Chapter 25
Alejandro is supposed to pick me up for dinner in—I check my watch—fifteen minutes ago.
“I can’t find anything in this house,” she mutters, loud enough for me to hear.
I check my watch again. Alejandro is twenty minutes late.
I grab the remote and turn the TV off, pushing to my feet.
Waiting for him when he’s late gives me too much room to think.
My head has been in turmoil since last night.
Thoughts of what seeing Alejandro again might be like are overpowered by memories of Simón last night—sitting in front of me, completely oblivious as my heart beat frantically at the realization that I’m developing feelings for him.
There. I said it. I have romantic feelings for the coach I recruited to help me get back together with the ex-boyfriend I’m meeting tonight. The coach who also happens to be a rising star, and who is going back home to his glamourous life in less than a month.
Mamá curses colorfully, a steel bowl clattering on the floor. I’m left with no choice but to walk into the kitchen.
“What are you doing?”
“What does it look like I’m doing? I was looking for a bowl to make the arepas.” She bends over to pick up the one she dropped. “But who keeps the bowls with the pots and pans?”
I move around her to get to the fridge. “Lots of people.”
“Será,” she says, but sounds unconvinced.
I pull the fridge door open and grab my water bottle and the corn flour before she starts tearing my kitchen apart looking for it.
“Where is the Harina P.A.N.?” my mother asks behind me.
I turn around and hand her the corn flour.
She looks from my hands to my face, then back to my hands before taking it.
“Fridge,” she says. “Who keeps the Harina P.A.N. in the fridge?”
I’m starting to repeat that lots of people keep stuff where I keep stuff, but the buzz of the doorbell silences me.
Oh my god. I’m going to puke right here. A wave of nausea rises up my throat and I gulp down the entire bottle of water to help my stomach settle.
Mamá looks at me and smirks, her eyes shining with mischief. “I wonder who that is.”
I frown, backing out of the kitchen as I point a finger at my mother. “Pórtate bien.”
She slaps the finger away. “I always behave.”
I snort, halfway to the door.
“Mamita, I’m but a poor old woman,” she says, following me. “Do you think I’m going to pretend to take out the trash and slash his tires so he can’t take you anywhere?”
I turn and give her a pointed look. Surely, she wouldn’t do it twice.
“That wasn’t me,” she says, but the evil smirk she’s trying to hide says otherwise.
Rolling my eyes, I fight a smile as I pull the door open before Alejandro rings the bell again. He’s not fond of waiting. Ironic, considering he’s over thirty minutes late now.
But it’s not Ale.
My breath catches at the sight of the person—or rather people—standing at my doorstep.
Simón and Blanca stand side by side at my front door, my neighbor’s little dog barking at their footsteps from inside his apartment.
Behind them, the elevator doors shut with a loud clank and the stairs’ fluorescent lightbulb flickers on and off and on again.
A gasp escapes me. What is Simón doing at my door? “Wha—”
“Ay, llegaron!”
I whirl toward my mother and shoot her a questioning gaze. Is Simón her guest? At my own place?
“Hi.”
My chest both hurts and tickles at the word slipping through his lips. God, that voice. Raspy, deep, playful.
“Hi,” I finally say. Simón’s lips slowly curve into a smile, eyes fixed on me. “Come in.”
“My talented guests, welcome,” Mamá says, arms wide.
Simón and Blanca follow my mother in. “Blanca, what do you think about becoming a podcast producer?”
“I think I have no idea how to do that but…” Blanca’s voice drifts as they disappear behind the kitchen wall.
Simón stays behind, hands deep in his jean pockets. “You look nice.”
Self-consciously, I look down at my outfit, running both hands down my clothes to flatten invisible wrinkles. “Gracias,” I tell him. “I’m having dinner with Ale.”
I should have told him sooner. I should have included him. Maybe he would have celebrated. Maybe he would have helped me make sense of my feelings the last few days. But then I would have had to explain said feelings, and that is simply not going to happen.
Simón nods. “I know. Viviana told me. I hope you have a lovely night.”
“Thank you,” I say again. He responds with a small smile, then takes a step toward the kitchen.
My hand shoots forward, closes around his arm.
Simón looks back at me, then down to where I’m touching him.
“Uh…” I don’t know why I did that. I just don’t want him to leave me here alone. “Do you have any last-minute advice?”
