The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club (29 page)

I sit back in the chair and let the thought sink in. Staying in Buenos Aires. Staying in Buenos Aires? Where did that come from? The idea has never crossed my mind, not really, not seriously. The second my plane took off from Seattle, I instantly missed everything about home. My family, Sam and Trish, happy hour at Jimmy’s, the wharf, the market, four-dollar coffees, my own pillow, the rain. I ached for all of it. But what about Andrea and Jorge, El Taller, the cat park, one-dollar coffees, the sun? A thousand blue suitcases couldn’t hold these things. I still miss Seattle, but the missing has a sort of sweetness to it now, like remembering an old friend you’ve lost touch with but know you’ll see again. And then there’s this place, this Buenos Aires, this magical city on the wrong side of the world. I love this city. Despite everything that’s happened—and not happened—with Mateo, I love Buenos Aires. I barely know it and I love it. I want to know it better. I want to be old friends.

Could I stay? Could I do it?

This is usually the point where I’d start making a pro-and-con list, but this time I don’t have to. I want to stay. I do. Oh, jeez, I want to stay in Buenos Aires. I want to stay. Of course I want to stay. There is no internal debate, only a series of questions whose answers get me more and more excited about the idea. What will I do? Whatever I want. Where will I live? Here if I can, somewhere else if I can’t. Is this about Mateo? I’d be an idiot if it were. Is this forever? I don’t know about forever, don’t even want to think about forever. But today. Yes, definitely, today.

“Miss Moore?” a man’s voice cracks through the receiver.

“I can stay!” I shout. “I am going to stay!”

“How wonderful for you,” the man says in a posh Swedish accent. “But stay where?”

Turns out I am not too predictable or perfect or a control freak or unadventurous or boring or dull. I am not an ex-fiancée, ex-employee, ex-anything. I am not a disappointment, not a big fat failure. I am a website entrepreneur genius and, according to the marketing department at SVadko, the creator of “a distinct niche online product with deep branding potential.” I am Cassie Moore, American, world citizen, and global heart-mender. All this time, I’d been waiting for the wrong kind of proposal.

Contracts are being written up at this moment. Europe’s third largest producer of premium vodka will soon become the exclusive sponsor of Buenosairesbrokenheartsclub.com, with an option to renew after six months.

And that’s what I’ve got, too—an option to renew.

I need to tell someone before I burst. Andrea is napping. Sam and Trish will still be in bed at this hour. I’m not ready to spring it on my parents. I suppose I could try Zoey or Jamie online, but there’s really only one person I want to talk to. Okay, so the thought of knocking on his door and talking to him in person still makes my heart race, and not in a good way, but that’s what phones are for.

I dial Mateo’s number, holding my breath while it rings. No answer, only a beep. “Mateo, it’s Cassie.” I say this part calmly, but the rest bursts out. “I know it’s been awhile since we’ve talked, and maybe you don’t want to talk to me anymore, I don’t even know if you’re in the country, but if you are in the country and you haven’t written our friendship off completely, I’ve got great news and I . . . I need to tell you.”

An hour passes and Mateo hasn’t called back. Two hours. Three. I eat the slightly crunchy remnants of day-old pasta, send e-mail announcements of the good news to friends, and confer with C.J., who is not quite quitting his day job but is picking out a new car on the Jetta website. I call my parents and decide as the phone is ringing not to tell them the news yet. I mean, what am I supposed to say?
Hi, guys, I’m not coming home for a while. Staying here indefinitely, as a matter of fact. Merry Christmas!
No, best to let my mother have a few more unspoiled days of redecorating the guest room and making homemade holiday wrapping paper. When my stepdad gets on the phone, I ask if he’s heard any good jokes lately and laugh loudly when he tells me two I’ve heard from him a dozen times before.

The apartment is stiflingly hot today. I cope by stripping down to my T-shirt and underwear. Hungry again, I make a salad out of some browning iceberg and half a tomato. I’m stuffing a wad of it into my mouth when the phone rings. My heart pole-vaults into my throat, and I nearly choke on a leaf of lettuce. I wipe my mouth as I look for the phone. I can’t find it. It rings a second time. How can I not find it! I’ve been waiting for it to ring for hours, and I don’t know where the stupid thing is? I rifle through papers on my desk. Nothing. It rings a third time, my last chance before voice mail. The ring is muffled slightly. The bed! I extract it from the folds of fluffy duvet. “Hello!” I gasp into the receiver. “I’m here!”

“And apparently that’s where you’re staying.” It’s Trish, sounding a bit sleepy. “I just checked my e-mail. What the heck is going on?”

