Heartbreak for Dinner: It's Kind of a Long Story (12 page)

The morning after, I slowly put myself together around
eight
and absconded into the city alone after sleep eluded me all night.
It was our last day in Madrid and though I longed to be near Jonah’s warmth, the
safest way to avoid getting burned is to keep away from the sun at all costs. I
spent a few hours at a salon doing my nails and killing time. After that, I explored
a small market run by gypsies near our hotel for souvenirs and other trinkets. I
returned to our room sometime around two, Olivia and Jonah nowhere to be found.
There was a note on the door I didn’t bother to read, and when my shoes were off
and the curtains closed I went under before my head even touched the pillow. Upon
waking, the sun was beginning to wave its impending farewell and I looked at the
clock to find it was nearly eight. In a hazy state, I decided to go back to sleep,
but the phone rang just as I was setting the alarm for the following morning and
reaching for an Ambien.

Two hours later, I’d packed all my belongings in a suitcase and placed
it carefully near the door, the hope to avoid rushing on a morning that would surely
come with a hangover courtesy of Grey Goose and a broken heart alive. I assessed
my reflection in the mirror and slipped out of the hotel to meet Gabriel at the
lobby just before my friends returned.

“And here I thought you had better plans than to see me tonight,”
he smiled, wrapping me in a hug that lasted forever.

“What better plans than you?”

He locked his hand with mine and we walked outside, our destination
a flamenco show at an old mansion in the outskirts of the city. When we arrived,
someone handed me a small glass of dark liquor that smelled of cinnamon. Red and
yellow lanterns hung above us from the trees surrounding the patio, a wooden stage
erected in the center. The air was crisper outside of the city, and I wrapped a
silk shawl embroidered with flowers I’d purchased earlier in the day around me.
Gabriel explained the house belonged to his grandfather, who was a flamenco enthusiast,
and hosted these shows monthly to his friends and their guests.

We were introduced shortly after, and he regaled me with stories about
his trips to Cuba, wrinkles marked with mischief lining his face every time he laughed.
A gentle breeze blew away my sorrows for a moment, and the heaviness in my soul
lifted as soon as the first guitar began to play, heels filled with nails pounding
violently on the stage floor. Gabriel squeezed my hand and asked if I would consider
staying in Madrid another week with him. I promised him to think about it and kissed
his hand, knowing that staying would only weave another thread of pain to an already
fatal story.

Sometime later we got to Joy, grabbing a table already reserved for
us and getting ourselves situated. In typical Spanish fashion, the nightclub was
almost empty even though it was nearly midnight. I had always found it odd how parties
on the other side of the pond rarely became lively until two in the morning, which
is typically when normal people are going to sleep after a night of debauchery in
the States. We grabbed a bottle of champagne and took to the dance floor by storm;
other than a gay couple making out in a corner, we were the only ones on it. After
we finished the bottle and subsequently sweated it out, an unknown amount of time
had passed and we were back at our table. My date reached for my purse under a seat
cushion on the couch and opened it to grab his cell phone.

“
Dios santo
,” he shouted. “I have 17 missed calls.”

I raised an eyebrow and gave him a dirty look. “How many girlfriends
do you have again?”

He winked at me and put a finger to his lips to signal he’d never
tell. I grabbed his phone playfully to check it and recognized Olivia’s number in
it, all his missed calls from her European cell. I’d forgotten she had requested
his number the first night I’d gone home with him in case he was some psychopath
and frowned to myself.

“What is it?” he grabbed the phone from my hand and stated he didn’t
know that number as his face turned serious.

I gently kissed his forehead and told him to call Olivia back, explaining
she was probably worried and apologizing for her serial stalking. Gabriel stepped
out to make the call and asked the waiter for two more bottles on his way out. Much
to my disappointment, when he returned 20 minutes later, he’d brought Olivia and
Jonah with him.

