Opening my eyes slowly, I let them process the room in the filtered light peeking through the trees outside my small balcony. It’s 6:27 (A.M. or P.M., I’m not sure), and the house is quiet. The screensaver on my laptop swirls away. I rise, stretch like a bear awakened from a winter’s hibernation, and open the curtains all the way. Pushing back the French windows, I step out onto the balcony. The air is still and thick and warm. My mind, clear and calm. That’s enough, I say to myself, mentally wiping my hands of the last three months. It’s time to get to work.
Someone knocks at my door. The phone rings several times. A child giggles in the hall. I am only vaguely aware of these things, like birds chirping from tall trees or cars honking on a distant stretch of freeway. My mp3 player provides a musical cocoon as I concentrate on the critical task at hand. I tell hours only by the end of albums and days by the end of my playlist. The sun comes and goes without much consequence. I get hungry and heat up some leftover pasta, get sleepy and lay my head down on the floor for a while.
But I don’t stop until it’s done. My new plan.
There it is in all its color-coded spreadsheet glory, page after page articulating in meticulous detail what, where, and with whom I will accomplish, how and when I will measure my success. It’s all there, the real life of Cassie Moore, the life that counts—and it starts now. No more of this floating. No more coasting or sailing or any other silly metaphors for not making responsible decisions. Responsible decisions are what add up to a life. Floating along, clueless and out of control, never got anybody anywhere, ever. Whatever happened to my friend Monica, who thought I was a baby because I wouldn’t tube down the river? She got knocked up by the quarterback and spent her senior year of high school “with an aunt in Ohio.”
No, floating wastes time and opportunity. The shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Measure twice, cut once. The last few months were a hiccup, a small bump in the road. Everything will be fine now, I tell myself. Everything will be perfect. I toggle through the pages of my new plan one more time, highly pleased. Item 1: No more Argentine men.
I haven’t answered the phone in two days, and I know there are probably a dozen messages on there from the El Taller gang, but my first call must be to Antonio. Before he can start into his usual Fabio shtick, I tell him plainly that I can’t see him anymore, that I’m no longer interested in casual dating. “I like you very much, Cassandra,” he says, cautiously. “Do you want I don’t date other women?”
“No,” I assure him. “I like you, too, but I don’t think you and I would work that way.”
“No entiendo,” he says quietly. I don’t understand. At first I assume he’s hurt but quickly catch myself. He actually doesn’t understand.
“I can’t see you anymore, Antonio. No more dates.”
“Ah,” he says, sounding a bit relieved. “Okay, Cassandra.”
We exchange e-mail addresses, at his request, and I promise, out of politeness, to keep in touch. I know I will never talk to him again, and, I’m sure, so does he.
That done, I check my messages. Zoey’s last one sounds somewhat panicked. “Are you coming to El Taller tonight? Tell me you’re coming. Everybody was so disappointed you weren’t there last time.” Julie has called to say much the same thing. There’s a message from Dan—it takes me a second to realize who that is. He’s asking if I’m okay. If I’m sick, he adds sweetly, he could stop by with some food or something. Finally, I hear Mateo’s voice, sheepish at first, and then it finds its usual confident tenor. The sound sends a nervous shiver through my body. “I’ve got to go to San Telmo on Saturday to bring something to a friend,” he says. “It’s an interesting old neighborhood. If you want to come along, I could pick you up around noon. You can bring your friend, if you’d like.” No mention of the other night, the strangely tense conversation about true love, the way we left each other, brisk goodbyes and no eye contact, at the foot of the stairs to my apartment. And what’s with all the references to friends? Could he be any more obvious? “I get it,” I announce to the room. “We’re just friends.”
Thank God we cleared that up. I know some of you have been rooting for me and M, but let’s face it, that was not going to happen in this lifetime. Things could have gotten way off track. Things already are—I don’t need the distraction of M to make it worse. Looking back, I can’t believe I even considered M and me a possibility. A fling is a fling, but what if M had wanted something more? That would have been a nightmare, not to mention awkward with Andrea and the house and everything.
