Chapter 28
I scoop more tres leches onto my spoon. The smell of cake permeates the air, filling every corner of the coffee shop while soft instrumental music plays from invisible speakers.
The clinking of golden spoons against porcelain plates and the low hums of friendly conversation add to the Zen aesthetic I’m perpetually seeking.
The fact that the tres leches is to die for is a bonus.
I mean, sponge cake, soaked in a mix of condensed milk, evaporated milk, and cream topped with the fluffiest meringue and salted caramel? What’s not to love?
As I bring the spoon to my mouth, I freeze midair when I catch Simón’s gaze from across the table. A lopsided grin is born on his face the second our eyes meet, but he’s sitting too straight. His hands are hiding under the table while his coffee grows cold between us.
“What?” I ask.
He shrugs with one shoulder, picking his mug up. “Nada.”
That’s not an answer but I don’t push it. Instead, I slowly eat the bite of cake I left hanging, then set the spoon down on the plate with a soft clink. For a second, we’re staring at each other, electricity building over the table separating us. If I squint, I think I can almost see the sparks.
“This is really good.” Simón breaks the silence. He gestures at his own dessert—passion fruit cake—with the spoon.
I nod, a little too eagerly. “Right? Thought you should try it. You know, before you leave.”
A corner of his mouth twitches. “I’m glad I did.”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “I mean, I owe you. For helping me with the interview.”
In that precise moment the instrumental song that’s been playing on a loop since we sat ends. People stop eating. And Simón’s eyes find mine. The smile playing on his face becomes a thin line when he presses his lips together, nodding slowly.
“Is that the only reason you invited me?” he asks. “Because you thought you owed me?”
Yes.
No.
I don’t know. What am I supposed to say?
“I invited you because I wanted cake,” I lie. “And I thought you might want cake too.”
The words taste bitter on my tongue, wrong. But admitting I invited him because I want to spend more time with him before he leaves, admitting I’m growing covetous of the scarce moments I have left with him before I have to grow up and return to reality? Not happening.
“Are you sure it has nothing to do with the interview you’re refusing to talk about?” he says.
Thank God his usual perceptiveness is failing him today. But I take the change of direction like the blessing it is.
“I’m not refusing to talk about it,” I say.
“Bueno, how did it go?” he asks.
Breathing in, I let the words take shape on my tongue before I breathe them out. “I don’t know.”
Simón frowns. “Cómo así?”
I shrug. “I answered all her questions, she answered all of mine, she said she’ll be in touch, we said goodbye, and that was it. Could go either way.”
“But did you like her?” he presses. “Do you want to work for them? Did she seem as bad as Mileidy?”
I fight a chuckle. She’s still my boss and I’m still her employee. “Mileidy is not—”
Simón silences me with a look.
“Okay, she’s not great but—”
Simón leans back on the chair, rolling his eyes. “You’re too nice. It’s hard to watch.”
“I am not!”
“You are.” He nods, drinking the last of his cold coffee. “I love that about you.”
Our eyes lock.
“Uh, I…”
“Anyway, the interview? Did you like them?” He blurts the words out.
“Yes,” I answer, too quickly. “I lov—I mean, I liked them. A reasonable amount. They seem…”
Not for the first time, I study Simón—the curve of his lips visible despite the beard, the waves of hair that frame his face.
I remember all the expressions those features have offered me: more smiles than I can count, the confused frowns, the shocked, wide eyes, the laughter, the twitch of his lips when singing…
and I wish I could have met him at a different point in my life.
I wish I could have met him five years ago, before he was him and I was me.
I clear my throat. “They seem perfect.”
Simón’s expression softens.
“I’m sure they like you a reasonable amount too,” he says. “And that they also think you’re the closest thing to a perfect woman they’re ever going to find.”
I don’t think we’re talking about the interview anymore.
I cast my eyes down, shoving the rest of the cake into my mouth, just to have something to do.
This is dangerous. I’m torturing my own heart.
It doesn’t matter that I obviously have feelings for Simón.
It can’t. And even if it did, how would it work?
He spends half the year touring, the other half he spends doing I don’t even know what.
I don’t need that. I don’t want that. Not after growing up with my mother.
I want something tangible, someone I can call in the middle of the night and know he can show up at my door if I need him.
He’s not that. I should know better. Hell, I do know better.
But after our plates are empty and the bill has been paid and he says, “Would you like to walk around?”
I say, “Sure.”
And hours later, when we’re watching the sun go down at Plaza Francia, macaws flying over our heads, and my cheeks hurting from laughing so much, and he asks, “Are you hungry?”
I say, “Yes.”
And after we’re finished eating, I offer him a ride back to his hotel because it’s dark, and he lingers a little too long in the car before he asks, “Would you like to come sit by the pool?”
I say, “Why not?”
Even though there are so many reasons why not.
I’m welcomed by the soft hum of the water moving in the wind. A blue glow stretches over the tiles around the pool. Out here it is silent except for the water, the crickets, and the distant sound of cars passing on the highway.
I rub my arms up and down, trying to warm myself as I walk toward one of the tables. The metal umbrella shakes with the strength of the wind. I expect Simón to join me at the pool table, but he has a different idea.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
He jumps on one foot as he takes off a shoe, then repeats the motion with the other.
“Simón,” I say.
“Maria Antonieta,” he replies, teasing.
Soon it’s shoes off, socks off, pants rolled up, and him lowering himself onto the gravel around the tiles. “Come on.”
I laugh dryly. “No. The water must be freezing.”
