by Mia Sosa
I don’t know what to say to that. There’s nothing to get through. Not anything that matters, anyway. I give her a weak wave. “Yeah. See you later.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Max
From: MHartley @AtlasCommunications.com
To: [email protected]
Date: May 1 - 10:23 am
Subject: Materials for Pitch to Cartwright Hotel Group
Hi Lina,
I’m attaching the mock website landing pages and social media graphics Karen prepared. Because the storyboards are more involved, we’re holding off on preparing them until we know you’re comfortable with the current approach. Let me know your thoughts.
Hope you’re well.
—Max
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: May 1 - 10:57 am
Subject: Re: Materials for Pitch to Cartwright Hotel Group
Thank you.
I’m curious: What do you think?
Just seeing that she’s responded to my email makes my heart thump hard in my chest. I’m squinting at the screen, willing it to make more words appear, but that’s all I’m going to get. What else should I expect? She’s doing just what she said she would: acting like an adult. I should do the same.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: May 1 - 11:02 am
Subject: Re: Materials for Pitch to Cartwright Hotel Group
I think we were right to settle on the wedding-concierge concept. Your services fold in nicely with what the Cartwright’s already doing. Makes me think the transition would be seamless. I’m hoping Rebecca Cartwright agrees.
p.s. How are you?
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: May 2 - 9:43 am
Subject: Re: Materials for Pitch to Cartwright Hotel Group
Hello Max,
I’ve now had a chance to review the materials in full. Please extend my thanks to Karen for doing a superb job.
I agree that the wedding-concierge branding works seamlessly with the Cartwright’s current services. I’m excited to make the pitch, and I can’t wait to see the storyboards.
All my best,
Lina
I’m glad she’s pleased with our work. And I wish she had answered my question. I struggle to come up with an excuse to keep the dialogue open. My response is, in a word, pathetic.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]
Date: May 2 - 10:13 am
Subject: Re: Materials for Pitch to Cartwright Hotel Group
Will send them soon.
Dean sends me a text a few minutes later.
Dean: You. Me. Drinks at Maroon next Friday.
Me: Why?
Dean: So you can spend some time with me. Damn. You’re not in mourning.
Me: Sorry. Sure, let’s do it.
He’s right. Breaking up may be hard to do, but I need to get over her.
* * *
“Dean, why are we here?”
He cups his ear and leans into me. “What?”
“Why. Are. We. Here?”
He’s bopping to the music, some techno shit I have no interest in listening to. “Just hanging out on a Friday. You do remember how to have fun, right?”
I wave off his question.
A server wearing silver wings leans over Dean and places two drinks on the coffee table in front of us. If the other drinks we’ve had are any guide, these won’t be weak, either. The place isn’t crammed wall-to-wall with people, but I wish it were. That way, I wouldn’t have to see how sorry this place is.
We’re sitting on a purple velvet couch. The people across from us are draped over a green suede couch. Lina would love the purple one. With that, my thoughts take a turn. I picture Lina in her apartment. Then I picture us in her apartment. In her bed. In her shower. At the kitchen island sipping coffee before going our separate ways.
Dean taps me on the back of my head. “Stop that.”
“Stop what?” I say in a tone that’s more a growl than an attempt at conversation.
“Stop thinking about her,” Dean says, his gaze following a woman across the room. “It’s been over a week. Time to accept the choice you made and move forward.”
That sounds final. And sad.
Dean hands me a glass. I have no clue what’s in it, but I still throw it back in two gulps. Jack and Coke.
“Unless . . .” Dean says.
“Unless what?”
He points out at the people mingling in the club. “Unless this doesn’t feel right to you. Is there some other way you want to meet someone? Dating app? Church? Blind date arranged by one of your friends? I could set you up if you want.”
None of those options interest me. I’m fucking ruined and I’m not even mad about it. “I need to take a piss.” I wobble off the couch, nearly face-planting in the process.