[email protected], I should have listened to you when you said to “always trust your first instincts.” Wise advice. My first instincts told me that I couldn’t trust M, and so there you go. Well, glad that’s settled. I’ve got to get back on track. No place for M in my new plan, that’s for sure. No place for romance of any kind until I’m home again. Enough of these distractions. Yes, thank God. Now we can just go on as friends, simple and safe and no ambiguities to distract me. It’s so much better this way. Better than better. Great.
This is the way I explain it to Zoey. We meet at El Taller early so I can catch her up on the last two days before everyone else descends. She shakes her head at me while I sip my beer. “You’ve been having a blast—didn’t you tell me last week that this was the best time of your entire life?—and now you’re going to give all that up because some asshole in Seattle is getting married to some other asshole? I don’t get it. I just don’t get it.” She shakes her head at me again and looks at me like I’m an alien she’s suddenly noticed.
“It’s not about Jeff,” I try to explain. “It’s about the big picture. Yes, I’m having a good time, but what happens in three months when I have to go home? What will all this do for me then?”
“Who knows? At least you’ll have fun finding out.”
I can’t expect Zoey to understand. In this way, we are from different planets—or solar systems. She lives in a world so far from mine, I’m sure the sky must be a different color, a beautiful shade of mauve, maybe. There is no tomorrow for Zoey, only mañana.
My blog readers don’t get it, either. I try to explain The Plan and how important it is to me—posting it in all its color-coded glory to illustrate my point—but they side with Zoey. Like her, they blame it all on my broken heart or, more specifically, on the one who broke it. “Never let a man dictate the way you live your life,” rails [email protected]. [email protected] insists that if I don’t do what makes me happy, I will have “a long, miserable future ahead—and no one wants to read that blog.” Their intentions are good, I know, but they can’t possibly understand. They don’t really know me, not the whole Cassie, only Buenos Aires Cassie, blog Cassie. And they don’t have to live my life, do they?
Still, their posts sting less than Trish’s reaction on the phone this morning. “I knew it! I knew it!” she declared a bit too smugly. “It was just a matter of time before the old Cassie resurfaced.”
I’m not sure if I was more bothered by Trish’s lack of confidence in me or by the fact that, like her, I’d suspected all along that it was only a matter of time before I reverted to my old ways. Or, rather, came to my senses. Either way, the old Cassie has indeed resurfaced. If it isn’t obvious from the amount of time I spent choosing, ironing, and accessorizing my outfit this evening (denim skirt, white tee, leather sandals, gold hoop earrings and thin bangle) or the care I took in packing my handbag (map, passport copy, gum, sunscreen, sunglasses, Argentine pesos, and American dollars, just in case), or the obsessive checking of keys, locks, and aforementioned handbag contents before and after leaving the apartment, it is obvious in the way my leg jumps under the table at El Taller as I wait for everyone to arrive, my need to know what’s next manifested in small jerking movements.
What is distinctly different is how this old tic makes me uneasy, the familiar nervous energy, so antithetical to the luxuriously slow pace of a Buenos Aires evening, which I have come to admire.
But I don’t have to think about that right now. The gang streams in one by one, familiar and fresh faces brimming with anticipation of a unique and memorable evening. There are those brief moments of pseudocelebrity when newcomers ask, “Which one of you is Cassie?” and then we mix easily, like old friends meeting again after too much time.
I never cease to marvel at the instant bonding that occurs on these nights. There is rarely a trace of awkwardness as we fall quickly into what Maria calls “camaraderie of the road.” Along with small bowls of peanuts and olives (I’ve grown to love them) and toothpicked cheese, bottles of wine and beer quickly fill the table’s center. More than anything, we are thirsty for one another’s stories. When we tell our stories, there is no turning back. We may never see one another again—many people come only once, stopping in the city for a few days on their way to Patagonia or Brazil or wherever—but once you’ve sat at this table, you are one of us forever.
Tonight, as always, all is simpatico under the tawny lights of El Taller. When all sixteen of us have found a seat, I raise my glass of beer for our customary toast, which feels particularly appropriate. “Here’s to the ones we love. Here’s to the ones who love us. Here’s to the ones we love who don’t love us. Hell, screw them all, here’s to us!” Half the table joins in, and everyone laughs, clinks glasses, cheers, claps hands. Another good night with my sisters and brothers of the broken heart has officially begun.
