know how long we stay like that.
Could be seconds. Could be hours. He lets go first, placing my hand over my own knee, as the brief moment of true friendship melts into oblivion.
His phone materializes in his hand; he angles it toward the desk we’d been occupying hours ago, foam containers from our dinner still scattered all over its surface.
What’s the creative process behind this particular shot?
I have no idea, but twenty seconds later his phone is back in his pocket, and I have yet to approve the picture.
Simón turns to me with a playful smirk. “He’ll call.”
I almost blurt out a Who? But then I remember. The experiments. Making Alejandro think he’s not the only one in line.
Simón is my coach. I should tell him Alejandro already called. I should tell him about dinner on Friday. I should ask for his advice.
I don’t.
“There’s only one problem with your plan,” I say. “He is the only one in line.”
If he’s even that. Simón pushes to his feet, then offers me a hand to help me back up. I take it.
“That’s for him to decide,” he says, pulling me up. I almost crash against his chest. He looks at me like he wouldn’t have minded one bit. “But just to be sure: Tomorrow, have a blast without him.”
I take a step back, then another for good measure, dusting my pants off.
“And do what exactly?”
Simón shrugs. “You still owe me a hypothetical tour of Caracas.”
My heart races a little faster at the implication. I feel my cheeks grow warmer with each second. The corners of Simón’s lips twitch. If he doesn’t find it anxiety-inducing to spend more time together, just the two of us, there’s no reason I should.
“Of course.” I try not to choke on the words. “Sounds good.”
For all our sakes, I hope this one works.