I dig for my keys, laughing when I see that Mateo already has his spare set out and is opening the gate and then the wooden door. “One of these days you’ll have to explain how you and Andrea came to be such good friends,” I say with a smile.
“One of these days I will,” he says, looking very serious.
“Well, thanks again for letting me tag along today.” I’m still smiling.
“You’re welcome.” He’s still not.
“And sorry again for being such a spaz earlier.”
“Again, apology accepted.”
“Okay, well, good night.” I turn toward the door.
“Aren’t you going to kiss me goodbye?”
I freeze, hand on the latch, heart in my throat. “Oh” is all I can think to say. What I’m thinking is: Thank God, thank God, thank God! Praise tellingly uncomfortable silences, clumsy hugs, and panics over which way to turn my head for that awkward first kiss. I love tellingly uncomfortable silences, clumsy hugs, and panics over which way to turn my head for that awkward first kiss. I turn around slowly. Breathe, I tell myself, but it’s no use.
Mateo leans in, tilting his head ever so slightly, passes my mouth, and touches his lips lightly to . . . my cheek.
My cheek. Of course. A goodbye kiss on the cheek. We’re friends, and that’s how friends say goodbye here. Realizing my near faux pas, I manage to lightly brush my lips against the hollow of his cheek before he pulls back. It’s soft and warm. “Good night, Cassandra,” he whispers into my ear.
“Good night,” I say.
Safe inside the cool, sweet air of Andrea’s yellow house, I raise my fingers to the small wet place where Mateo’s lips met my cheek, then I touch my lips. They are still tingling from his stubble as I climb the stairs to my apartment.
How many times can I misread that man? First I think M is a total jerk. Then, in the span of a couple hours, I convince myself that he’s totally into me. As if the sight of chocolate ice cream dribbling down my chin made him realize that he simply had to have me. As if my astute observations—what was that brilliant thing I said about war? Oh yes, that it’s bad—pushed him over the edge of passion. But he was looking at me a certain way, wasn’t he? I definitely didn’t imagine that. And he kept touching my arm or my elbow or my shoulder. But then the chaste kiss on the cheek—there’s no denying the lack of lust in that moment. It could have been my aunt Margaret, it was that steamy. How did I read M so wrong yet again?
Did I read J wrong, too? Did he leave clues that he didn’t love me? Drop hints? Was there a trail of evidence that I stepped over or swept under the rug? Is it love that’s blind, or am I the blind one? What if I’m doomed to fall for guys who don’t want me?
Not that I’m falling for M. Those of you getting all excited about that crazy idea can just relax.
Okay, enough about men. Kiss or no kiss, I had a great day. I stood inches from a famous painting, had the best ice cream I’ve ever tasted, and realized that M doesn’t hate me. Because I like you. He did say that, didn’t he? I didn’t imagine that. That’s something. That’s a lot, really.
Okay, then, M. Friends.
It takes me over an hour to get the retelling just right, but everything’s in there, from the chance meeting at El Taller to the chaste kiss at my front door. Satisfied, I hit publish and get up to forage for food. I can’t wait to see what they think of the day’s events, especially the rather large contingent who’s begun to pester me about the Argentine I call M. Postings like “Too bad M is such a jerk. He sounds hot!” and “Enough complaining—why don’t you jump that M guy and get it over with?” pepper the comment boxes of completely unrelated blog entries.
Biting into an apple, I curl up on the love seat near the window and meander through the day’s events once more, stopping the frame now and then to mull over a cryptic look on Mateo’s face or admire the way he brushed his hair from his eyes while listening to me. The memories, pieces of moments, hold me in a delicious trance. Writing it all down in my blog is one thing. Running through it in my mind is another. Alone in my apartment with no audience but my own imagination, I am free to conjure alternate versions. Each one ends with a passionate kiss goodbye. Does it matter what actually happened? In the waning evening light, the entire day seems like a dream.
I get up to toss the apple core in the garbage and notice the voice mail alert on the phone base blinking at me from beside the bed. Oh yes, I think, Antonio. I realize with a grin that I haven’t thought about him since . . . Mateo. All that fuss and then, poof, I forget all about the man. There could be a message from him on there right now, explaining everything in his sweet broken English, pledging his eternal devotion, begging me to come away with him to his private island. I’m curious to know if he’s called, though I’m not sure I want to break this lingering feeling—whatever it is—just yet.
