The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club (17 page)

When I return, the four remaining guests are gathering their coats from a chair in the corner. “
Buenas noches,
” they say to us, one of them patting Mateo on his shoulder. “
Buenas noches,
” I say with a large smile, waving my broom like an idiot.

Mateo looks at me intensely. We are alone in the room. I start to sweep. “You never answered my question,” he says.

“Your question?” I bend to pick up a few large chunks of glass from under a chair. I sweep under the credenza, under the table, under the love seat. “You know, if you don’t do this right the first time, you’re stepping on glass for years to come.”

“I think you’re still doing it.” I am vaguely aware of Andrea and her husband saying long goodbyes to their guests in the front hall. Mostly, I hear my heart thudding in my ears. What am I so afraid of?

“Doing what?” I begin collecting empty glasses again, trying to apply all my focus to the task. No matter how much I move, it is painfully clear that Mateo is remaining perfectly still.

“Avoiding me.”

“What’s the matter? Were you getting lonely?” I look at him with a teasing smirk. “Because you looked pretty entertained to me.”

“Were you watching me?” He smiles that devilish smile and cocks his head to the right. It takes the length of a breath for the electricity to travel from my chest to my toes. I understand that flirting is a national sport in Argentina, but he’s not playing fair.

“You wish.”

I set the stack of glasses on the side table and turn to start on the bar, but my foot catches the carpet. Before I can hit the hardwood, Mateo grabs my elbow. I jerk against the grip, take a grounding step, and right myself again. His hand is still on my elbow, grip loosened but still there, warm and heavy.

My own hand to my chest, I take a deep breath. Then another. “Thanks. Yikes, that could have been ugly. Again.” I push out a laugh.

“You’re welcome. Though I kind of wish you fell.”

“Gee, thanks.”

“Only because this time, dogs or no dogs, I would have kissed you. Like I wanted to that first day.” There is no smile or smirk or cocked head, just his eyes looking straight into mine. His fingers tighten around my arm. Electricity fires through my body in every direction, followed by a sobering jolt of fear. What am I so afraid of? I think of those women all over him tonight. I hear Andrea’s voice in my head.
Girl to girl to girl.
But it’s more than that. Antonio is hardly the monogamous type, and I couldn’t care less. So what is it?

Mateo takes a step closer, and I know the answer: I could care about him.

And where would that get me?

You can take the girl out of The Plan, but you can’t take The Plan out of the girl.

We are mere inches apart, our eyes still locked. He tilts his head down and parts his lips ever so slightly. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. Every cell in my body wants to kiss this man, but I can’t. Please don’t kiss me, I whisper in my head.

“Aha!” Martin bellows behind Mateo. “Andrea makes maté.” He clasps his hands together happily, then stops and looks at us. “I interrupt?”

“No.
Está bien,
” I say.

“Good. Then you come,
sí
?”

“Por supuesto,
” I answer with a big smile. “
Gracias.
”

“
Sí.
” Mateo drops his hand from my arm and looks at me. Before he can stop me, I follow Martin out into the courtyard.

I’ve watched Andrea drink yerba maté countless times. When she cleans, after a long day of running errands, in the evenings while she watches
Friends
reruns dubbed in Spanish, when she checks her e-mail in the small home office, before she goes to bed. Taking short sips from the silver straw, refilling the tiny pot with more hot water as it drains, she reminds me of an old man puffing on a pipe. When you are invited to take maté, my guidebooks say, you are being invited into the Argentine culture. It is a very rare experience for tourists, many of whom buy the pots and straws at local fairs as souvenirs but will never enjoy the hot herbal drink with a local. It is a small, yet powerful reminder that though I will be here only a few more months, I am not simply passing through.

Andrea always offers me some of her maté, and I take a few sips of the bitter tealike drink to be polite, but I know immediately that this moment in the courtyard, the dark sky a soothing blanket above us, is something different, something special. Mostly, I am honored to be in the company of these people, to be allowed inside the warm fold of their old friendship. The four of us take turns sipping the hot liquid from the silver straw. Andrea has added a bit of sugar against her husband’s protests. At first it is strong, then mellows into something akin to green tea. While we sip, Andrea does most of the talking, entertaining us with stories from their collective past. Martin and Mateo jump in constantly to add details she’s forgotten. Their rapport, the ease with which they tease one another, the eruptions of laughter, all make me long for Sam and Trish and the other friends I left back home. At the same time it makes me sad to think how soon I will be saying goodbye to these kind people. The thought, like the maté, is bittersweet.

