Chapter 33
I wake up the next morning to the sun streaming in through my hotel window, dolphins bobbing in and out of the water miles and miles away, and my phone ringing. I almost knock over a cup on the bedside table in my sleepy attempt to get it.
Mamá, my screen reads.
“Aló?” Through the phone I hear waves crashing on sand and the happy beat of merengue playing in the background. “Where are you?”
“Hotel bar, eating shrimp,” Mamá says. “Do you want to come?”
“Allergic, remember?”
What time is it?
I check my phone. Almost noon. I slept through like three different alarms. My eyes latch on the plastic cup I almost spilled a minute ago—a beat-up, slightly broken little thing with sand at the bottom, topped with seashells in various shapes and sizes.
I recall last night, Simón and I on the beach, our lips…
his hands…And my mother is still talking.
“—dinner tonight,” she’s saying. “Fancy dinner, so you have to dress up.”
“What about the wrap party?” I ask. I don’t have a fancy dinner in my schedule. No one has emailed me about it. Having my mother tell me doesn’t sound like Mileidy.
“Oh, we can go to that after dinner,” she says. I can practically hear her waving my question away. “It’ll cheer you up. Trust me.”
Why does that make me not want to trust her?
“Who’s going to this dinner?”
“Oh, you know.” Somewhere on the hotel premises, she’s shrugging. “Family.”
“So, us?” I ask.
“Yes. Family,” she repeats. “It’s our last night. I want to have a nice dinner before we head back. God knows we haven’t had a moment to ourselves the entire time we’ve been here.”
“Okay, sure,” I say. “That sounds nice.”
“Great! I’ll text you the details,” she says. “See you later, mamita.”
“Okay, see you—”
She hangs up. Why do I feel like I just made a deal with the devil?
—
Because I am nothing if not prepared, I have three different fancy dresses to choose from. I settle for a navy blue, long-sleeved, knee-length dress that hugs my waist like it was made for me especially—important, when you have zero curves—and makes me look put together in an effortless way.
I decide to curl my hair at the end. There’s not much versatility to this length. All I do for makeup is put on mascara, eyeliner, and a wine-red lipstick. Last night in Margarita and all.
When I’m finished, my eyes roam the full-body mirror in the bathroom one last time.
The lipstick probably wasn’t the best idea.
I should have gone with lip gloss, something less flashy.
What does one wear to a pre-wrap-party dinner?
What does one wear to pre-seeing-the-guy-I-made-out-with-last-night dinner?
“Don’t overthink it.” I pull the hem of my dress down, smoothing invisible wrinkles only my anxiety can see.
Before I can talk myself into an outfit change, I leave the room.
The hallway is empty except for me and a housekeeper.
I shift uncomfortably from one foot to the other, waiting in front of the elevator.
The last few days have been an escape from reality.
I haven’t thought about Ethos not calling me back, haven’t thought about Alejandro.
I’m convinced the only reason I thought about Eugenia was because I ran into my replacement here, otherwise her name wouldn’t have crossed my mind either.
I’ve had little thoughts beyond what I can see and touch. Beyond Simón.
Ding, goes the elevator. Its doors creak as they slide open.
As if I’ve summoned him, Simón looks up from inside the elevator. His almost bored expression changes the moment he sees me. First a spark of surprise in his eyes, then a grin. His eyes move slowly over every inch of my body, setting my face aflame, until they finally land again on my face.
The elevator starts to close, and he shoots forward, stopping it with one hand in what has to be the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen a man do. In a matter of nanoseconds his face is ten inches closer.
“Maria Antonieta,” he says, still grinning.
“Simón, I’m just going down to—”
“Me too.”
I try not to laugh. Of course my mother invited him. She would not be Viviana Camacho without an ulterior motive. The sound of my sandals clicking echoes as I step inside the elevator. I clutch my purse tighter, holding my breath.
“We could walk there together.” He backs away from the doors.
I settle into a corner. “Sure.”
The elevator slides shut. I don’t know who moves first. One second, we’re on opposite sides and the next, his hands are clasping the back of my neck, his thumbs tilting my chin up.
My temperature skyrockets the second his hands are on me.
My fists close on the lapels of his blazer.
His lips seal mine. Or mine seal his. I don’t know.
But his body is pressing against me, his grip on my neck is steady, and his mouth is on mine.