A woman named Beth stands up to say hello and tell us about herself, as all the newbies are asked to do. It breaks the ice and provides new material for the night’s inevitable debates, jokes, and brilliant theories to be concocted. Beth is from Cleveland, and she’s a lesbian. Her long-term girlfriend left her for a man she met at a carpet cleaners’ convention. “And yes,” she says with a self-deprecating grin, “I do see the irony.” Everyone laughs. Someone squeezes her arm supportively. Next a Scottish guy named Ryan who’s recovering from a six-year sexless marriage takes us on a hilarious journey through his many traveling conquests (none of which involve climbing mountains). I can’t understand half of what he’s saying, since his brogue thickens with each cheap beer, but Julie seems positively mesmerized by the pale, lanky redhead. Perhaps he reminds her of the Canadian boys back home, I think with a grin. Maria and I exchange hopeful glances across the row of tables. This is Julie’s last week in Argentina, and she could use a bit of wild abandon before she goes home.
Zoey is at the far end of the table, near the windows. She’s so tiny, I can see only the top of her wild mass of hair peeking out from behind the row of laughing people between us. Dan, bolder than usual, has squished himself between two women at my end of the table. He doesn’t say much, but when I speak he watches me so intensely I feel myself blushing several times. He has the classic look of a boy with a crush—wide eyes, perpetual smile. I train my eyes on our Scottish storyteller. Don’t want to give the poor boy false hope.
The Scot finishes his bawdy tale, and the table breaks into smaller conversations. That’s my cue to do some mingling. Since I’m technically the host, I always feel obliged to talk to everybody. It’s also a good excuse to get Dan talking to the pretty blonde beside him. “Joan,” I say, smiling warmly, “did you know that Dan here is from Boston?” Joan’s face lights up. As she peppers Dan with excited questions about his hometown, I push back my chair and rise from the table.
I don’t get far. Turning around, I come face-to-face with Mateo. I’ve never seen him here at night, and the sight of him stuns me. I had planned everything for tonight except how to deal with seeing him. Before I can think of something to say, he plants an enthusiastic kiss on my cheek. I fumble to return it before he pulls back.
“You never called me back,” he says, offering the most incredible smile. I want to dive into that smile and swim around in it. “You’re not avoiding me again, are you?”
“Oh, hello,” I stammer. Of course I’ve been avoiding him, but suddenly I forget why. “Was I supposed to call you?” Be cool, Cassie. Remember The Plan. No more Argentine men.
“About this weekend. San Telmo?”
“Right. Sorry, I meant to. I just . . .” God, he’s sexy. Crisp blue button-down and dark jeans. There is a ruby flush to his clean-shaven cheeks. He looks good. Too good.
“Don’t tell me we’re breaking up already?” He laughs. It doesn’t matter that he’s being facetious. The sentiment sends a shiver down my legs. Worse, he tilts his head and grins from one side of his mouth. That devil smile I love.
I laugh awkwardly and too long, like a thirteen-year-old on her first date. “Sorry. Really. I meant to call. I’ve just been really busy.”
“I suppose I can forgive you.” Mateo touches my arm and grins sweetly. I give that stupid laugh again. Only when I stop, and Mateo and I are standing in silence, do I realize that my end of the table has gotten very quiet, too. Dan’s smile, I notice, has disappeared. I turn to our audience. “Oh, everybody, this is my friend Mateo.” Too much emphasis on the word “friend,” perhaps. Dan’s mouth relaxes into a semi-smile.
“Holas” erupt from the table. Mateo nods and smiles, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his jeans. It’s funny how obvious it is to me now, after knowing him for only a short time, that what I once mistook for smugness is actually shyness—especially endearing, since I can’t imagine why anyone like Mateo would ever be shy.
“I don’t want to interrupt,” he says more to me than the group.
“You must be really busy,” I say a bit too quickly. The words come out before I can check myself. Still, it doesn’t matter how awkward I sound. There is nothing between us. This has no future. The Plan, Cassie, remember The Plan.