Dean jumps up. “Whoa, man. Maybe we should get you home.”
“Okay, yeah. Let me just”—I motion like I’m holding a firehose—“take care of this and we’ll head out.”
I’m surprisingly steady on my feet in the restroom. When I return, the music’s barely audible and a man’s standing on a small stage in the back of the room. “Oh shit,” I say to no one in particular. “Is it open mic night?”
The people around me cringe. Perhaps I should tone it down, but how else am I supposed to entertain myself?
A large hand slaps me on the back and squeezes my shoulder. “You ready, buddy?”
I shake Dean off, knowing I must take part in open mic night. It is written. Somewhere. I point at the stage. “I’m going up there.”
Dean frowns. “Up where?”
“There,” I say, pointing. “I need to get some stuff off my chest.” I raise my arms in the air and snap my fingers continuously. “Poetry or something. Yeah, a poem.”
Dean scrubs a hand down his face. “You think this’ll help, huh?”
I tap him on the chest. “I’m sure of it.”
Dean nods. “Fine. I’ll get you up there. Stay behind me.” He weaves his way through the crowd as I hang on to the back of his damp shirt. Then he’s talking to a woman, his thumb pointed at me. She gives me a once-over and nods at Dean.
He turns around and gives me the okay sign. “You’re up next. Make it count.”
The man at the mic and the woman Dean was just talking to chat briefly. Man at the mic says, “We’re going to have a little spoken word by a gentleman who needs to get some things off his chest. Put your hands together and give a warm welcome to Climax.”
I stumble onto the stage and whisper in the man’s ear.
“Oh, sorry,” he says into the mic. “It’s just Max.” He hands me the mic and jumps off the low platform.
I squint at the bright lights trained on the stage and step back to avoid the glare. After clearing my throat, I begin my one-man show, whisper-speaking in a slow cadence:
“Lina
Her name is Lina
Lina, Lina, Lina, Lina
Where’s Lina now?
Why did I let her go?
Lina, Lina, Lina, Lina
She moves like a dance
Laughs like a bell
Would never . . .
Uh, drop my penny into a well
Sometimes so serious
Makes her mysterious.”
The crowd’s into it. I can tell. People are nodding their heads and smiling. But I can’t stay up here too long because my stomach feels like crap.
“Anyway
Lina’s my heart
Should have known it from the start
She’s wonderful said my mother—”
“Aww,” someone in the audience says.
“Only problem is
She was engaged to my brother.”
“Oh damn,” someone e
lse says.
Then there’s a collective oooh in the audience followed by excited chatter and murmurs. Yeah. Exactly. Everyone knows that type of situation is fraught with peril.
Dean collects me from the corner of the stage. “M, you were like Adam Sandler in The Wedding Singer up there. Classic.” He puts a hand on my shoulder. “But I’m starting to think this thing with Lina isn’t going to just disappear because you want it to.”
It has to. I don’t want to wonder whether Lina and I are together only because she couldn’t be with Andrew. That would wreck me. I want to be the best thing that’s ever happened to Lina in the same way she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me. And Andrew isn’t going anywhere. He’ll be a constant reminder that I don’t have her entire heart. Not completely. No, I’ll pass on that misery, thank you. I may be hurting now, but the sharp pain of this loss will dull eventually. Someday.
Lina
Who knew there were so many songs with a ride theme?
Natalia jostles me as she pulls dollar bills from her bra. She holds up the wad of money and waves it around. “Hey, cowboy. Save a horse and ride me.”
Jaslene, who’s tipsy, snatches the wad for herself. “Got my saddle, sweetheart. Where’s my pony?”
I need to speak to the person who approved this outing. Oh, wait. That would be me.
We’re just a week away from Natalia’s wedding and I caved to her request that we take her to a male revue in DC. That’s not the problematic part.
“Bring it here,” Tia Izabel yells.
