Can’t I have at least a little Mateo with my Dan?
Everything is backward here, is my theory. On the other side of the world, you can’t trust your impulses. How else to explain my temporary insanity those first months here, or why Dan—a sort of Jeff 2.0 but with all the bugs removed—doesn’t quite do it for me? If I’d met Dan in Seattle instead of Buenos Aires, as Trish has suggested, I might feel differently. Maybe after the sexual whirlwind of Antonio and the emotional confusion of Mateo, a decent, earnest, available guy like Dan doesn’t stand a chance. Then again, aren’t you supposed to fall faster in foreign places? Isn’t that the whole idea of the travel fling? Yet when I’m with Dan, there’s no denying it: I don’t want to be flung.
I take a final sip of coffee and start the trek back to the yellow house.
Reaching Andrea’s, I listen for sounds of tinkering but don’t hear anything. Just in case, I slink through the great iron gate as quietly as one can after consuming the yearly coffee export of Colombia. Only inside do I hear Mateo in the foyer, wrestling with the wires of the old chandelier that burns through bulbs every few weeks. The iron door latch thuds into place behind me, and he looks up from his work. He eyes my suspiciously empty hands. I realize that I don’t have any grocery bags with me. “Get lost?”
“Oh, yeah. Ha!” I look around the room, vying for time. “Actually, I forgot my wallet.”
“You’ve been gone for three hours,” he points out.
“I went for a walk.” His strong, accusatory gaze makes me squirm. “Lost track of time.”
Mateo doesn’t say a word, only nods curtly and turns back to his work. I climb the stairs to my apartment quickly, exaggerating my steps to drown out the sound of tools clanking in his toolbox.
I sit on my bed and kick off my shoes. What must Mateo be thinking? He’s probably happy that he’s free of the crazy American. I sigh. Oh, well. That’s the way you wanted it, right?
Head buzzing with coffee, I wake up my laptop and see an e-mail waiting from [email protected]. “Thank You! Thank You! Thank You!” she shouts at me from the subject line. I don’t realize who it’s from until I’ve read a ways.
Dearest Cassie,
What you have done is a wonderful thing. By telling people about our cause on your website you make us known and this is very important. Some people have sent money to help. Many people write with good thoughts. A reporter is going to tell everyone about us in a newspaper! Thank you for caring about the Madres. Please come and visit us again soon. We all love you.
Augustina
I stare at the screen for a long while, taking it in. I never expected much to come of that quiet plea on my little blog. An hour or so of time, a few square inches on a Web page. Nothing, really. But I’m glad to have helped, if only in some small way. I’m trying to express this in the simplest terms to Augustina in my reply when there’s a knock at my door.
Mateo calls my name softly.
Maybe it’s all the coffee, but my heart jumps into my throat at the sound. Between leaping from my bed and wrapping my shaking hand around the doorknob, the next few minutes spin out wildly before me. Screw The Plan! I will apologize for avoiding him, will throw my arms around him and beg him to forgive me for being so stupid. He will tell me it doesn’t matter, that everything is going to be okay. We will kiss a kiss to put every romantic kiss to shame, and he will lift me up and take me back to the rumpled bed. Grinning madly, I open the door and there he stands, an Argentine god, a slash of black grease on his forehead, his beautiful green eyes locked on mine. I can almost taste his lips on my lips, smell his skin against my skin.
“Mateo.” I inhale and hold the letters on my tongue, expec-tant, readying myself. For a moment, a long moment, he doesn’t speak, just stares at me, unreadable.
Finally, he says, “There’s someone here to see you.”
I exhale, deflated.
“Oh.” And then I remember—Dan insisting on the phone this morning that he would pick me up and walk with me to El Taller. “That must be my friend Dan.” I’m not sure why I feel the need to explain, but the explanation has little effect on Mateo anyway. He doesn’t say another word, just slips away down the dark stairs.
First Antonio, now Dan. I can only imagine what Mateo thinks of me. Or worse, that maybe he doesn’t think of me at all.
