Small clicks on a wood floor announce Andrea before she appears. The lights flood on. Before she can get a word out, I fly across the hall and throw my arms around her.
“¿Que pasa, chica?” she asks with a smile in her voice, leaning back to get a good look at me.
“Bugs . . . big bugs,” I manage to spurt out between deep breaths. “Cockroaches . . . huge . . . flying.”
“Ah, sí, sí, sí.” Andrea nods knowingly. “Storm comes, they come.” Okay, that’s something she might have mentioned earlier.
As Andrea recounts the damage the last summer storm wreaked, I see something moving on the wall behind her.
“Oh, God.” I point to the crawling brown spot. “There’s one right there. Behind you. Oh, jeez, it’s moving. Oh, God.”
Andrea turns slowly. The roach scurries toward a crack in the stucco, but before it can reach its destination, a demure blue slingback does it in. The crumpled insect drops to the floor, leaving a smudge of blood on the white wall. “Ha!” Andrea exclaims proudly and continues with her story.
It takes two refills of maté and three non-bug-related stories for me to get the courage to go up to my apartment alone. They rarely find their way upstairs, she assures me. Unless I left the balcony window open. Did I leave the window open? I can’t remember. Shit, shit, shit.
Does she want me to go up with her? she offers kindly.
“No, gracias.” I do want her to come upstairs with me, but I don’t want her to think I am one of those women who fall apart at the sight of a tiny spider. Worse, I don’t want her telling Mateo this later on. Anna is probably one of those women—and she probably looks lovely when she shrieks. But I am not one of those women. I am in Argentina, for God’s sake! On the other side of the world! All alone! And I haven’t been kidnapped or killed or anything! I will not let a bug send me into hiding!
Then again, those weren’t tiny Seattle spiders out there. Those were huge flying Argentine cockroaches.
I move toward the stairs and think of the Madres, the shrunken Leonora and her sisters marching against all fear and doubt. I think of Andrea and her little blue shoe. My whole body shivers when I pass the smudge on the wall, but I keep going.
Thank God I remembered to close the window. Exhausted, I fall onto the bed with all the weight of the day. The air inside my suite is warm, but I can breathe easy. I slowly suck in air and let it out in a soothing gush. The next breath turns into a chuckle. The chuckle morphs into full belly laughter. Cassie Moore, ex–Web producer, ex-fiancée, expat, and brave survivor of flying cockroach attack. If Mateo could see me now, he’d surely push aside his lovely Anna for the chance to be with such a strong, fearless woman. I picture it in my head, giggling, and then shake off the silly thought.
Enough already. When will this crush go away? If I can (almost) get over Jeff in four months, I can stop thinking about Mateo—now. But then I remember the softness of his hand against my elbow, the concern in his eyes. God, I hope this is only a crush. Either way, I’ll be back in Seattle soon enough. If I’m still set on messing up The Plan and ruining my life once I’m back, I’m sure I’ll be able to find plenty of underemployed garage-band musicians to waste my time on.
It can’t be all that late, and I am still fully clothed and covered in a thin layer of dirt and debris, but sleep comes, and who am I to argue with it. A Seattle version of Mateo—his hair is long and tied into a ponytail, his shirt plaid and untucked—is making me an extra-foam sugar-free vanilla cappuccino and telling me he likes my spunk when a loud buzzing sound blasts over the PA system. PA system? I come to and realize it’s the phone ringing.
Mateo? My hands stumble over books, clock, hairbrush on the nightstand until they find the phone.
“Hello?” I say hopefully.
“Hola, chica,” says the peppy voice on the other end. Definitely not Mateo.
“Who is this?”
“It’s Dan.” Oh. Dan. “¿Como estás?” He pronounces every syllable so clearly, so Americanly. I was wrong: Spanish spoken with an American accent isn’t sexy.
“Hi, Dan. I’m good, thanks. Just sort of . . .” I check the clock. 8:48 P.M. Jeez. “Napping.”
“Oh, well, I don’t want to bug you.” Bug. The word gives me the heebie-jeebies. “I just wanted to see if you wanted to, I don’t know, maybe get a bite to eat or something.”