A couple of hours and many glasses of champagne in, it dawned
on me that in order for anything to truly end, we must go back to the start. Across
the table, the air was diffused with a tension neither of us would openly recognize,
yet its existence was menacing and undeniable beneath all the neon lights. Ignoring
Jonah and staying in the moment proved an exercise in futility, and when I could
no longer take the awkwardness permeating the air, I announced I was going to the
bathroom. Gabriel grabbed my hand and pulled me in for a kiss whose passion sunk
nations, my cheeks burning as I tore away from him and sensed all eyes on me as
I walked away.

Halfway to the restroom, I felt a hand grab me and turned only to
be shoved against Jonah by a waitress rushing with drinks to a table. She apologized
over her shoulder and kept walking, leaving me in strong arms wrapped around my
waist that prevented me from toppling over. Viable means of escaping without looking
crazy seemed unlikely, so I simply stayed there with my head on his chest as he
held me, hundreds of people pushing and shoving around us toward the dance floor
and bar.

“Europe isn’t exactly known for their great service, is it?” he joked,
not loosening his grip on me.

“No,” I smiled to myself and pulled away, but he didn’t budge as he
allowed the crowd to move us. “I was headed to the bathroom, you know.”

He cocked his head and laughed. “You’re a liar.”

I lost my ability to argue at that moment and leaned into him, closing
my eyes and welcoming the swaying bodies that brought us closer together. When I
opened them again we were in the middle of the dance floor and Jonah was looking
down at me with intense eyes.

“Leave with me right now.”

“And go where?” I questioned in disbelief. “You’ve lost it.”

“Better to lose it than to lose you,” he growled, bitterness flashing
in blue eyes that stared down at me.

“I don’t know what to say to you, Jonah” I replied, and as he brought
his face down to mine without preamble and our mouths collided. It became apparent
nothing needed saying. His lips eagerly kissed mine as the club and everything in
it became irrelevant. I grabbed his shirt fervently, pulling him closer to me as
we both gasped for air and a feeling of guilty passion engulfed me. He gently bit
my lip as I dug my fingertips into the muscles on his back, desperately searching
for the reason that had escaped me momentarily. I finally brought my hand up to
his face, trying my best to stop and simultaneously committing the moment to memory.
“Don’t,” I panted even though he couldn’t hear me. He put his finger to my lips
and kissed me softly again as I melted into him. We remained that way for a while,
kissing and hiding amidst a thousand strangers.

“We really have to get back,” I breathed in disappointment.

He grabbed my hair and pulled me in again for a final kiss. “This
doesn’t end here,” he snarled and turned to head back.

I remained silent and allowed him to lead the way, knowing all too
well we were doomed to fail from the start. I’d been down long distance roads before
and they only ended in Heartbreak City. Not to mention the love triangle factor
or, in our case, love square. A few minutes later, we were back to our table after
being gone for what I assume was a half hour. Jonah told our remaining party the
lines at the bathroom were insufferable and we’d been waiting forever, but the looks
our dates exchanged right before we sat down said they knew better.

The next morning, my head felt like the universe had imploded
inside it and rearranged all the planets in the process. I was lying in bed, still
wearing my Asian silk dress, when I felt Olivia shaking me. I tried to lift my head
but a sharp throbbing forced it back down immediately.

“Annah,” she said to me, her voice barely above a whisper, “Jonah
is leaving, babe.”

“Where is he?” I asked, not sure how we’d gotten home and then suddenly
remembering everything, Gabriel’s arms wrapped around my waist as he slept quietly
beside me.

“I’m right here,” he replied, kneeling down against the bedside so
that I could look at him one last time.

“Jonah . . .” I let my voice trail off and refused
to open my eyes. “It was so very good to meet you.”

He smirked and stayed there briefly as I pretended to be falling back
asleep. Finally, he got up and knelt down to kiss my forehead. “I’ll see you soon,”
he whispered in my ear before getting back up and leaving for good.

I mostly kept to myself that afternoon as Gabriel took us to
the airport, one hand on the steering wheel and the other intertwined with my own.
Olivia waited inside the terminal as I said my final goodbyes to he who’d been so
lovely and welcoming during my stay in his land. We made the empty and necessary
promises people make to see each other again if life permitted. I allowed my best
friend do all the talking while in the customs line as we waited for our flight
at a small bar. Between my hangover and Jonah’s absence, I felt the life being sucked
out of me by the most powerful of vacuums. I was surprised to find I didn’t even
experience my usual pre-flight jitters followed by violent praying, suddenly missing
it.