“So how do you all know each other, anyway?” I interrupt, wanting to change the subject in my head to something more joyful.

The laughter stops, and everyone looks at one another furtively. Mateo stares at the table. Andrea sips long and hard at the maté straw, making a gurgling that signals the water is low. Martin busies himself with the task of refilling the pot for her. My question seems to have hit a nerve, but I haven’t the slightest idea why.

“Well,” Andrea starts slowly. “Mateo and I have been friends for so long, it’s hard to say when . . .” Mateo gives her a quick sideways glance. Martin concentrates hard on refilling the tiny maté pot. There is a particular ritual to it, Andrea has explained, but he seems to be getting a bit carried away, patting the pot with his palm, assessing its insides, adding more maté. He mumbles something in Spanish that I can’t make out.

“Martin, do you need help with that?” I ask teasingly.

“So now the American is going to show me how to make maté?” He chuckles and slaps his thigh lightly. Then he adds too much hot water from a thermos under the table. It spills over, and we all laugh.

“We are all friends from so long ago,” Andrea says finally.

I nod and grin knowingly. “Friendships like that last forever.”

“Not always,” Mateo says, barely audible over Andrea, who coos lovingly to Martin in Spanish.

“Yes, well,” Andrea interjects. “People come and people go.”

“It’s the one thing you can count on,” Mateo adds flatly, sounding disconcertingly like my mother. He looks up and examines the star-filled sky.

“I hope that’s not true,” I say, my mouth curving into a coy smile. I am thinking of our moment in the salon, parted lips separated by mere inches, what might have happened if Martin hadn’t burst in on us. Where could that have led? Now I’ll never know. Why did I fight it? “There would be no such thing as family, or marriage, for that matter.”

Mateo snorts out a snide chuckle. “I suppose you believe in true love and all that other Hollywood crap,” he says with a snarl. I shift uncomfortably in my chair, thrown off balance by this inexplicable return of the old—and I thought gone—Mateo.

“I—I believe in the possibility of it,” I stutter. “How can you not?”

“Have you found it?”

“Of course,” I say, then check myself. Jeff and Lauren writhe naked and entwined in my mind. How long before these memories no longer come to me crystal-clear and sharp as an X-Acto blade? “Well, no. Not yet. But I—”

“Life isn’t a Tom Hanks movie, Cassandra.”

“I love Tom Hanks!” Andrea exclaims. “
Big
is very funny, no? And
Sleepless in Seattle.
Not
You Have Mail.
I did not like that at all. Her hair looked funny.”

“I know life isn’t a movie,” I continue, determined to salvage my point. “But that doesn’t mean those things don’t exist. Millions of love stories have been written for a reason.”

“Yes, to stop us from thinking about the reality that nothing is forever, that happily ever after is a fairy tale.”

“Ah, the fairy tales. What happened to all the fairy tales?” asks Andrea jovially, snuggling into her husband’s lap. “I had princesses and dragons, and Jorge has books about talking dogs. This is a shame, no?”

“
Sí, mi amore.
A shame.” Martin passes her the freshened maté and wraps his arms around her small frame.

The subject is successfully changed, but the evening is unrecoverable. It isn’t long before our little party breaks up, our goodbyes said with obvious awkwardness, a half-full maté pot abandoned in the courtyard, the kiss that wasn’t a kiss dissipating into the cool morning air.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

So much of the night was wonderful. Beyond wonderful. Perfect, almost. But it’s this tirade against true love that I can’t let go of. Just when I start to think M is someone special, someone like no one I’ve ever met before, just when I begin to regret everything I’ve ever written about him in this blog, he does another 180 and turns back into the old M. Life isn’t a Tom Hanks movie. What does he take me for? Some vapid, lovelorn, weak-minded woman, no doubt. What am I supposed to make of this return to the sarcastic, condescending man I could barely stand? Was I right all along? Is he really just a total snob? Or was he trying to tell me something about our ambiguous moment in the salon? Was he regretful and wanting to warn me away? Well, my Argentine friend, mission accomplished.

T
his latest entry, I think with no small amount of satisfaction, ought to get them going. No matter the subject matter, I always feel better when I blog. I’m averaging about four hundred hits a day, which seems like an awful lot. Knowing that so many people care, that I’m not completely alone even as I sit here plunking away on my laptop in this city so far from home, makes nights like this that much more bearable.