This is the problem: I’m wrangling Jaslene and four family members, not just one. Sure, I want them to have a blast, but I don’t want anyone to overstep the boundaries of decency or the rules of the revue itself—touch where they’re not supposed to, say something crass, or start removing their own clothes. Keeping track of everyone as they watch the show is like playing a game of whac-a-mole. Stop that. No, you can’t just throw the money. Put your hand down. No, you don’t need another drink, Natalia. Yes, it’s real. No, you can’t touch it. Jaslene, that’s not a vibrator! Hey, you can’t go up there unless they invite you.
“Shake what your dada gave ya!” sings Tia Viviane.
How does she even know to change the lyrics?
“Shake what your dada gave ya!” Natalia chimes in.
Oh, that’s how.
My mother’s hand is vacuum-sealed to her face like a starfish. Interestingly, though, her fingers are spread in a way that allows her to peek at the show if she chooses to. I should be enjoying our night on the town. I appreciate an expertly choreographed dance performed by buff dudes just as much as the next person. But swinging boners make me think of Max in my bed, and my brain isn’t interested in anyone else’s erection at the moment.
My mother bumps me with her shoulder and tucks into my side. Everyone else is distracted by a new dancer strutting onto the stage. Assless chaps. Natalia must be pleased.
“What’s wrong, filha?” my mother asks. “You look sad today.”
“It’s nothing, Mãe. Just tired.”
We’re essentially screaming at each other to be heard.
“Did you have a fight with Max?” she asks.
I pull back and furrow my brows, my lips pressed together in contemplation. “Where’d you get that from?”
She shakes her head. “It’s just . . . I thought maybe there was something there. And now you’re looking lost so I wondered.”
I can’t really hide anything from my mother. Not for long, anyway. “Yeah, there was something there . . . but now it’s gone. His choice.”
“It was a bad choice. I hope you know that.”
“I thought so, too, at first, but now I’m not so sure.”
I can’t really blame Max for fearing that our relationship would be doomed from the start. Maybe it was. It’s one thing to fall in love with your ex-fiancé’s brother; it’s quite another to fall in love with your ex-fiancé’s brother when those siblings have been locked in a competition since forever. Still, there were moments so bright and perfect between us that I can’t help imagining we would have had tons more of them. And I miss being with the one man who adored the real me, who had my back, who made me feel safe to share my fears and my disappointments. I wish I could erase my memories of him—because you can’t miss someone you don’t remember.
Oh God, this hurts.
A flash of silver catches my eye, then the male emcee passes our table, looking for a volunteer from the crowd to sit in the place of honor onstage.
Tia Viviane waves her hands and points at herself as though she’s an aircraft marshaller directing a plane on the tarmac.
The emcee keeps walking past her.
Tia Viviane cups her hands over her mouth and yells after him, “Don’t just ignore the older woman with big hips and a big butt. I want to have fun, too.”
He stills, then spins to face Tia Viviane. Wearing a wicked grin, he stalks back to her, stretches out his hand, and says, “Come with me, then.”
Oh my word.
Tia Viviane takes his hand and skips up the steps. Not long after, a dancer—tall, broad-shouldered, and brown-skinned—circles Tia Viviane, eventually helping her to the chair. Viviane rubs her hands together and waits for the show. He teases as he dances, stretching out his tank top to give her glimpses of his hard pecs and washboard abs.
Tia Viviane makes a big show of yawning.
The dancer jerks his head back and places his hands on his hips; Tia Viviane’s a puzzle he’s trying to solve. Facing the audience and cupping his ear, he raises his free hand up and down in the air while the emcee says, “Make some noise if you want more.”
The dancer slides his hands down his abs and gyrates his hips, then he pulls on the sides of his tear-away pants, revealing a black bikini thong, which disappears when he bends over.
His ass is in Tia Viviane’s face.
His ass is in Tia Viviane’s face.
Natalia falls over in laughter. Jaslene screeches, jumps up off her chair, and pumps her fist in approval.