Disappointed it’s not Mateo but still happy to hear her voice, I get comfy on the sofa and tell her about Dan’s proposal, the sponsorship, walking with the Madres, deleting The Plan. The call must be costing her a small fortune, but she lets me lay out every detail. “Mhm,” she says now and then, or “Aha.”

At the end, I ask the question I’m afraid to have answered. “Do you think I’m crazy?” She’s silent on the other end. “Come on, Trish. You’re killing me. What do you think?”

“What do I think? I think I’m gonna miss you like hell. I also think it’s about time. Hallefuckinglujah.”

After I hang up, I check voice mail. No messages. Another hour passes, and no more calls come. But I can’t think about that. I have other things to think about—like finding a place to live.

Jorge’s day care is closed for the holidays, so Andrea has hauled out a chest of arts-and-crafts supplies to keep him busy. I offer to help, drawing on my vast knowledge gleaned from working at a day care for a summer in college. We are cutting snowflakes from folded paper when I ask how she’d feel about extending my lease on the apartment.

Andrea throws up her arms, scissors flailing dangerously, and shrieks, “Oh, Cassie! You stay!” Seconds later, I am sandwiched between her and Jorge, and we are all jumping up and down. “Cassie stays!” she shouts. “Cassie stays!”

When the hugging and jumping and shouting have subsided, we talk about my decision while stringing paper snowflakes around the courtyard. They flap gracefully in the breeze. As I help Jorge string twine through the delicate holes in a snowflake, Andrea reaches over and pats my hand. “I didn’t say anything before, but I didn’t want you to go,” she says. “It is like having my sister here,
¿entiende?
You are our family.”

“
Sí,
” I say, filling to the brim with love. “
Entiendo.
”

Still, it doesn’t really hit me until I go upstairs to make some dinner.

I am home.

I look in the fridge. My fridge, I think with a smile. My fridge is empty. I walk to the grocery store. My grocery store, I think. I see the security gate pulled across the glass doors. My grocery store is closed.

I turn and head for the bigger store a few blocks south. Practically sprinting, I reach it with a full fifteen minutes to spare. I grab a basket and hit the pasta aisle. Rounding the corner at full speed, I nearly collide with another woman who’s just as rushed to fill her cart before closing. We say our apologies, laughing loudly, and I move aside to let her pass. That’s when I see him standing there looking at me.

The sight of him stuns my system. Dark hair, brown skin, pink lips, green eyes. I’d forgotten how beautiful he is. But it’s more than that. When I look at him, I see everything we were and everything we could be. Talking, laughing, debating, telling jokes, eating ice cream, carrying grocery bags, gazing, touching, kissing, wanting—it’s all there written on the surface of his skin. I don’t want to be his friend. I want him in every way possible but that.

“Cassie.” He looks a bit stunned himself. “
Hola.
”

“
Hola,
” I say, barely above a whisper.

We move toward each other cautiously. It’s been a long time, and harsh words were spoken, but all I want to do is throw my arms around him.

“I called you,” I say.

“Yes,” he says. “I heard your message.”

“Oh. Okay. Right.” God, I’m an idiot. He doesn’t want to talk to me. Doesn’t want to be my friend. Doesn’t want to be my anything. “Well, then, good to see you.” I turn to walk away.

“Is everything okay?”

“What?” He cares! Thank God he cares! “Yes—more than okay. Mateo, the most amazing thing has happened.”

He listens to the sponsorship story without a word. “That’s wonderful,” he says when I finally stop for a breath. He smiles softly and shakes his head. “Really wonderful. I’m so happy for you, Cassie.”

“That’s not all.” I hold my breath for a few seconds. “I’ve decided not to go home. I’m going to stay in Buenos Aires.”

He looks up, clearly surprised. “What?”

“I’m staying here.”

“For how long?”

“I don’t know.” I smile at him broadly. “I’ve decided to wing it.”

“But your plan?”

“I’ve given it up.”

Mateo turns his head, and eyes me skeptically. Every romantic movie I’ve ever seen flashes through my mind. There is always that scene where something is revealed—some mistake, some fear, some easily surmountable problem—and that revelation removes all barriers to true love. And I’ve done it. I’ve fixed the problem, let go of The Plan, let go of everything. There are no barriers to us, no more obstacles. I am ready to be swept up.

“A good friend once told me I was a brave woman.”

He smiles at me warmly but doesn’t speak, doesn’t move forward, doesn’t sweep me up in his arms. Why doesn’t he sweep me up in his arms? Is he still angry? His expression isn’t one of anger, but if that isn’t it, what is it? God, I’m such an idiot. I haven’t seen him in weeks, and what’s the first thing I do? Jump into my fabulous news. He probably hates me, and here I am going on and on about myself. I should be apologizing for all the presumptuous things I said at his door that night, the awful things he had to read on my blog.