Eventually, with a might-as-well-get-it-over-with shrug, I relent and punch my code into the phone. There’s a message from Sam. She’s shouting yet barely audible over the din of what sounds like a party or bar. Trish chimes in at the end, but I replay the message and make out the words “new office,” “all grown up,” and “another round.” It doesn’t take a linguistic genius to figure out they got their promotion. A small twinge of envy pricks my stomach. But I won’t give in to it. My best friends made their way up the ladder from lowly analyst assistants by working hard, taking risks, and carving out their own path. They deserve everything they have, and I am happy for them. Really, I am.
I fast-forward through a message from my mother reading aloud from the classifieds again. Database entry specialist? She’s spending more on this international call than I’d make in a day. Computer store assistant manager? Because I look good in khaki? She must think I’ll be desperate for work when I get home. Hell, if good jobs are that scarce in Seattle, I can always go to work for a couple of hotshot research analysts I know. I already know how they like their coffee. The voice mail system saves me, cutting my mom off halfway through a dubious ad for an Internet companion, whatever that means. Wait. I don’t think I want to know.
The third message is Antonio.
“Cassandra, my beautiful girl,” he begins, as usual, “¿como estás?” There are no heart flutters or sweaty palms at the sound of his voice, only a small smirk of satisfaction as he attempts to apologize. His explanation is lost on me. I think he is saying he has been busy at work but must see me soon or he will die from loneliness. At least I think soledad means loneliness. Or is he saying he sold his dad? Whatever, I think with a smile. The old Cassie would have spent a good half hour replaying the message over and over until she had analyzed every word for hidden meaning. Not the new Cassie. The new Cassie deletes the message with a bit of ceremony, holding the phone with an outstretched arm, and hangs up, immensely pleased with herself. It’s exhilarating, this sense of complete freedom. I’ll call him back tomorrow. Or maybe I won’t. And now back to that lingering feeling . . .
CHAPTER TEN
Even over the phone I can tell Zoey is pouting. Andrea is throwing an asado, a traditional Argentine barbecue, in honor of Martin, who leaves in two days, and I have to skip a night at El Taller for the first time. “I don’t have a choice,” I insist. “It would be totally rude not to go. They have friends coming all the way from Cordova. I live in the same house.”
“Not to mention the fact that Mateo will be there.”
“One more time, for the record, we’re just friends.” It doesn’t matter how many times I tell Zoey this. She has much more fun imagining otherwise. Okay, yes, we’ve been hanging out a lot. It’s not like we talk on the phone every day or even make plans together. And I do still see Antonio when I have a bit of spare time. It’s just so easy with Mateo. He’s always around the house or the café or the neighborhood. We seem to constantly bump into each other, and then we might as well grab a bite to eat or a cup of coffee or a drink together. But it’s platonic. I mean, he’s never so much as tried to hold my hand. Aside from the
obligatory cheek kissing and the occasional accidental contact of clumsy limbs, there is no physical contact whatsoever. There was that one time at the jazz club when we sat side by side watching the band and he put his arm across the back of my chair, and it was almost like he had his arm around me—except not. “Just friends,” I say again, more to myself than to Zoey.
“Right, right,” she says and fakes an exaggerated yawn. “But seriously, half the people come because of your blog. What am I supposed to tell them? They’ll be disappointed if the infamous Cassie isn’t there.”
“That’s not true. They come for the company. I’m a . . . curiosity.” All the poking and prodding about in my life that my blog readers do every day is beginning to make me feel like a bit of a freak. Most of the questions alternate between why am I friends with this M guy whom I’ve been slamming for so long to “When are you going to jump his bones already?” One reader even asked how I’d feel about “trading hot M for a balding guy from Tucson with some high school Spanish.” Apparently, Zoey isn’t the only one convinced that Mateo and I are an item.
“Well, Dan will be inconsolable.” She laughs.
“Oh, God. Can we please not talk about that?” Poor sweet Dan. And poor me. His crush on me has become so obvious to everyone in the group that even some of the newcomers have made passing comments on the amusing drama. (Seems that no area of my life is private these days.) I don’t understand the Dan thing, really. We’ve barely spoken to each other, yet apparently, he thinks I’m the cat’s pajamas and will say as much to anyone in earshot. And while I can’t prove it, I have a sneaking suspicion that he’s behind the harsh comments from [email protected] about Antonio and Mateo. I’m partly flattered, mostly annoyed. “It’s not funny.”