Simón chuckles, scratching the back of his neck. “You know, I can’t think of anything.”
“Okay.” He tries to leave again, and again I stop him. “Don’t you want to come with me and sit in the corner with sunglasses? Maybe a hat? And then you can tell me what to do?”
Simón laughs at this, shaking his head. “Not even a little.” He takes a step in my direction and my body tenses.
He places both hands on my shoulders and squeezes.
His touch is reassuring, comforting. I fear when he walks away, the shape of his hands will be engraved on my skin.
I don’t look at him. If I do, I won’t want to go.
If he tries to leave again, I will let him.
“Hey.” He tilts my chin up with a hand while the other slips down my arm.
His touch is soft and I have no option but to meet his gaze.
“Just be yourself. If it’s not enough for him, I promise it will be enough for somebody else. ”
He drops his hand to grab mine, gives it a soft squeeze, and steps back. This time, with a lump in my throat, I let him go.
—
Things Alejandro has done since we sat down: Compliment my outfit. Take two—two!—phone calls. Ask how big of a diva Simón is.
Things he hasn’t done? Apologize for being late.
The soundtrack to my evening is as follows: a cacophony of scraping chairs mixed with the rustling of people trying to navigate the narrow space between tables, paired with the sound of silverware on porcelain.
In another life, this would be the highlight of my day.
I wouldn’t care that the restaurant is too small, too loud, too crowded.
Alejandro would be all I’d care about. Even now, he’s still one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever laid eyes on.
My chest constricts at the sight of him sitting across from me.
A wave of nostalgia hits me, taking me back to being a broke twenty-three-year-old who fell in love with Alejandro and his Greek-god looks, halfway through our first date.
But he isn’t that person anymore. Right now, this Alejandro yawns, looking up at the TV hanging from the wall above my head. It’s on mute, replaying a soccer game he most likely watched live, yet he’s paying no attention to me. I clear my throat and Ale lowers his gaze from the TV to me, smiling.
“So,” he says. “How’s the new job?”
“Demanding,” I answer. “Listen, can we—” I begin, but a waitress materializes next to us, notepad in hand.
“Are we ready to order?” she asks.
“Not quite,” I say at the same time Ale says, “Yes.”
We stare at each other for what feels like an eternity while the waitress, who clearly wishes she’d been sent to a different table, watches.
“I guess we’re not ready yet,” Alejandro finally says, adding an apologetic smile for good measure.
That simple change in his features infuriates me. I’m most likely reading too much into it, but it feels like he’s apologizing on my behalf, because I’m not ready to order, like I’m making her life hard or something.
“Can we…?” Alejandro says once she’s gone.
I sigh. “Can we skip the small talk? I think we’re past it.”
He half frowns, half smiles. “You haven’t even asked how I’m doing.”
I stare at him without blinking, refusing to give in to his attempts at playfulness. But as his smile widens and he raises both eyebrows, I can tell that he’s being sincere. A part of me wants to know how he truly is, but another part is too stubborn to give in so easily.
“We were together for four years,” I remind him. “If you were miserable, I’d be able to tell.”
Ale laughs under his breath, giving a single shake of his head. “That’s fair.” And he doesn’t say anything else. Instead, he fixes his green eyes on me, almost pleading. He wants me to ask anyway. And I bite.
“How have you been, Ale?”
He grins, but where it once made me feel giddy and triumphant, it now leaves me feeling…manipulated. It turns my stomach, eviscerates my appetite.
“I’m really well,” he says, his tone almost affectionate. “I mean, at first it was…” He pauses.
I wait. If he’s expecting me to fill in the blank, he’s dead wrong. I want to hear this. What’s it been like for you, Ale? I want to know.
“Challenging,” he finishes.
Challenging? So did he miss me as much as I missed him?
Did he create an elaborate plan to get me back the way that I did?
From where I stand, his life didn’t take a turn for the worse after dumping me.
In the meantime, it’s been challenging for me.
I thought he was proposing, and I got dumped instead.
I lost my job because of it. I lost everything in the span of twenty-four hours, and until I dragged Simón into my messy attempt to get him back, Alejandro didn’t seem to care about any of it.
The words are on the verge of spilling out but instead I sigh and grab my glass of water and gulp some of it down.
“I missed you,” he adds. “All the time. I still do.”