He leans over, dipping his hand in to make a little splash. “It is. It’ll wake you up.”
“I’m not tired,” I retort.
He looks at me over his shoulder, patting the ground next to him with his still-wet hand. “Ven.”
I hear the soft splash of his feet hitting the water, followed by a deep sigh. That’s all it takes to convince me.
Damn it.
I kick the ground, still rubbing my arms, before I join him. Thank God I wore sandals today.
I put my feet in the water and let out a “Whoop!” when it touches my skin.
It’s so freaking cold. We’re going to lose our toes after this.
But Simón is grinning at me like a child.
His eyes are wild with stars. Or maybe it’s the million hotel room windows I see reflected in them.
He looks absolutely beautiful. The wind has tousled his hair, but he hasn’t bothered with fixing it.
His shirt is wrinkled from having worn it all day.
His beard seems a little longer than it was this morning. And then he sighs again, content.
I grin back.
My arm grazes his. We’re skin to skin. I can’t help but lean a little closer. Next to me, Simón’s body goes rigid, supporting mine.
Thinking about how good it feels to be pressed against him, to lean on him, is not advisable. I focus on the water under my feet instead. It’s soaking the hem of my jeans despite my having rolled them up.
In an alternate universe, I’m resting my head on his shoulder while holding his hands in my lap.
I’m whispering my fears and doubts into the night.
I’m admitting I’m scared I won’t get the job at Ethos, and that I don’t have another plan.
I’m letting him comfort me. I’m letting myself depend on him.
“You’ll get it,” Simón rasps, reading my silence. “The job.”
I sniff. The cold is making my nose itch. “You can’t know that.”
He pushes against my arm slightly. “No. But I know you. I’d hire you.”
I snort, despite myself. I want to believe him, but the truth is there are a hundred other applicants better prepared for the job than me. The best thing I can do is manage my expectations.
“Hey.” He turns to face me. “I mean it. If you don’t get it, you can join the band. God knows you’ve rendered me useless. I’d be lost without you.”
I still at those words.
Simón looks down at his hands, fidgeting with a loose thread on the inside of his jeans. Then he looks up and gives me a weak, almost pained smile, like he regrets saying anything.
I clear my throat. “What would I do?”
“Hm?”
“In the band,” I clarify.
He shrugs. “Anything you want.”
“Lead singer?” I volunteer.
Simón smiles, eyes twinkling. “Why not? We’ll be an alternative pop band. Our songs will be spoken instead of sung. It’s a whole concept.”
“You haven’t even heard me sing!” I playfully smack his arm with the back of my hand.
He laughs. “Yes, I have. At the karaoke bar.”
God. That night. I got drunk for the first time in ages, sang Kelly Clarkson, and found out what Simón smells like. It feels like forever ago. I’d almost forgotten it happened.
“And you sing all the time at work,” he adds.
“No, I don’t!”
That makes him laugh even harder. “Yes, you do. The kids hate it. It’s personally offensive to them.”
I hide my face between my hands. “Oh my god!”
“You can’t be good at everything, Marianto,” he says, nudging his knee with mine. “It’s not fair.”
I sigh. “Ya sé. I hate it.”
Simón laughs again, squinting at me adorably.
His watch beeps, signaling 8:00 p.m.
“I should go,” I say.
“Mm,” he says.
But neither of us moves. His eyes remain anchored to mine, like we’re committing them to memory.
“I should go,” I repeat.
He nods. “I agree.”
But his gaze drops to my lips, then moves slowly back up to my eyes and parks there. My heart races, threatening to escape my chest.
This will end badly. I know it. There is no scenario in which shortening the space between us is a good idea, in which we both come out unscathed.
And then he says my name—a soft whisper, a plea. I’ve only ever seen the way he’s looking at me in romance movies.
Blame it on my lack of self-restraint, or my desperation to merge this universe with the one in which we’re together, or the fact that I’m simply done fighting this, but when his eyes meet mine again, it’s almost like we’ve reached an agreement.
The distance between us vanishes. For a split second we freeze, our lips millimeters from touching, as if giving ourselves the chance to back away if we want to.
The split second ends. Neither of us moves away.
We move forward. The moment his lips touch mine feels like coming up for air after being underwater, like a veil is being torn and every bit of fear or anxiety or doubt I felt ten minutes ago goes up in smoke.
My hands find Simón’s neck, pulling him closer, and he responds without hesitation.
Our kiss deepens instantly, more urgent and wild than tender, as if we’re racing against time itself.
Every inch of skin his touch encounters ignites a fiery heat inside me, melting away any icy reserve I might have been holding on to.
His fingertips trail along my neck, sending shivers down my spine, then slide down to my waist, firm and possessive, drawing me closer until the space between us is nonexistent.
I can’t help but wonder—if I were a guitar in his hands, would his touch be as electric and commanding?
A touch that’s both gentle and powerful, capable of creating a symphony of sensations that make my heart sing and my body tremble with anticipation.
“Oh!” someone says behind us.
Simón and I startle apart. The person retreats, mumbling apologies, but neither of us pays attention.
It takes me about three seconds for the world to come back into focus, for my thoughts to fall back into their proper categories, before I realize the enormity of what I did.
Ever the mind reader, Simón begins to stand. “Marianto—”
“I’m so sorry.” I jump to my feet, splashing his face in the process. “I shouldn’t have.” I gather my things, hugging them to my chest. “We shouldn’t—I’m sorry.”
I leave before he has a chance to follow me.