Thursday night I go out for dinner with Vera, Claudia, and Ricardo. I know Vera is making an effort to include me in her other life, and I make an effort to be a part of it. It’s a bit awkward though, sitting across the table from Ricardo when all I can think about is his derelict friend. Luckily, no one brings up the picture in the magazine, though I know by now everyone has seen it.
When we leave the restaurant though, late and tipsy on three bottles of grenache, flashbulbs go off in our faces. There are two photographers this time—it is now public news that I am Diego’s replacement—and though my first instinct is to shield Vera and give the paparazzi the finger, I decide to take a moment and set things right.
I put my arm around Vera’s waist and pull her into me, smiling broadly for the cameras. They loved my smile back in the day, they should still love it now.
“Nice to see you back together,” one of the photographers, the bothersome one with the mullet, says.
“We were never apart,” I answer smoothly before escorting her down the steps and toward Claudia and Ricardo, who are standing startled and bug-eyed on the sidewalk.
“Who were you with last week, Vera?” he asks.
I narrow my eyes briefly before I answer for her. “She’s allowed to have friends, isn’t she? Good evening, gentlemen.” I raise my hand dismissively at them then nod at Claudia and Ricardo to keep walking. The four of us quickly disappear down the street and out of the photographers’ sight.
“Jesus,” Claudia swears, brushing her long dark hair behind her ears. “You’re a celebrity all over again.”
I shrug. “I guess now that I’m the future coach they’re all over it. Slow news month, perhaps.” I squeeze Vera’s waist, both in support and as a reminder.
The next day, the photo of Vera and me has made the online version of the magazine. Perhaps the two of us looking happy together isn’t as print-worthy as Vera dancing with some punk, but it’s still there. I don’t know who is out there reading it and getting false assumptions about our life together, but I hope whoever they are, that they see it. It’s petty, perhaps, to care so much about what thousands of strangers think, but that doesn’t change the fact that I do.
If Pedro has seen it, he doesn’t mention it, and when work is over I have a quick cigar with him while walking the playing field. He’s at least someone I can tolerate now for the length of a stogie. After that, when I know that Vera has gone home for the day, I drive to the Las Palabras office.
I haven’t been here since I first boarded that bus last April, but it all comes back to me like it was only yesterday.
I remember being excited for the first time in a long time. The feeling was strange, to feel was strange. My nerves were jangled, and when I got on the bus I was embarrassed because all these strange faces were looking up at me, and I had to be the last person getting on, holding everything up. But, as I made my way down the aisle and found a pair of empty seats, and we still weren’t taking off, I relaxed. I wasn’t the last one.
I hadn’t meant to be late, it was Isabel who was being deliberately slow, like she wanted me to miss the trip. She hadn’t wanted me to go, thought there was no point in improving my English since I knew enough already. But that wasn’t really the point. Good enough was never good enough for me, not when better was so easy to reach.
She took her time trying to find the place, despite me barking directions, and when she dropped me off at the office, she was more huffy than sad about my departure.
Sometimes I wonder what would have happened if she hadn’t been that way, if I had gotten to the Las Palabras office early. I would have gotten on the bus with everyone else. I would have sat next to maybe Ricardo or Jose Carlos or Nerea.
I would have never seen Vera get on the bus and sit beside me. I would have never felt every inch of my skin buzz as if shocked awake and watched her walk down the aisle, looking flushed and sexy and tattooed and young and impossibly, impossibly pretty. I would have never turned my staring eyes away from her and looked out the window as if I hadn’t noticed her at all.
I would have never waited a few moments, composing myself, trying to find my English and my voice before turning to her, meeting her vibrant gaze and quirky, unsure lips to say, “Hello, I’m Mateo.”
That was all it took for me, really. I shook her hand and felt this surge deep within my heart, like something was being unearthed after a very long time. There was no turning back. Back then I knew she was trouble, I was in trouble, and the rest of my life would be different. I didn’t realize how different, but I knew then it couldn’t stay the same. You don’t keep your eyes on the ground once you’ve seen the beauty of the stars.
I let the memories fold over me, and I hold them close as I approach the office. The sign is flipped to CLOSED but I can see a light on through the glass and the shadow of someone walking past. I rap my knuckles loudly on the door and wait.
A few moments pass, and there is movement on the other side of the door. I see a pair of cat-eyed glasses peer at me, and then something unlocks and the door opens.
“Mr. Casalles,” Patrice says, looking me up and down. I’ve only met her once since she took over as manager at Las Palabras, at a small party, and she looks exactly the same. Close-cropped hair, sharp nose, sharp eyes under even sharper glasses.
“Call me Mateo, please,” I tell her with my most charming smile.
She nods, birdlike. “Of course, Mateo. Come on in.”
She gestures and I walk into the small office. It’s a mess and I can tell where Vera sits because that section is even messier. There is a small arsenal of lipsticks scattered beneath the computer monitor and two seemingly empty cans of Diet Coke.
“I suppose you’ve come here to discuss Vera’s situation,” Patrice says, leaning against the door to what I presume is her private office.
I nod and am hit with this unnerving feeling like I’m at a parent-teacher meeting or something of that sort. “She doesn’t know I’m here, of course,” I quickly say to offshoot the idea. “And she’ll hate me if she finds out. But I just wanted to get the real story from you. Sometimes I think she’s protecting me a bit by not telling me everything.”
That’s not exactly true. I think Vera has been honest from the start, but Patrice doesn’t have to know that.
She offers me a tense smile. “Very well. The thing is, Mateo, we’re going to have to let Vera go.”