The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club (19 page)

“So how did you do?” Mateo asks jovially. If I look as awkward as I feel, he doesn’t seem to notice.

“With what?”

“Your test.”

“Oh. I don’t know. Okay, I guess.” Before I am forced to elaborate, wind kicks up a bale of street detritus—leaves, plastic bags, shopping receipts, dirt—into the air around us. Sheltered by Mateo’s height, the beautiful Anna is spared. With slim, manicured fingers, she removes a small leaf that made its way down her ample caramel-colored cleavage while Mateo and I brush debris from our arms and shake things from our hair, laughing.

“
Felicitaciónes.
”

“What?”

“Congratulations. On the test.”

“Oh, right. Duh.” I laugh at the irony of my ineptitude. What can only be called a snort erupts from my mouth. Anna grimaces, looking terribly embarrassed for me. Mateo laughs and pulls a piece of blue string from my hair.

“Well, it was good to see you, Cassie. I’m glad to hear your test went well. I really should get Anna home before this storm gets worse.”

Why the formality? I wonder. For Anna’s sake, no doubt.
I really should get Anna home.
That stings more than it should. You’re the one who stopped returning his calls, I remind myself.

“You’re on your way home, too, I hope.” He looks at me with concern and presses his hand to my elbow when he says this. I almost drop my ice cream cone. There he goes again, acting all sweet and thoughtful and . . . Mateo threads his arm through Anna’s. No, forget it, I’m not getting sucked into that fantasy again. Still, I can’t help imagining what it would be like if I were the one on his arm tonight, his broad shoulders shielding me from the coming storm. In all the commotion, I’ve forgotten about my ice cream cone, which, besides the recently acquired topping of street grit, is seriously in jeopardy of collapsing into a pool of goo on the sidewalk. I know exactly how it feels.

“Yeah, I should get going, too,” I squawk, trying to sound peppy, breezy. “Great to see you, too.
Buenas noches.
”

“
Buenas noches,
” he says softly.

Anna smiles cordially, and they move past me into the dark and muddled night.

The air is getting thicker by the second. I toss the cone into a garbage can and double my pace back to the yellow house. Every few feet, tiny tornadoes whip themselves and everything around them into frenzies. With no way to avoid it, I dip my head down and soldier on, continuously brushing bits of branches from my hair, images of Mateo and Anna from my head.

The streets are empty; not even the crazy motorcyclists have ventured out, Argentines all having the good sense to get inside when a storm is brewing. I seem to be the only one left in Palermo Viejo, the only one left in the world. But the solitude matches my mood perfectly. As long as I make it home before the rain starts.

Two blocks from the house, the air gets eerily, suspiciously still. And hot. Very, very hot.

Something hits my cheek gently. Then my collarbone. My knee. Forehead. Stomach. Thigh. Cheek. The hits come faster and faster. What it is or where it’s coming from, I have no idea. It feels like I’m being pelted with small nuts from every direction. Something hits the sidewalk and windows and car hoods, making snapping sounds. Hail? I remember an afternoon in Seattle when I was four or five, chunks of ice the size of walnuts crashing down for mere minutes, my arms covered in tiny bruises, to my mother’s dismay. Only when I pass a large brick house, security lights blaring, do I see that it isn’t hail. Dozens of cockroaches the size of my thumb thrash through the fluorescent beam. They’re flying! Those are giant flying cockroaches! I look down, and they are everywhere. Not dozens, hundreds. One hits my ear, and I can hear it fighting to free itself from my hair. I scream and shake my head, then clamp a hand over my scream. If one of these things gets in my mouth, I will die, I swear, right here on this empty Buenos Aires street. Now, there’s a scenario I didn’t think of.

My lips locked, my flip-flopped feet crunching down on grounded roaches, I run like I’ve never run before.

The swarm thins about a block from Andrea’s, but I keep running until I’m safely behind the door. Inside the dark entrance hall, I hold my breath and shake my head, torso, and limbs furiously until I’m convinced all is clear. Nothing flapping in my hair, nothing clinging to my sweater, nothing thwacking against the walls. One hand over my thumping heart, the other feeling for the long bench that runs along the wall, I stretch my mouth and gulp at the air.

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?