I check myself in the mirror. My face is flushed, my chest splotchy. I look away quickly, embarrassed once again at this man’s ability to turn me into a silly schoolgirl, at how ready I am to throw everything away. And for what? A man who lives on the other side of the world. A man who doesn’t believe in happily ever after. A man who will forget about me the moment I step on that plane in December. You’d think I would have learned from Antonio. Am I really willing to set myself back to where I started—with nothing and no one—for another fling with a man I can have no future with?
It’s the coffee, I tell myself. The stuff’s like crack here. It’s got me all jittery and jumpy and confused. Gotta watch that. I pat back a loose lock of hair, grab my purse, and slip into my sandals. Dan is waiting. He might not be my dream man, I tell myself, but there could be potential. At the very least, he won’t get in the way of the dream. I repeat this in my head on my way down the stairs.
As we walk to the café, Dan talks and I nod. He could be confessing he’s Seattle’s Green River Killer, and I wouldn’t have a clue. Inside my head, I am doing battle with the image of Mateo at my door. I conjure up Jeff’s face, a sort of aversion therapy. There will be no more time wasted on inappropriate men. There will be no more time wasted, period.
Dan says something that sounds like a question, so I say, “Sure.” Then his hand, warm and dry, is lacing itself through mine. What did I just agree to? I look at him for some clue. He looks straight ahead, grinning widely. Not knowing how to extricate my hand without hurting his feelings, I leave it there.
By the time we reach El Taller, Dan is positively beaming. But I can’t possibly walk into the café like this. Everyone will think we are a couple. Are we a couple? No, that’s silly. This is just a distraction. I mean, we haven’t even kissed yet.
But Dan is smiling an awful lot.
I break free from his hand at the café entrance, making a show of opening the door with two hands. Dan puts an arm around my shoulders. I break free again and make an even bigger show of saying hello to all the regulars and welcoming all the newcomers. Dan, unflappable, doesn’t seem to mind that I plant myself at the opposite end of the table—he simply gets up, asks Jeremy from Alaska to shift over one, and plants himself beside me. I promised myself I wouldn’t lead Dan on, but I wasn’t prepared for him to lead himself.
But my concerns about Dan are quickly replaced by something far more perturbing. As we make our toast, I sense someone behind me. I turn quickly, nearly spilling my beer on Mateo, who stands inches from my elbow. He is grinning that devilish grin, but tonight it looks more sinister than playful.
“Well, well,” he says loudly. “If it isn’t the Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club.”
The group bursts into approving laughter.
“It appears that some of you are less heartbroken than others.” With that, he looks at me sharply, then at Dan, his smile flattening into a tight line. A few people snicker, catching the joke. Dan, beaming at the acknowledgment, seems to grow three inches taller in his seat. I want to crawl under the table and stay there until everyone leaves. Instead I sit perfectly still, my beer frozen in the air, a wholly unbelievable smile stretched across my face.
Mateo smiles warmly at the group. “Can I get anyone another drink?” Drink orders erupt from around the table. Mateo laughs and puts his hand on our waitress’s arm as she passes by, signaling her to take over. Jamie, a fun, busty woman from Vancouver with a booming voice, tries to get him to stay. He declines politely. Too much paperwork to do tonight. Yeah, right.
“Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club,” says Tony, laughing. He rarely laughs. “That’s hilarious.”
> “Fucking brilliant!” declares Jamie above the din of chitchat and beer pouring. “I love it!” I had considered making Jamie my new Buenos Aires best friend, but I am seriously rethinking that.
Mike from Arizona proposes a new toast. “To the Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club.”
“That’s not the toast,” I whine, but no one hears me.
“To the Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club,” replies a chorus of voices. All around me, glasses clink.
I’m not in the mood for a crazy night out, not that anyone even asks me along anymore. We know it’s not in The Plan. When the others get organized to check out the infamous drag show at a local nightclub, I head out the door.