Tia Viviane grins, but she doesn’t look all that impressed. The emcee sidles up to her and places the mic near her mouth. “What’s wrong? Too much for you?”
She snaps her brows together. “Too much? That’s not enough.” She crosses her arms over her chest. “I could see the same thing on the beach in Copacabana. A lot of them, too. Ass and butt floss everywhere.”
The emcee and the dancer shrug at each other, and then the emcee’s ushering Tia Viviane back to her seat.
You know what? I’ll be fine, with or without Max. Would I prefer to be with Max? A thousand times, yes. But if it’s not meant to be, I’m still blessed in countless ways—these wonderful women and my battery-operated vibrators chief among them.
Now I just need to snag the job of my dreams. That should be enough.
It has to be.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Max
The day of the Cartwright pitch, Lina strides into the conference room, a tan satchel briefcase in one hand and a large travel mug in the other. A fancy clip holds her hair in a high ponytail—no strand out of place. Her navy pantsuit, which she’s paired with a cream blouse, communicates authority and assurance, while the hot pink nail polish peeking out from her open-toed shoes hints at the playfulness I’ve witnessed firsthand.
As she approaches, I run my hands down my pant legs, trying to dry my sweaty palms. A pang of regret settles in the pit of my stomach when I realize I can’t greet her with a hello kiss. My chest constricts the closer she comes, the need to touch her palpable but impossible to act on. My heart’s gone rogue, skipping and tripping as it sees fit, probably based on her nearness alone. More than anything, I feel a sense of hope—hope that today she’ll get the thing she wants most: the job of her dreams.
“Hello, there,” she says with a polite smile.
“Hey,” I say.
It’s a struggle to put words together. My head’s a jumbled mess of regr
ets and what-ifs. Thankfully, Lina’s not relying on my speaking skills to land her this job. She’ll make the pitch herself.
She waves her hand over the table. “Is this everything?”
I nod. “Yeah. I came a few minutes early and checked the stacks a fourth time. Feel free to do your own spot-check. If we’re missing anything, I have the files on my laptop and we can print them out here.”
“Let’s hope that won’t be necessary,” she says, taking a seat at the table. She checks the stacks against her own notes on her phone. “So, any last-minute tips?”
I take a seat across from her. “Just be yourself. You’re selling you. If you don’t genuinely believe in what you’re saying, Rebecca won’t believe it, either.”
“Good advice,” she says, her hands still riffling through the papers. “Okay, I think we’re all set. I’m glad we didn’t go with a PowerPoint. Sometimes paper is best, especially when we’re pitching brochures and the like. The run-through of the mock landing pages should be a breeze. I went over them myself a dozen times yesterday.”
She takes a deep breath and rests her clasped hands on the conference table. I stare in her direction, willing her to look at me, but she’s gazing out the window.
“Lina—”
She stands abruptly. “I’m going to use the restroom before we begin.”
I stand as she leaves and plop down onto the chair when she’s gone. Focus on her. Focus on the presentation. Everything else is bullshit.
Lina returns several minutes later. Rebecca follows within a minute after her.
“Good morning, Lina.” My client nods at me as she takes her seat. “Max.”
I reach over the table and shake her hand. “Good to see you again, Rebecca.”
“You, too.” She flips through the binder set before her. “Shall we start?”
Lina rises from her seat and takes her place at the front of the room. “Ready.”
Rebecca looks at her expectantly. I give her an encouraging nod.
Lina squares her shoulders and begins. “Dotting the I Do’s is a premier wedding planning company with a three-prong approach to serving its clients’ needs. One, personal service is key. We pride ourselves on knowing the clients’ individual needs and meeting them. Two, no detail is too small. We worry about every detail so the couple doesn’t have to. Three, weddings are an opportunity to be creative. In other words, there’s no one way to get married, just as there’s no typical couple. This philosophy allows us to explore our imaginations and make them reality.”