“Now?”
“If you’re not busy.”
I knew this was coming, and yet I am totally unprepared. He’s so nice, and the stories about his ex-girlfriend are so awful. He rarely mentions her to me, but I’ve heard all the stories through Zoey and Julie. The poor guy has suffered enough. I can’t bear to hurt his feelings.
“Well, there’s a storm on its way.” The French doors rattle ominously, as if to prove my point.
“Right, right. Best to stay put, then.”
“Yeah.”
“What about tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow’s El Taller.” There’s a crash outside. Hopefully not one of Andrea’s beloved sculptures.
“Course. Duh.”
“But thanks for the—”
“The day after that?”
“Oh, well, maybe. I don’t know.” The French doors swing open violently and bash against the walls. “Oh, shit. Shit shit shit.”
“What happened?”
“Shit.” The balcony doors pop against the walls in a fit, glass panes warbling. I pull them closed and lock them this time. And put a chair in front of the latch. And sit on the chair.
“Are you okay?”
“No, not really.”
“Should I come over?”
“No!” I say a little too emphatically. “No, I’m fine. Dan, can I get back to you?”
“Okay. Yeah, sure. You’re a busy girl. No worries. As long as you’re okay . . .”
He’s talking so fast. Nerves, I guess. In the month or so that I’ve known him, I’ve never seen him with a girl outside the group or even heard him talk about one, except his ex. The last thing he needs is more rejection. I know that better than anyone. But will a pity date only make things worse in the long run? What if his crush turns into something real? We’re supposed to be helping each other get over heartbreak, not cause more. Then again, he is kind of cute. And nice. And successful. Trish would say, Don’t waste your time. If you don’t feel it, you don’t feel it. Sam would say, What the hell, you never know. Zoey would wait until after she’d had sex with him to make a final decision. The thought of having sex with Dan makes me uncomfortable. He’s too . . . what? Maybe I don’t feel a spark because I’ve been deluding myself about someone so completely unavailable. What if I give him a chance now that I’ve got all that Mateo nonsense behind me? Because it is behind me, right? Yes, behind me.
“Why don’t I give you a call tomorrow?” he’s saying. “You can let me know then.”
He sounds so insecure, so fragile. I don’t want to lead him on if I’m not sure. Best to nip this in the bud.
“Dan, I appreciate the offer. Really. It’s just that I—”
“I’ll call tomorrow, okay?” He hangs up before I can respond. Oh well, I’ll deal with it tomorrow.
Tired, hungry, and still frazzled from my near-death-by-flying-cockroach experience, all I want to do is watch some bad TV. But The Plan doesn’t allow for slacking. So I make a grilled cheese sandwich and rework my résumé while I eat. Trish, confidence bolstered by her recent career advancement, has sagely suggested that I add a list of achievements under each job. It seemed like a great idea at the time, but my “achievements” are looking pretty scant. How many different ways can I say “created a master spreadsheet” and “was a scheduling genius”?
Forty minutes and four million undos later, I realize with great pain that my boss was right. I did my job well, but I never did anything exceptional. No wonder she fired me. The realization is like an anvil falling on my head and setting off a series of land mines buried underneath. Does that mean Jeff was right to dump me, too? Was
I as dull in our relationship as I was at work? All that time I spent being a perfect fiancée, doing all the perfect things a perfect fiancée does—should I have been different?
Andrea says Argentine women are famous for keeping their men guessing. They alternate affection and aloofness until the poor guy doesn’t know whether he’s coming or going. It’s a point of pride, a game that keeps the passion alive. She’s not like this with Martin, quite the opposite, actually, but maybe that’s because they’re separated all the time—the game of withholding is built into the relationship already. Anna, with her sweet smile and long dark hair, is probably a master at the game. And she’s going home with Mateo while I’m sitting on my bed, hunched over my laptop, a hardening cheese sandwich balanced on one knee.
But games aren’t in my nature. I am who I am. Straight talker. Plan maker. Creator of spreadsheets. I don’t take risks. I don’t run with scissors. I don’t disappoint people. So why do I feel so disappointed in myself?