Outside, I feel a hand on my shoulder. Dan. Sweet, well-intentioned, hand-holding, perma-smiling Dan. On the walk home, with Dan as my chaperone, I keep my hands jammed as far as they’ll go into the shallow pockets of my pants. Seemingly oblivious, he chats happily about the tourist sights he wants to visit before he leaves. It gives me time to dissect the scene from earlier. What did Mateo mean by that Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club crack, anyway? Was it supposed to be clever or mean? “Who does he think he is to judge me like that?”
“Who does who think he is?”
“Oh, sorry. Nothing. Just thinking out loud.”
“Are you talking about that Matthew guy?”
“Mateo.”
“Whatever.”
“I was thinking about what he called us. It seemed sort of like an insult, didn’t it?”
“Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club?”
“Yeah.”
“Kind of funny, I guess. He’s your friend, isn’t he? I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it. Things get lost in translation.”
“No. No, it was definitely an insult. And he’s not my friend. Not anymore. Clearly.”
“Oh.” Dan’s voice lifts a notch, and his face brightens visibly. “Well, then, who cares what he calls us?”
“You’re right, Dan. Absolutely right. He can think whatever he wants. I couldn’t care less, to tell you the truth.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he says, looking down at me, earnest and hopeful. I change the subject to my fruitless job hunt. Nothing romantic about that.
A block later, Dan stops abruptly and wraps his hands around my biceps. Those earnest, hopeful eyes again. “Cassie, I—I like you a lot. I’m sure that’s completely obvious to you, but—”
I have to stop him before he goes any further, for his sake and mine. If he says too much, he won’t be able to stand the sight of me again.
“Dan,” I begin gently. “You’re a great guy. I just don’t think of you that way.” Even as it comes out of my mouth, it sounds so trite, I wish I could take it back and start again. I shuffle, search the ground for better words, but they aren’t to be found. “I go back to Seattle in seven weeks. You go back to Boston in five. We shouldn’t get attached.”
“Oh,” he says and lets go of my arms. “I thought maybe—”
“I’m sorry if I’ve given you the wrong impression.” It’s too hard to look him in the eyes. Those earnest, hopeful eyes. They’re kind of nice, a soft brown with bits of gold. Still, I catch myself wondering what he’d look like if they were green.
“No, you haven’t. Not really. But I was hoping.” He stares intently at a spot on the sidewalk to my right.
“I do like spending time with you.” Ugh. Trite again. “But if you have other expectations, maybe we shouldn’t hang out anymore.” I feel like I’m reciting from the Brush-off Manual. “Chapter 1: How to Crush His Spirit in 3 Easy Steps.”
“No, it’s fine. I get it. Hey, I gave it a shot. You never know how these things are going to turn out. That’s half the fun, right?” His eyes dart from sidewalk to tree to hooker on the corner to my elbow to sidewalk. I know it’s bullshit, but I take it gladly. He’s obviously read “Chapter 2: How to Play It Cool When You’ve Just Been Crushed.”
“Sure, I guess.”
“Don’t give it another thought. Anyway, I was thinking we should check out the Teatro Colón this week. There’s all these levels, and you can go backstage and see how everything’s made. What do you think?”
“That sounds like fun.” I encourage his ramblings on medieval costume making for the remaining two blocks, thanking God for the fragile but resilient male ego.
At my door, I can relax. Home free. I turn to say good night and realize midpivot that I have no idea what the appropriate form of salutation is in this situation. Do I kiss his cheek and risk his taking that the wrong way? Do I shake his hand and make him feel like a complete jerk? I settle on a quick one-armed hug. But when I pull back, Dan doesn’t. We stay locked like that, my chest curled away from his, an awkward gap between us, for too long. If I could will myself to want his touch, I would, for his sake. He releases me and steps back. “Is it that guy at the café?”
“Is what the guy at the café?”
“Is that why you . . . Are you and he . . .”
“No, not at all. I told you, we’re just friends.” Why am I always having to convince people of this fact? I see Mateo poised above me, his lip curling smugly as he releases his barb. “Well, we were just friends.”
“Is there someone back home?”
