Chapter 38
“Porque ya no te necesito,” I sing, putting photos into boxes. “Y si te llego a extranar por un descuido, eso al rato se me pasa.”
The last time I played this song, I was heartbroken.
I was a different person than I am today.
I reach up to touch the soft ends of my hair.
I hadn’t had collarbone-length hair in forever, mostly because Alejandro preferred women with long hair.
But I’ve shed the Marianto I was back then.
I’m grateful for her, grateful for Alejandro when he was exactly what I needed, grateful for the happy memories that will always stick with me.
To curse it all would be unfair. Without the Marianto who stayed in a four-year relationship because it was safe, the Marianto I am today wouldn’t be here, putting memories into boxes and rearranging her furniture while baking a cake from scratch.
Caballo de Troya’s album has been playing on a loop all day.
Simón’s voice is soothing, like it’s always been.
More, actually. Now I can project his personality onto it, conjure illusions of what he’d look like singing any particular line with a certain amount of accuracy.
I know the man behind the voice. Lately I’ve been thinking about what it would be like to listen to these songs live, front row.
Every fan’s dream. I’ve been daydreaming about late-night FaceTimes, long flights, running through an airport to reach someone you love faster.
Safety doesn’t come from being anchored in a city, having a nine-to-five job, knowing what will happen every minute of every day.
It comes from knowing your heart is secure, cared for.
It comes from knowing you’ve found the place where you belong, a ground solid enough to build upon.
No matter the distance, no matter the time difference, no matter the circumstances.
When I think of it this way, the logistics seem manageable.
Exciting even. I’m packing away the old Marianto too, and her fear-based beliefs.
I push to my feet, box under my arm, and scan the room.
Surfaces that used to be covered in mementos are now flat and empty.
I’ve dusted off my bookshelves and desk, removed picture frames on my coffee table for minimalist décor.
I haven’t been able to get a new couch because I’m still unemployed.
Thank God for my mother deciding to split her Talento V paycheck with me; it’s the only thing keeping me afloat.
But I switched up the position of the TV, got a smaller coffee table, and laid out a soft new rug.
The apartment may always smell like it’s been inside a closet for a decade, but at least it’s more me now.
I put the box of pictures next to the others filled with items I’ve decided to throw away and come back to the last of the boxes; the one full of things not meant to be thrown away but to be returned—a couple of very expensive medical books Alejandro left behind, one of his favorite ties he thought long-lost, clothes he kept in my closet, a bottle of cologne.
After one final scan around my bedroom, I decide it’s time to close the box.
Blanca and her boyfriend offered to drop it off for me.
Definitely a better idea than us seeing each other again.
At the last minute, I scribble a quick note and slip it in before taping it all up:
You were right. Gracias, Ale.
Even in the uncertainty I’ve been living in, I’m sure of this.
—
I spend the rest of the morning in virtual interviews for different newspapers, none of which go well.
At this point, I’m considering applying to be a news anchor or a talk show host for a random local channel.
My experience at Ellas qualifies me to be in front of a camera, but my heart is set on writing, so I haven’t brought myself to do it yet.
I want to exhaust every other option first.
I’m ready to sit on my couch with a bowl of cereal and binge New Girl season 2 for some serotonin.
But before shutting my laptop, I check my email for the umpteenth time today.
I have a fresh new batch of applications ready to go out after I make lunch—the aforementioned cereal—and start the cycle of torture that is job hunting all over again.
When I type in my password, the screen unlocks to show me the document I’d been working on last night.
The Ex-Perimento (Or How I Fell in Love with a Member of Caballo de Troya)
Alexa, play mi canción favorita by Caballo de Troya.
I’m kidding. They’re all my favorite…
I smile at the first line. Blanca was right, of course. The article was more of a story of how I fell in love with Simón, so I decided to go all the way. It’s not finished. I’m not sure how to finish it. The IRL ending just seems too unsatisfying.
I hit save, just in case I forgot to last night.
I’m logging in to my email when my phone starts ringing.
I jump to grab it, sure Simón and I are connected telepathically, and he felt I wanted to talk to him.
But no. It’s an unknown number. I hesitate before picking up, but my mother decided to stay at the hotel until the end of the show. She could be calling from the room.
“Hello,” a male voice says when I pick up. “Maria Antonieta Camacho?”
“Yes, this is she,” I say.
“This is Miguel Vieira, I’m the editor in chief at Ethos,” the man says.
Oh my god. Oh my god, oh my god, it’s happening. “I’m sorry it took so long for us to get back to you. We had a minor setback in our schedule.”
I toss my laptop to the side and stand, shaking.