Once we took our seats on the plane, I pretended to want sleep and
leaned my head against the window. Olivia, a flight attendant for many years, was
accustomed to my irrational fear of flying and subsequent weird behavior when traveling.
Soon after, the plane ascended toward Miami and we were shakily moving along to
our cruising altitude.

“Are you alright?” Olivia asked when she
saw my feet tapping nervously against the carpeted floor.

“Yeah,” I squeezed her hand, hoping she
believed me. “You know how terrified of flying I get.”

“Don’t worry,” she squeezed my hand as the
bumpy ride continued its course. “You’ll be alright.”

I turned to her with watery eyes and squeezed
back. “Have I told you that I love you today?” I inquired our little inside joke
since we were teens.

“No, you have not.”

“I love you,” I whispered as both the plane
and I trembled, turning to stare out the window and cursing air pockets. I began
breathing in deeply, exhaling slowly just how the therapist who treated my aerophobia
had taught me years before. At some point, my heart rate resumed a normal pace and
the plane stopped shaking, yet the turbulence in my heart never ceased as I thought
of Jonah every minute of the way and clouds filled with tears threatened its ominous
downpour.

There are times in my life when I feel blessed
to simply have a job that allows to pay for bills and that couch I bought on credit,
which has slowly grown on me, while I push my dreams of famosity and riches in a
drawer I only open when feeling overly optimistic about the wonders of being alive.
I live check-to-check and sometimes eat Ramen Noodles, while other times I can splurge
on ground turkey and those plum tomatoes from Whole Foods I love so damn much. My
alarm rings at seven and I snooze until eight, arriving late every morning at the
office as I look around in the hopes no one’s noticed. There’s bad coffee and faxes
and co-workers who hate me and wish to see me perish, as they smile to my face through
gritted teeth stained with hypocrisy. There are meetings and cold sandwiches and
the occasional Diet Coke I steal from the break room when no one’s watching. There
are flip charts and projectors and data that requires analyzing before the week
is over. It is this mundane sweetness that makes the corporate world go round and
in spite of myself, I am happy.

Other times, there is this.

As mentioned, I began to pine away for literary stardom while
working for The Church of Jesus Christ (which I quit a few months into blogging),
and praying for a miracle every night before I went to sleep about three years before
turning 30. After a few crappy jobs, I began to work for a political team in the
healthcare industry as a temp, with the hopes of getting hired on a permanent basis
if I could just prove myself indispensable with my sharp wit and phenomenal attention
to detail. Because we were in the heated portion of a campaign that would reach
its zenith around the upcoming primaries, things around the office had been incredibly
hectic.

One Friday afternoon, my boss asked me to find a “nice resort” for
three of our head honchos, who’d be coming down to South Florida for a company retreat
in the spring. After a few hours of research and some exorbitant rates, I found
the perfect five star resort. I couldn’t believe such a beautiful place could only
be $189.00 a night and felt quite satisfied with myself as I copied the link into
an email and forwarded it to my boss. Five minutes later, she replied.

Her: Is this you trying to be funny?

Me: What do you mean?

Her: Do you realize what you just sent me?

Me: The link to the Royal Palms Resort. It’s beautiful, no?
Five stars.

Her: Of course it’s beautiful, but I’m certain top management
isn’t into *that* sort of ambience for their retreat. Go into the website.

It turns out that the Royal Palms Resort is indeed the sort
of place one would go to escape it all. That is, if you were exclusively gay and
seeking the company of other stressed professional males. I am guessing that in
my field, a few gentlemen wouldn’t mind benefitting from the heart shaped Jacuzzis
and other fabulous amenities a place like the Royal Palms must certainly offer.
Yet something tells me that wasn’t the right approach toward securing the permanent
employee status I coveted so much.

Picture property of the Royal Palms website and uh, yeah
. . . that’s it for now.