That’s all that matters. I can breathe again.
My ever-flowing mind is quiet and I’m aware of nothing but this moment—this moment in a frankly rusty elevator, where his hands move down to my waist, tracing the silhouette of my dress, where my arms close around his neck, pulling him closer until there is no space between us.
I feel myself growing greedy, wanting more. I let myself be truly selfish for the first time in I don’t know how long. Let myself be free. It’s incredible. I knew there was a reason I shouldn’t have worn the red lipstick.
—
Simón and I stand side by side, staring at what appears to be a booked restaurant.
But this is not out of the ordinary for my mother.
What’s out of the ordinary is the fact that there is a table for two people with floating red candles as centerpieces, right in the middle.
Romantic music plays in the background, some bolero I’ve never heard before, and it drowns the soft splash of seawater against the rock this restaurant is built on.
“Are we the first to arrive?” Simón asks.
“I think we’re the only ones coming,” I say.
The waiters beam when they notice us by the entrance. They rush to greet us. I want to squirm away when they grab us by our arms and lead us to the one table, practically shoving us down until we’re seated.
“I’m a little confused,” Simón says.
“My mother,” I explain.
“Your mother?” he repeats. “Did you tell—”
The thought almost gives me a wave of nausea. “God, no.”
“I thought you were leading me to the wrap party,” he says.
“I thought you…were coming to dinner with my mother,” I say.
Simón details the table, the ambience. “I guess I should thank Viviana for setting up an improvised first date?”
I laugh. “You know, I can see her doing that.”
Amusement shines in his eyes. Juan Luis Guerra plays softly from invisible speakers, tropical metals and drums casting a spell on us. He stands and offers me a hand. “Dance with me?”
I look at him, drinking him in. There is nothing I would like more than to dance with him. But we’re still here for work, and we’re in public.
I shake my head. “We can’t.”
Simón sighs. “Do you want to dance?”
“That’s beside the point,” I say.
“There’s no one here.”
“We are here,” I remind him.
“Well, I’m not going to tell anyone,” he says. “Are you?”
His hand doesn’t waver, doesn’t even shake, the man could be a neurosurgeon.
If I say no again, he’ll sit back down, the subject dropped.
If I say no again, he’ll pretend he never asked, this much I know.
But when my gaze moves up and I’m looking at him, he lifts both eyebrows in a silent challenge.
I’m trying to think of a good reason why we shouldn’t, a reason why tomorrow I will regret dancing with Simón now.
None come to mind, even though I know that from a realistic point of view, there must be many.
But for an exhilarating second, I don’t care.
I accept his hand. A grin splits Simón’s face at the exact moment the opening notes of “Tus Besos” play from the speakers.
Talk about an appropriate song for the pair of us.
He tugs at my hands softly, pulling me up from my chair with a glint of mischief in his smile. I narrow my eyes at him as he leads me to an empty corner of the restaurant. The wooden floors beneath us are speckled with salt water, which bobs up and down around the rocks below.
And then we’re moving. One, two, three, stop to the right.
One, two, three, stop to the left. With each movement, we get closer and closer until he’s holding my right hand against his chest. His rests at the curve of my back, pressing me closer.
My free hand comes up to his neck. I feel Simón smile against my cheek as he spins us, never losing our step.
My entire body is buzzing from being this close to him.
“Did I say you look very beautiful tonight yet?” he rasps.
I give my head the softest of shakes. He hasn’t. I didn’t know how much I wanted him to until right this second.
The song ends. Simón takes a step back, putting a little distance between us, but doesn’t let go of my hand. Instead, he squeezes gently and smiles.
“You look very beautiful tonight, Marianto,” he says, his voice a soft murmur, matching the distant waves. “And every day of the past two months. The most devastatingly beautiful woman in any room we’ve been in.”
Suddenly, it’s hard to swallow. This thing between us…
It’s too soon to give it a name, but the way he’s looking at me, like nothing else matters, like the world could be burning and he wouldn’t notice as long as we’re here together?
He won’t say it. I won’t say it. But I don’t think we have to. I think he knows.
And then I’m smiling. “Simón, you—”
“Maria Antonieta,” a familiar voice says.
I freeze.
Simón’s eyes follow the direction of the voice, and his face turns to ash. His eyes flicker back to me, a mixture of regret and dread clouding them. He takes a step back, then another.