“Hi! Hello. Hi,” I say. “Nice to meet you. I completely understand.”
“Wonderful,” he says. I swear I can hear a smile in his voice. “Let me tell you a little bit about our vision.”
Miguel Vieira paints a picture for me of what it would be like to work with them—talented Latin Americans from every cultural background, teams in every country of the continent, opportunities to collaborate between departments.
It’s a new company, which means it’s a blank canvas where everyone has a brush.
It’s a dream environment. It sounds better than Ellas already.
“At Ethos we believe in investing in emerging talent, like you,” he says.
“We want your drive, your passion, your ideas. We’re not interested in hiring robots.
” He laughs and I can’t help but join. “If this sounds at all like something you’d be interested in, we would love to have you on board as editor. ”
Editor.
At my side, my laptop still shows the email I was getting ready to send, applying for yet another job.
But, as of fifteen seconds ago, I don’t have to do that anymore.
I’m employed. I’m an editor. It hurts to swallow.
I realize it’s because I’m crying. I’m an editor!
An editor who hasn’t said a word since getting the offer.
“Sí!” I blurt out. “Sí, I’m interested. I’m so interested.”
“Amazing,” Miguel says. “Welcome to the team, Maria Antonieta.”
“Gracias.” My voice is so small I’m not sure he hears me.
Before we hang up, Miguel tells me I’ll get an email with next steps and that I’ll probably need to drop by the office tomorrow to get paperwork started.
I squeal as soon as the call ends. I’m no longer unemployed!
Laughter bubbles out of me. I’m alone in my living room, grocery bags are still in the kitchen, my shoes are in a heap next to the couch, and my laptop is dangerously close to falling on top of them.
I’m a verifiable mess. But I have a job. I need to tell Simón. I—
I can’t. I can’t call Simón. According to my phone and the Talento V Google calendar I still haven’t disabled, he’s arriving today.
In fact, he’s on a plane on his way here.
The flight from Bogotá is short, barely more than two hours, but I can’t call him now.
Though soon we’ll be in the same city again and what will I do? I have no idea.
His absence grows heavier around me, replacing my laughter with long sighs. The lack of him is palpable. He’s been one call or text or drive away for all these weeks, slowly sneaking into the cracks in my walls, making a home for himself. And I miss him.
A universe without Simón is worse than the alternative. He’s worth the discomfort. He’s worth the distance. He’s worth the jet lag. He’s worth back-and-forth travel. He’s worth it.
And he should know.
I grab my laptop before I lose my nerve and stay glued to it until the article is finished.
But when I read it over, calling it an article seems wrong.
It’s more than that. Our story, written out in my favorite way.
Informative, brimming with details. Not a figment of my imagination, not a daydream, but a string of experiences woven together to let him know that every moment we shared together was genuine, real, one for the history books.
I stop at the last paragraph.
He asked me what I wanted, and I wasn’t brave enough to give him a straight answer. I wish I could go back in time, to that beach, and spell it out on the sand. “You,” a hundred times over, until it sinks in—“Tú, tú, tú.”
The email leaves my computer with a swoosh, but the sound is not as satisfactory as I hoped it would be.
I think back to that night at the beach, to the certainty with which he told me he liked me, he wanted me.
I remember his hands on my face as his lips claimed mine with urgency.
He wasn’t shy about his feelings for me, he wasn’t vague, he didn’t hide behind a screen.
He deserves to hear it. He deserves to look into my eyes when I tell him.
It’s too late to undo the email now, but he should be arriving in about an hour.
He won’t see it until then. I push my chair back and stand, grabbing my car keys from my desk. If I leave now, I can make it in time.
On the road, I grip the steering wheel tightly, my knuckles white as I weave through the busy Caracas traffic. Every second feels like an eternity—my mind racing with thoughts of what I should say, how I should say it.
The city blurs past my windshield, but I focus only on the car up ahead, waiting at the red light. I press the accelerator a little more, my foot trembling with anticipation.
As I near the intersection, the light turns green—finally—but then, the cars ahead only inch forward until, suddenly, they come to a complete stop. My stomach drops. No, no, not now. Please, not now.
I hate Caracas, I find myself thinking. But the cars still don’t move.
I make it to the airport two hours later and rush in, hoping his flight was delayed. I ask the first employee I see.
“That flight arrived about an hour ago,” he tells me, without paying much attention.
There is no way Simón is still here. But I still walk in, walk the length of the airport, just in case.
There are still people waiting for their ride.
My heart sinks as I realize I could have missed him by mere minutes.
He probably passed me on the road. As I walk back to my car, the silence feels deafening, echoing the emptiness inside.