Chapter 24 #2
My entire body flushes. Oh, God. Oh no. I can’t have that picture in my mind.
He’s hot enough and kind enough and funny enough.
I don’t need to add played me a private concert in his hotel room to that list. I need to think of something.
Fast. But he’s already sitting on the bed, across from me.
He places the guitar on his lap, its curve resting on his left leg, which he lifts up slightly; his hands move up and down the neck of the guitar, his long fingers caressing the strings with a featherlight touch. My throat is suddenly dry. I cough.
He immediately looks up. “Are you okay?”
“Mm-hm.” I nod. “I just…I—” Then I remember. “I have something for you.”
The card we made him is nothing fancy, just twenty different ways of saying thank you.
It took me nearly an hour to get everyone’s name on it.
Most of the children’s handwriting is unreadable, but the sentiment is there.
I snatch the piece of paper from my bag and stretch my hand to him.
If remembering how stressful it was to make it doesn’t cool me down, nothing will.
Simón grins, gratitude written all over his face. Instead of cooling down, my heart swells, proud I did something to make him happy. I’m afraid my pulse might be visible through my chest, like a cartoon.
“Thank you,” he whispers. His eyes move over it in random circles, like he doesn’t know where to look.
I shrug because I don’t trust myself to speak. Maybe I should have just let him serenade me.
His smile widens, looking up. At me. “Marianto, I—”
Someone knocks on the door, interrupting him. The food. We ordered food. Fifteen minutes ago, approximately. And now it’s here. He pushes to his feet without finishing the sentence. But do I even want to know what he was about to say? It’s probably better if we don’t blur any more lines.
Shifting on my chair for something to do, I give up and grab my phone right when it vibrates with an incoming text from—I check—Alejandro. Of course. Who else?
For someone who wasn’t sure he wanted to be with me, he seems pretty adamant about demanding my attention. Below Ale’s, there are five unread texts from my mother demanding to know where I am, plus one from Eugenia asking where the next batch of experiments is. I’ll get to those later.
Ale: I’m watching You’ve Got Mail and it’s not nearly as fun without you swooning over Tom Hanks
You’ve Got Mail is my favorite Meg Ryan movie. I used to make him watch it all the time, at least once a month, usually around the time I had my period. He complained every single time but still sat on the couch and watched it with me. Once a month. For four years.
I don’t get how you can watch this over and over, he’d say. There are a million other cliché romance movies to choose from. If I have to be bored for two hours straight, at least bore me with something new.
But now he’s watching it. By choice. The gesture is meant to be moving, I’m sure of this.
It says (or at least I think it says), Look!
I miss you so much I’m watching your favorite movie.
And if he’d done this two weeks ago, I would have cried at the mere fact that he did something he used to hate just because it reminded him of me. It’s progress. I should be happy.
Simón makes his way back to the room, and I place my phone screen-down on the table.
I don’t know what Ale expects me to reply.
I miss you too? I’m not even sure if that’s the case anymore.
I guess part of me still does, but there’s a bigger part—albeit a more confused part—that doesn’t have time to miss him.
The same part that’s sitting in Simón’s hotel room, waiting to have a platonic dinner with him.
And replying that I do miss him or any of the things I know he’s fishing for feels like a mistake.
The truth is…I don’t know if I wish I was there with him.
No. I don’t wish I was there with him. And I haven’t felt that way for…
a few days now. A week? More? I’ve been so distracted by my job and Simón that I haven’t had time to miss Alejandro.
Regret hits me square in the chest but I have nothing to regret.
Do I? He wanted time. I gave him time. It’s been over a month.
A lot can happen in a month, and I did what he wanted.
I didn’t want “a break.” I wanted to get married. And now I—
“Remember when you offered to help me succeed in my music career?” Simón asks, carrying a tray into the room.
“Vaguely,” I reply, but I’m not paying attention.
Simón sets the tray down on the table, then taps his chin with a finger. Twice.
“That’s funny,” he says. “Do you remember asking for my help to get your ex—”
“Yeah, yeah!” I throw both hands up. “I remember.”
I swallow hard. My ingenious plan to get Alejandro back is the last thing I want to be thinking about.
Simón grins, sitting on the bed. “Excellent. I need to cash in.”
“The profile isn’t ready.”
Simón waves me off before he places the guitar on his lap again. The movement seems second nature for him.
“We’ll worry about that later. Could you please listen to something I’m working on?” he says. “While you eat.”
Simón dips his chin ever so slightly, giving me a hopeful look through long eyelashes. His eyebrows lift and draw closer. His expression is painfully pleading.
I know if I said no, he wouldn’t force me to listen to him. But he bought me dinner. And rain is starting to patter against the window. And my sandwich is getting cold. And I don’t want to leave yet, even though I should. So, I nod.
Simón grins before he strums softly on his guitar.
Soft, intricate combinations of notes float out of it, bouncing off his fingertips.
I imagine them like soap bubbles in the wind, bursting when they touch me.
I don’t know much about guitar playing or the technical aspect of making music, but it’s my job to know about feelings and how to evoke them through words. And this feels right. And unfair.
Suddenly I’m angry. At Alejandro. At Simón. At myself for not leaving when I had the chance, for saying yes when I should have said no, for dragging Simón into my mess and losing focus on the plan.
My head is in tangles. Simón is looking at me with intent, with purpose.
What would I do now if I was certain I didn’t have a boyfriend?
Would I shorten the distance between us and make the thoughts I’ve been having about Simón a reality?
Unlikely. But the confusion I’ve been subjected to for the past few weeks renders me unable to even consider it.
Because before Simón showed up, I had never once wondered if I was settling.
I never wondered if I could do better than Ale, if there even was better.
Now life is shouting a big Wake up! in the form of Simón Arreaza.
And for some reason, that feels like treason.
Against Alejandro. Against the person I was over a month ago.
Against the Maria Antonieta I am at my deepest core—someone who plans and sticks to those plans, who honors her word, who is not surprised by life.
I didn’t plan on Simón. I didn’t count him as one of the variables. I was so busy worrying about what would happen if Alejandro met someone else during our “break,” I didn’t have time to plan for what I would do if that scenario happened to me.
Simón plays the final notes of his song, ending the whole show with a very excited, “Well?”
I nod ten times in two seconds. “Mm-hm. Love.”
It? Him? I don’t know.
But I know I can’t act on it. It wouldn’t be professional. That has to be my new plan. Be professional. No matter what. And one more thing:
Tomorrow—Tell Alejandro I’m the one who needs time now. Wherever that leaves me with Eugenia, the experiments, the article…I’ll find a way to resolve it. I always do. But I can’t keep lying to myself. Because I think I’m falling in love with Simón Arreaza.