I’m roused from my thoughts by small scratching sounds, like nails on wood. “Basta,” I say toward the door, assuming it’s little Chico looking for a fetch partner as usual. The scratching doesn’t stop. I go to the door, but there’s no dog behind it. The house is quiet down below. The sound is coming from inside the apartment. The wind is strong, and the house is old and, no doubt, full of drafts, loose boards, and other charmingly noisy quirks. I walk around the room, trying to locate the sound, but just when I think I’ve found it—beside the desk, under the table—it stops and starts up somewhere else.
As though it’s moving.
I’m not sure I want to know what the noise is anymore, as long as it stops.
It doesn’t stop, but it does park itself behind the headboard. The bed is heavy. I manage to pull it half a foot away from the wall and peek my head around slowly, eyes squinting protectively. There, looking up at me—if those are its eyes—is an enormous cockroach.
I jump back and hear it scurry down the wall and then, oh, dear God, under the bed. I grab the closest shoe and scramble onto the mattress. All is quiet for a moment. Then the scratching starts again. It’s moving, I scream inside my head, it’s moving! I lean over the edge of the bed, armed with the tennis shoe. A shiny brown head, antennae twitching, pokes out of the shadows into the light. The body follows. I take a deep breath. Oh, God, I pray, please don’t move. Just stay right there. I raise the tennis shoe slowly, trying not to think about the sound of Andrea’s roach crunching against the wall downstairs, like squishing a grape and a peanut M&M at the same time. Another deep breath. Steady, Cassie. Steady.
But it hears me (or maybe it smells my fear) and scuttles away, toward the armoire. I’ve got to kill it now or it’ll be in there with my clothes, and that means there’s a good chance I’ll be wearing this cardigan and these capri pants for the next eight weeks. But it’s too fast. Scared to get off the bed, I throw the shoe. It hits the floor three inches too far to the right, and the huge shiny brown flying cockroach slips safely under the armoire.
I reach gingerly for the other tennis shoe, careful not to touch the floor. I perch on the foot of the bed, armed with the second tennis shoe, and watch the floor near the armoire for signs of movement.
“Please stay there,” I whisper to my new roommate. “I’ll stay here if you’ll stay there.” I sit like this until there is a crack in the sky and the courtyard beyond the French doors floods with light. The rain comes down hard. The sound is a relief. It drowns out everything else.
I reach for the phone and dial.
“¿Hola?”
“Okay. Dinner. I’ll go out with you. If you still want to.”
“Of course I still want to,” Dan says with a chuckle. “I’ll pick you up Friday at nine.”
We say good night. Dan hangs up. I fall asleep in a ball at the end of the bed, still clutching the phone in one hand and the tennis shoe in the other.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Our Spanish course over, Zoey is going home, and I am already missing my smart, funny, stylish friend. I’d known that she wasn’t here forever—none of us is—but her imminent absence has still come as a shock to me. At our last meal together, surrounded by a dozen new and old friends, we fail miserably at our promise not to cry. As Rick from Calgary rounds the table, refilling everyone’s glasses with red wine, and Gina from Texas recounts the calamitous tale of her first post-divorce date with a taxidermist who gave her a stuffed chipmunk in lieu of flowers, Zoey and I huddle antisocially in the corner and play the “remember when” game.
“Remember when you first met Antonio?” she says. “Your face went bright red, and you could barely talk to him all through lunch.”
“Remember when that guy grabbed your arm and pulled you onto the dance floor?” I giggle. “I’ve never seen somebody flail his arms with such talent.”
These things may have happened only months or weeks ago, but it is our only history, so we hold on to every memory with both hands. It’s all we have. At the end of Gina’s story, we are wet-faced and hysterical. “It wasn’t that funny,” the Texan insists. We both burst into laughter.
Zoey and I promise to visit each other back home and to e-mail constantly, but behind these promises we harbor the unspoken truth that the friendship we embraced so voraciously here—for travelers, I have learned, must be voracious with their friendships—won’t be easily re-created on a Seattle pier or a New York subway.
“This was the best time, you know,” she whispers to me the next morning as we wait for her taxi to the airport to arrive. “Nothing will be the same as Buenos Aires.”