I think of Jeff, picture him with Lauren. They’re naked and on my old bed. She plays the cello, her long white legs wrapped around it, Jeff’s long tan legs wrapped around her. There’s a veil on her head. He wears a black bow tie. I wonder briefly if they’re married yet. I let the image slip into the dark night. Goodbye, Jeff.
“Nope,” I say. “No one back home.”
“So there’s no one here and there’s no one there.”
“There’s no one.” I breathe deeply, involuntarily, sucking in the suckiness of my far-from-stellar future. I want to be one of the transvestite prostitutes cackling under the streetlamp at the end of the block. I want to curl up in a ball on the sidewalk and fall asleep there forever. And at this moment, just a little, I want Dan’s arm around me again. “No one at all, really.”
“Then can I ask you something?” Dan inches closer, almost undetectably. Those few cautious inches wouldn’t amount to much if I weren’t, against my better judgment, doing the same.
“Sure. Shoot.”
“Will you at least consider it?”
“Consider what?” I know exactly what he means, but I want to hear him say it. I want someone to want me.
“Consider us. Don’t take it completely off the table? Because I think there could be something really good here. I think you might be the most amazing person I’ve ever met.”
I start to laugh at the idea, but Dan isn’t laughing. Gone are the puppy-dog eyes. He stares at me, focused, intent. He’s rather handsome when he’s serious like this, I note. But it’s not his classic bone structure so much as his resolve. What does he see that I don’t? Am I so blinded by my infatuation with the wrong guy, I wonder, that I can’t see something truly great in front of me?
“Cassie,” Dan says, his voice low and deep. “I think I could really fall for you.”
The words floor me. There it is, right in front of me: the possibility of being loved again.
Dan steps closer, so close we are almost touching. His hands cup my face and draw it up to his. He leans in, slow and tentative, until our lips are touching. It’s not a long kiss or the best kiss—a bit dry from too much wine—but it is earnest and hopeful, and now, right now, I find earnestness and hope utterly irresistible. Without a word, I open the great iron door, lead Dan inside, up the stairs, into my apartment and my bed.
It’s nothing like my nights with Antonio, nothing like how I’ve imagined a night with Mateo might be. Every move, both his and mine, is urgent and hurried, as though he is afraid I will change my mind. As though I am afraid of the same thing.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Did you know that most employers get more than a hundred applications for every job opening? This is just one of the many daunting stats I’
ve come across in my job-hunting research. But wait, it gets worse: Even if you’re lucky enough that someone actually notices your résumé in the slush pile, chances are he or she will read only the very top bit and the very last bit. I was thinking maybe I should send out a résumé with the complete lyrics to Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive” buried in the middle section of my employment history and see if anyone notices. I might not get a job, but at least I’ll grow strong, and I’ll learn how to carry on.
No wonder my blog readers have lost all interest in me, with subject matter like this. I’ve tried to add some spice to my detailed descriptions of job hunting or how I’ve decided to spend my first month back in Seattle, but there’s no way to make life under The Plan anything more than it is. No wonder [email protected], [email protected], and the rest of my former fan club are vastly more content to entertain one another via the comment function of my website. At first they used my less than titillating tales as a jumping-off point to splay open their own (generally unrelated) experiences for public consumption and commentary. Now they don’t even bother with the formality of polite illusion. They simply disregard what I’ve written and start in on their own infinitely more interesting lives. They’re discussing heartbreak and healing, and I’m debating the merits of various résumé formats and font sizes. Jeez, even I don’t want to read my blog anymore.
I’d stop altogether, but with almost a thousand hits and hundreds of comments made each day, the site serves a purpose greater than anything I could have imagined when I first put fingers to laptop. This growing family of broken hearts might not need my story to bring them together, but they still need one another.
C.J., my code-writing genius friend back home, has volunteered to build me a fancy new site, one with a designated place where readers can chat with one another. I’ll still keep the blog, I’ve decided—I’m not quite ready to lose all evidence of my time here—but it won’t be the main focus anymore. Like so many other things in my life, my website has outgrown me.
The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club Page 21