Ale and I stare at each other for a heartbeat. I try to bask in the softness in his eyes and the words I’ve been begging for since that night, at a different restaurant. But I can’t. I can’t recognize the man I loved in him. I don’t know if what I’m seeing is honesty or more manipulation.
“So, what now?” I ask.
Ale frowns. “What do you mean?”
“Ale, if we base our entire relationship on missing each other, we’ll only work when we’re apart,” I tell him. “What do you want to do now?”
Alejandro stills in his seat. He casts his eyes down, unable to say the words to my face. I know what’s coming. I didn’t see it the first time around, but I see it now.
“I’m not ready to let you go, Marianto,” he says.
My stomach turns. And not in a good way.
Those words were not what I was expecting.
But he said them. He said exactly what I wanted him to say.
I’ve been dreaming about this. But now, I try to find the desperate feelings that had me vowing this was the man I wanted to marry; I try to reach for them in the bottom of my heart, and my hand comes out empty.
“Ale, I—”
But he’s not done. “I’m just not…ready to think about marriage either—”
I shake my head, hoping he’ll stop. I’m not ready to think about marriage either.
For the first time since this started, we’re on the same page.
But my heart is hammering against my chest, and I can’t think clearly.
I don’t want to hurt Ale. The thought immediately brings tears to my eyes, but I can’t—
“—I’m only starting to find myself,” he continues. “And I know you, you think you’re so sure of everything, but you’re not. You have to work on yourself too. You can be very…” He looks like he’s choking on his own words. Like he’s holding something back. “Controlling.”
“Controlling?” I repeat.
“Marianto.” He says it like C’mon, the way he always does, like I’m being purposefully obtuse.
The confusion I was feeling dissipates under blazing anger at this man, who I wanted to spend the rest of my life with, inviting me to dinner to remind me why he broke up with me.
One moment saying he missed me, the next telling me that he thinks I should change.
He doesn’t stop there: “You’ve controlled this entire conversation.
You didn’t even let us eat before you started ambushing me with questions. ”
“We came here to talk, didn’t we?”
“Right.” He nods. “And now you’re getting angry because I was honest with you about where I stand.”
“I thought you were moving to Barinas,” I say.
Ale shrugs, nonchalant. “I’m willing to reconsider.”
“Why?” It comes out harder than I intended.
I don’t even know why I’m so angry. Maybe it’s because he’s always told me where he stood when it came to me, and I chose not to believe him.
Or maybe it’s because I dragged Simón into it and now I might be in love with him.
And maybe it’s because my feelings for Alejandro aren’t clear and, even now, I’m not brave enough to say it.
Instead, I lash out at him for telling me the truth to my face.
I do have stuff to figure out. But he chose the most hurtful way to let me know.
Ale throws his head back and sighs, but it might as well be a grunt. “I think we can get back together, just…with no plans. Let’s see where it goes this time. It’ll be good for us. You see it, right?”
That question. That’s the question that makes me see red. He’s only starting to find himself. He wants to see where this goes. And I’m starting to realize that maybe this is not what I want after all.
“I’m sorry, I don’t.”
To hell with the article. To hell with the last few months.
To hell with everything. Love isn’t supposed to feel like this.
It’s not supposed to make me feel insecure.
Love is supposed to be an anchor, to make me feel safe and sound and protected.
That’s what I’ve always wanted. Someone I can trust, someone I can rely on.
Alejandro is not my anchor anymore, he’s the storm.
And yet, as I see his confused expression, I can’t help but feel conflicted. A part of me still cares about him, despite everything. But another part wants to scream and push him away.
“What are you saying?” he asks.
“I’m saying I don’t want to get back together.” I expect the words to shatter me, to break me further, but they don’t. As soon as they’re out of my lips, a huge weight is lifted off my shoulders. It’s true, I don’t want to get back together.
“Marianto—”
“You obviously have things to figure out. And, as you kindly pointed out, so do I.” I swallow. “It’s best if we do it on our own. No ambiguity.” Alejandro blinks, speechless. “Consider yourself free, okay?”
I down the rest of my drink, snatch my bag off the table, and march out of the restaurant into the chilly night.
Anxiety is like a superpower. When I left my apartment, I didn’t know how tonight was going to end, so I predicted every possible outcome and prepared myself accordingly.
I think, on some level, even me finalizing the breakup was something I could see happening.
What I didn’t prepare myself for is the relief I feel as I leave the restaurant, glad I’m finally going home.