She didn’t tell me that Buenos Aires wouldn’t be the same, either. Without my new best friend, the sheen has been stripped from everything, and the city seems a little grayer, a little duller, a little less Zoey. Just when I thought I was getting to know Buenos Aires so well, the city turns on her beautifully crafted leather heels and disappears. When I stroll the streets of Palermo Viejo, I see only cracked foundations, loose stones, piles of dog crap crumbling in the South American sun. The history, the beauty, has evaporated in the fierce heat. The late-spring sun beats down on the sagging city, and the endless blue sky is a heavy blanket I can’t shake.
Not to sound like a weathergirl, but the heat in Buenos Aires has gotten positively oppressive. Or maybe it just feels hot in comparison to M’s chilly treatment these days. If any of you has any lingering doubts about my reasons for backing away—because I like to flatter myself with thinking there was something between us to back away from—he has made them moot. Aside from the concern he displayed on the street that night of the storm, he has become distant, almost unfriendly. Right back where we started.
Okay, I probably should have called him the next day to say I’d made it home alive, like he asked me to, but I’d have had to ask about Anna, out of politeness, and I’d rather shave my head than listen to M going on about his great new relationship. So hiding in my stuffy apartment all afternoon the following day was maybe a bit juvenile, but when I heard M downstairs, helping install a new security system, I panicked. And yes, sitting slumped down in my seat to avoid making eye contact with him the other night at El Taller wasn’t my finest hour, either, but it seems easier to avoid him altogether.
Besides, not having to think about M and what he’s feeling has freed up an unbelievable amount of time that is better spent on getting my new plan going. I really think things are turning around.
I don’t tell my blog readers that I miss Mateo—our talks, his quick wit, his devilish smile, his passionate cynicism. I hardly like to admit it to myself. What’s the point? Whatever my reasons for avoiding him, Mateo seems to have given in to them easily enough. He has stopped calling, stopped knocking on my door in the middle of the day to see if I want to go for coffee. That night at El Taller, he knew my group was there but never came over to say hello. I was relieved and disappointed.
And now I’ve gone and made things worse. I was heading out for a cup of coffee this morning, su
ffering through a massive caffeine craving because I’d run desperately low on groceries, and there he was, looking far too good in a tight T-shirt and jeans, oiling the hinges of the French doors in Andrea’s great hall. I was surprised to see him—couldn’t Martin take care of something that simple now that he was home?
“Hola,” I said weakly.
“Hola,” he returned abruptly. Then, his face softening into something resembling a smile, he asked if I might want to go for a cup of coffee. “It’s been awhile.”
I offered the lame but conveniently true excuse about needing groceries.
“I’ll come with you,” he offered, but I insisted I was fine by myself.
“No need for both of us to go out in this heat.”
He nodded slowly and turned back to his work. I watched him fiddle with his tools for a second or two, then caught myself and slipped out the front door.
I walked for over a mile, finally settling on a café where I have sat for almost three hours nursing one giant café con leche after another. How things have changed, I muse. When I first arrived I couldn’t get over how rude and unwelcoming Mateo was, picking over each new injury he seemed to throw my way. Now I am the one shunning his friendship. Every week I befriend a tableful of strangers, but with Mateo, this simple thing seems too risky. Dangerous.
And yet the time I spend with Dan doesn’t scare me in the least. Isn’t that how you know when someone is right for you? When he makes you feel perfectly at ease all the time?
We’ve spent several days together, and while I’d be hard-pressed to find a single thing wrong with Dan, something isn’t right. He’s great. Really, really great. Smart, fun, toothachingly sweet, ambitious but not obsessively so, and clearly into me. But I don’t feel it. And though I might not know exactly what “it” is, I sure as hell know when it’s missing. When Mateo’s eyes landed on mine from across the hall this morning, it was like a lightning bolt had shot straight through me. My mouth went dry, my palms damp. When he gave up on me and turned back to his toolbox, I felt as though all that energy had instantly drained out and onto the floor. Okay, so Mateo isn’t the guy for me, so I’m crushing on him like a teenage girl—does that mean I should settle for less than that feeling with someone else?
The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club Page 20