“You’re right. It’s not. It’s kind of sad. Even sadder is the fact that you’ve got three hot guys swooning over you, and I haven’t even gotten laid yet.”
“Antonio is hardly swooning, and once again, Mateo is my friend,” I scold. Wasn’t she the one who was bored of the topic?
“What a waste,” she teases. “If I were hanging out with that man, friendship would be the last thing on my mind.”
“I don’t think of him that way.” Yes, we’ve hung out almost every day for three weeks, and yes, he’s sexy and smart and sort of funny and very sweet when he wants to be, but I don’t have to want to jump every cute guy who pays me a little attention. It wouldn’t exactly be awful if things moved beyond friendship, but then what? It doesn’t matter, since Mateo clearly sees me only as a friend. Doesn’t he? “Again, Zoey—friends.”
My friend with impeccable timing knocks on my door. (Thank God I changed out of those raggedy sweatpants before Zoey called.) He’s making a run to the supermarket—Andrea has gotten it into her head that she didn’t buy enough wine—and he wants to know if I’ll come and help him carry the bags. “I promise I’ll take the heavy ones.” Mateo winks at me from the doorway, and I swear the cartilage in my knees turns to Jell-O.
Since Martin’s been back, Mateo has given his paint-splattered overalls a break. I thought the overalls were kind of cute, but I’m not going to complain about seeing him in well-fitted jeans, like the ones he has on right now. Like almost every other male in this city, he is obsessed with soccer and plays a pickup game in the park every Sunday, and even through the dark denim, I can tell he has strong thighs. Then I start thinking of other things hidden under those jeans. Bad friend.
“Zoey, I gotta go . . . get something.”
“I bet you do.” Zoey laughs. She’s heard our conversation and isn’t about to let me off the hook. “Just friends, huh? All right, pal. Go have fun with your buddy.” I can still hear her cackling as I hang up.
The air outside is soft and warm. Spring is here. I can’t help but smile, thinking about everyone back home slogging through the endless autumn rains. Mateo and I are quiet as we walk the five blocks to the store. At one point he turns and gives me a smile from the corner of his mouth. I smile back. It’s nice that we can be like this together, I think. It’s a sign of a real friendship developing, a comfortable connection unsullied by all the nervous tension that comes when things are . . . more. What is he thinking about? I wonder. I almost ask but catch myself before the words can escape. That’s girlfriend talk. When we reach the supermarket, Mateo steps back to let me through the automatic doors first, as always. I can’t believe I ever thought he was rude or superior or stuck up. All the things I wrote about him in my blog, all those mean, juvenile things, make me cringe. Thank God he’ll never see it.
We grab a cart and set to work. The wine aisle is a giant wall of burgundy. Mateo tells me about his last trip to Mendoza as he selects a bottle of Malbec from the famous Argentine wine region. “You’d love it. We should go,” he says offhandedly as he runs a finger along a label. Did he just invite me to go away with him? Do friends go away together to wine regions? “We could get a group together. You could bring Zoey.”
“Yeah, we could do that.” See, Zoey, just friends. “Sounds fun.”
“This’ll do.” Mateo pops the bottle of Malbec in the cart. Then another. And another. And another.
“How much wine do eight people need?” I ask as he fills the cart with over a dozen bottles.
“Eight?”
“That’s what Andrea said yesterday. Eight, maybe nine.”
He bursts into laughter. “As usual, she’s invited a few extra people.”
“How many extra?”
“Twenty, thirty, maybe. Who knows?” He shakes his head, his curls giggling at me, his lips stretching into a not displeased smile. It’s the expression of bemusement that met me on our first encounter and one that I’ve grown familiar with—and fond of. “Andrea is the consummate hostess,” he continues. “She can’t say hello to someone on the street without inviting them. Last time she had an asado, half of us ate in the foyer.”
Having grown up with Andrea, he has stockpiled funny stories about her, and he isn’t shy about sharing them. As we select a few nice whites, he tells me how she went into labor with Jorge during an asado. “She called from the hospital to remind me to put the olives out. Seriously.” He makes a face, and I laugh so hard I almost drop the bottle I’m holding. It feels good to laugh like this, full and without restraint. I seem to do it a lot when Mateo’s around. I’ve even snorted once or twice without the complete humiliation that usually entails. Strange to think that I was once so uncomfortable around him, this sweet, funny, charming man.