“Right.” He furrows his brow and looks at me as if he’s trying to place me, as if he doesn’t recognize me. I hate that he’s looking at me like that. It’s all I can do not to reach out and touch his hand for reassurance.
Zoey, unwitting savior, springs to my side. “Mateo! ¡Hola!” She leans in, and he plants a hearty kiss on her cheek. “You must join us for a drink.” So much for my savior.
He glances at me and then away. “I’d better not.” Does he know I don’t want him to stay? With him standing inches away from me, my eyes trained on his chest rising and falling under black fabric, I’m not even sure what I want. I wonder if he has black curls under there, too. I bet they’re as soft as his hair. He adds, “We’re really busy tonight.”
A mixture of relief and disappointment washes over me. I do want him to go, but only because I don’t know how to be around him. This is not the old Cassie. The old Cassie could turn off her feelings for a wrong guy in a heartbeat. I’ve done it dozens of times. And we haven’t so much as kissed each other. I am not a thirteen-year-old girl. Snap out of it, Cassie.
“Yeah, of course.” I look around the room as if to confirm that it’s busy, though I know full well that it is—any excuse to avoid prolonged eye contact. “We totally understand.”
“But I’ll see you Saturday?” He looks at me, hopeful, insecure. It kills me.
“Saturday? Oh, right. I, uh . . . I don’t think I can, actually.” What I mean is I don’t think I can be anywhere near you without wanting to jump you.
“Oh.”
“I just have all this Spanish homework.” I know it’s a lame excuse the moment it comes out of my mouth, but it’s all I can come up with. “We have our final exam next week.”
“Since when do you care about Spanish class?” Zoey asks, laughing.
“Since always,” I shoot back quickly, flaring my eyes at her.
“No, sure,” Mateo says, looking around the room as though distracted by something. “I’m going there anyway, and I just thought you might want to tag along. No big deal.”
“Thanks for the invitation,” I say.
“Of course.”
“Maybe another time.”
“Maybe.” Mateo checks his watch. “Have a good night.”
“Thanks, Mateo,” I say.
“Yeah,
thanks, Mateo!” Zoey calls out loudly as he disappears into the back office. When he’s fully out of sight, she turns and whispers, “You are certifiably insane.”
I don’t see Mateo again all night, though I watch for him from the corner of my eye. Emboldened, Dan attempts to engage me in various conversations over the course of the evening. Where did I grow up? What school did I go to? What is my family like? Do I miss Seattle? What’s it like living with all that rain? Once upon a time I would have loved the attention from a cute guy like Dan. But I am no longer in the mood for flirting, or even socializing, for that matter. I simply nod, shake my head, or offer one-word answers. I’ve lost my appetite, too, thanks to this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I switch from beer to coffee to water. At midnight I excuse myself from the party, despite protests from my friends. They’re planning to hit Pacha, a huge, internationally known club on the river. Thousands of Porteños grinding to electronic music as the sun comes up over the water. I’ve been wanting to go for weeks, Zoey reminds me. It was my idea in the first place.
I shake my head apologetically. I’m not in the mood for any more fun. When everyone is distracted with calculating the tip, I throw my share on the table and slip out the door into the black night, leaving the roar of their laughter and El Taller’s warm glow behind me.
On the way home, somewhere after the Mexican restaurant with its cheerful patio lanterns and wide sidewalk seating, distracted, I take a wrong turn. I’ve walked this route so many times, I assumed I could do it in my sleep. But here I am, at least three blocks in the wrong direction, staring at the half-pink, half-blue house, illuminated on one side by an interior light. As always, there is no sign of life within. Even the cats have abandoned their post tonight. Under the cover of darkness, I stand at the gate and take in the whole heartbreaking sight. It’s sadder tonight than ever, this home interrupted.
That’s it, I decide. I will not waver. No one will keep me from having the life I want, no matter how sexy, cute, sweet, or charming he is. What will my new friends have to show for their time here? Lighter wallets? A few more notches on their headboards? Countless blurry memories?
The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club Page 18