Sometimes I even get some good advice. Everyone has an opinion. The latest topic for hot debate: Is my infatuation with Mateo something new, or was I into him all along? “It makes sense,” writes [email protected]. “She criticized him way too harshly and way too often. It had to be an elaborate cover-up.” Her comment stirs up a flurry of agreement. “I saw through it all along,” claims [email protected]. Regardless of how off base this theory is, I enjoy the back-and-forth—not so much for the occasional pearls of wisdom but for the satisfaction of knowing that something I’ve created has brought all these disparate people together. Energized by their enthusiasm, I look forward to blogging at the end of every day—or at the start of the next, as the case may be.

It’s 4:48
A.M.
, I note, sighing heavily at the clock. If I’m not asleep by now, I figure, I might as well skip it. I check my e-mail. It’s been a couple of days—surely a sign of personal growth—and there are eleven new messages from the usual suspects. I know the content without even opening them, but the predictability doesn’t make the ritual any less enjoyable. Sam and Trish filling me in on their office gossip—I don’t know the players, but the drama is amusing all the same; job postings from my mom that have no relation to my degree or professional experience; Internet jokes, riddles, and goofy cartoons from my stepdad that have been around the World Wide Web a hundred times (I don’t have the heart to tell him I’ve seen them already); a cryptic quotation by some obscure genius from C.J., the quirky but sweet programmer at my old job whom I’ve managed to stay in touch with; and two or three messages concerning online master’s degrees, penis enlargement pills, and other very important, time-limited offers that
I CAN’T MISS OUT ON!

And something from Jeff.

Just seeing his name (which even my mother has had the tact to avoid in our cross-continental communications) is enough to send me reeling. I brace myself against the chair, arms strapped behind me as in a straitjacket, and stare at the subject line. “Please read,” it says simply, horribly, in bold black letters. Read? For the second time in twenty-four hours, I can’t breathe. He might as well be standing in front of me, the words alone have such effect. Almost three months and no contact. It’s an e-mail apparition, I tell myself. It isn’t real. There must be another [email protected].

But I know it’s him.

A world of possibilities ricochets through my mind. A thousand scenarios. He can’t remember where he put the insurance papers. He’s suing me for the engagement ring I sold on eBay. He’s become a Buddhist monk and is coming to terms with past wrongs. And then the frightening, thrilling, unavoidable thought: He wants me back.

Could that be it? Do I want that to be it? The shape of him, of us, rises from the bold black letters. My perfect fiancé. Our enviable home. My ideal life. The Plan. It all knits together from fragments I haven’t let myself think about for so many weeks, coming back into focus slowly, like a past life merging into the here and now.

The prospect of it is too much to take. I can’t open the e-mail. I let go of the chair and fly across the room to my giant white bed. I burrow under the down duvet, find comfort under the weight of pillows.

In the quiet, downy undercover light, I assess. Do I want him back? No, no, I don’t. I definitely don’t. But I do want him to want me back. Yes, I want that more than anything. I savor the image of Jeff alone and crying, railing against his bad judgment, against his unpredictable, surprising, challenging, imperfect Lauren. I love the taste of him pining away for me, his perfect Cassie, always to be lost. If only, he’s thinking, pounding his fists against his muted gray walls, Japanese knickknacks jiggling off the Ikea shelf and smashing against the hardwood floor. If only . . . And here I am having the time of my life, a new and exciting experience around every corner, hundreds of people online waiting to hear what’s next, and there he is—dejected and alone.

I have to open that e-mail. I crawl out of my fluffy refuge and face the glowing screen again. I touch the mouse, hold my breath, and double-click.

Cassie,

I have some news that I want you to hear from me and not someone else. I know I’ve hurt you badly and I can’t stand to hurt you again. But here goes . . .

Lauren and I are getting married. It just happened. I asked one day and she said yes. It was a surprise to both of us, really. Anyway, I thought you should know. I don’t expect you to be happy for me, but I hope you won’t hate me.

I hope you are okay.

Jeff

Jeff is getting married. Jeff is getting married. To someone else. Lauren is marrying Jeff. My Jeff. He doesn’t want me back. Nobody wants me back. Nobody is pining away for me, pounding his fists, wishing for what might have been. Other people are living my what-might-have-been without me. Jeff will get his wife. Lauren will get her perfect man, perfect home, perfect life. Meanwhile, I am flitting around with Antonio, almost letting myself fall for Mateo, who doesn’t want marriage or love or anything real, widening the gaping hole in my résumé, and wasting my meager savings on useless trinkets. Almost three months and I can’t even speak Spanish.

It feels like the blood is draining from my body, pooling in my hands and feet. They are so heavy. Everything is slipping away. I am tired. I close the e-mail. Summoning what is left of my waning energy, I retreat to my bed once more. There is much crying and then, finally, sleep.

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?