Mateo wasn’t exaggerating about the number of people. By the time meat hits the hot barbecue with a surrendering sizzle, there are no fewer than thirty-five people squeezed into the courtyard. Every few minutes the doorbell buzzes. Mateo and I are so busy helping Andrea refill glasses, restock cheese platters, and corral the dogs away from the tasty fingers of little children that I barely see more than a blur of him for hours. The only times he seems to be standing still are when yet another pretty girl is trying to hold his attention. If we were more than friends, I would be beside myself with jealousy. Instead, I leave him to his fan club and make faces at him whenever our eyes meet accidentally across the room.
Only after everyone is happily focused on a plate of food does he sidle over with two tumblers of red wine. “I wanted to make sure you had a taste of my favorite.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t rather be sharing it with one of your groupies?” I try to sound teasing.
“Groupies?” His brow furrows.
I nod in the direction of three women in the corner who seem to find our talk very interesting.
“Oh,” he says, laughing softly. “That’s nothing. Argentine women are naturally . . .” He searches for the word. “Flirtatious. It’s generally harmless.”
“Unlike Argentine men?” I sip gingerly from the large glass. It’s buttery and warm.
“You tell me.”
I smile knowingly and take another sip of wine. “I don’t know about flirting men. They usually skip right to
buying me jewelry.”
“I’m sure they do.” I suspect that we are now the ones flirting. Nothing to get excited about, of course. Clearly, this is little more to Mateo than a way to pass the time. Which kind of makes it even more fun.
“But I’d take a free café con leche over a diamond any day.”
“Good to know.” Mateo looks me squarely in the eye. He isn’t smiling. Have we gone too far with the flirting thing? I break his gaze, take a swig of wine, and look around the courtyard, searching for something new to talk about. Andrea is holding center court on a lounge chair. Her husband looks on, smiling, a sleepy Jorge in his arms. Two small girls chase the dogs around the legs of the buffet table—or maybe it’s the other way around. Tails wagging, the dogs bark sharply. Mateo’s groupies, craning their necks toward the French doors, seem to have identified their newest target.
“Everyone seems to be having a great time,” I say.
“I know I am,” he says. I don’t have to turn around to know he is looking at me. I cross and uncross my arms, shift my weight from foot to foot, tuck my hair behind one ear, study the fascinating tile pattern under my feet. This flirting doesn’t feel generally harmless.
Wasn’t it just a few hours ago that we were so at ease together? Why am I so nervous? If this were Antonio beside me, I’d be making eyes right back at him, laughing inside at how much fun boys are when you don’t care where it’s all going to lead—as long as it leads to my big, fluffy bed. Wasn’t I the brazen hussy who, only two days ago, interrupted Antonio in mid–incomprehensible sentence, pulled him into an alley, and shoved her tongue into his surprised but accommodating mouth? But this isn’t Antonio. Far from playing fill-in-the-blanks when Mateo talks, I soak up every word he says to be replayed later as I fall asleep, one of the early warning signs that I could be falling for a guy. Even this stilted, awkward moment will be fodder for fantasy, no doubt with me recast as a grown woman who is unflappably witty and charming even when being stared down by a smart, funny, unbelievably sexy man. But here I am, irreparably stilted and awkward, a reprise of the disheveled, discomfited girl he first met. I might as well be sporting the same rumpled clothes, bedhead, and smeared makeup. I down the rest of my wine and excuse myself to get a refill. Maybe another drink will help. And if it doesn’t, if I absolutely must be stilted and awkward, I’m sure as hell not going to do it in front of him. For the rest of the evening, I do a good job of being in any room that does not contain Mateo. Wherever he is, a group of women is always close at hand. Sometime after two, I can see his mop of black curls toward the back of the courtyard, where he’s been talking to an elderly couple. Mateo looks up and scans the courtyard every few minutes. I hide in the salon under the pretense of gathering empty glasses. French doors and dozens of people safely separate us until Andrea’s guests begin to leave. As they depart in twos and threes, they leave gaping holes in the crowd, clearing a path between us. He looks up again, and our eyes meet. I stick my tongue out at him, but he doesn’t laugh, only says something to the man beside him and disappears.
The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club Page 16