“Mateo, I’m sorry. That night, everything I said. I had no business telling you how to—”

“No,” he cuts me off, shaking his head, holding up his hand. “No, I don’t want your apology.” His voice is gentle, but the words sting nonetheless. My heart sinks into my socks. I don’t know what to say to make him forgive me. If only I could explain. Standing here in the pasta aisle, with Argentine Muzak playing in the background, and a gangly teenager noisily restocking jars of sauce a few feet away, I want to tell Mateo everything I’ve been scared to say because it isn’t scary anymore. I want to say I love him. I want to ask if he loves me, too.

“Mateo, I—”

“Mateo?” someone calls before I can finish. “Mateo?” Anna appears behind him. There you are, she says in Spanish. She looks at me with a pleasant smile of recognition. “
Hola,
Cassie.”

“
Hola,
Anna,” I say, forcing a smile.

Anna puts her hand on Mateo’s arm and tugs gently. “
Se está cerrado pronto,
” she says. The store is closing.

“I’ve got to go,” he says sheepishly, his eyes to the floor. It doesn’t matter that I’m staying, it doesn’t matter that I’ve given up The Plan. I’m too late.

“Sure,” I say. “Me, too.”

I don’t go anywhere, just stand there staring at the empty space where Mateo was. The aisles clear. The ringing and chirping of cash registers stop. There’s a rumble behind me, the gangly teenager yanking at the metal security gate.

“
Lo siento, chica.
” A tall man in a polyester vest taps me softly on the shoulder. “
Se está cerrado
.”

I look down at my basket. There’s no way I’m leaving here empty-handed. I grab the closest package of ravioli from the refrigerated case, shove five pesos into the manager’s hand, and walk out the door.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

I
allow myself one good cry over my plate of cheese ravioli, and that’s it. The old Cassie might have indulged in a weeklong pity party, but the Buenos Aires Cassie has too much going for her to let a little heartbreak slow her down. Come morning, I throw open the French doors to a beautiful December day, step onto my Juliet balcony into the sunlight, and greet the morning with a smile. At first I fake it, but within a few seconds I am surprised to find it happening naturally. The fact that I am smiling makes me smile even more.

Sure, it might seem on first glance that I shouldn’t have anything to smile about, that I am right back where I started. Heartbroken and alone in a foreign country. Yet, strangely, I’m not scared. Sad, yes, that things didn’t work out with Mateo, but not scared. I am a Web genius, entrepreneur, virtual matchmaker. And tan, I think, examining the lovely golden sheen of my forearm.

This feeling of satisfaction seems to be sticking around, so after a bit of breakfast, I phone my parents and wait until they’re both on the phone to deliver the news. I haven’t even gotten to the part about how, if the website takes off, we might create versions for a bunch of different countries when my mother interrupts.

“What about all our plans?” I know she’s talking about more than Christmas dinner, more than redecorating the guest room.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t expect any of this. But for the first time in forever, I’m really, really excited about something.”

“Is there a man? Are you staying in that god-awful country for some Hispanic gigolo?”

“No, I can honestly say that I’m not staying because of a man.”

“Then I don’t understand you.”

I can’t help but laugh. My mother is not impressed.

“This is ridiculous,” she snaps. “You’re coming home in three days. It says right here in your itinerary—flight four-five-seven, arriving December eighteenth at six-forty-five
P.M.
Period. End of story.”

“No, Mom,” I reply with as much composure as possible. I know this is the last thing she expected to hear today. “Not end of story.” Beginning of story, in fact. “I’m staying here.”

“I can’t talk to you if you’re going to be ridiculous. Call me when you’re thinking straight.” She hangs up. My stepdad is still on the line but doesn’t say a word.

“I’m sorry,” I say. I’ve upset her, and he’s the one who has to live with her. “I hope I haven’t ruined Christmas for you.”

“I’ll talk to her,” he says, calm as always. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking. Nothing ever seems to faze him. “It’ll be fine.”

“Thanks,” I say, knowing he’s right. It will be fine. “So . . . got any good jokes?”

“I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t worried about you, kiddo,” he says instead. “But I’m proud of you. I want you to know that.”

“Thanks, Dad,” I say, choking back the beginning of tears. “I’m proud of me, too.”

With everything settled one way or the other, I can concentrate my energy on the website. Getting the sponsorship deal meant agreeing to create a new home page that would accommodate the SVadko logo, but there are also a few enhancements that C.J. and I can now justify spending time on, including a search engine for personal ads and, more exciting, our very own instant-messaging system so members can connect to one another in real time. I’ve even hired one of those cyber cowboys (aka freelance designers) from back home to give the overall look a bit more polish.

C.J. and I work like crazy for a week straight, but it’s worth it. The site looks amazing, SVadko is thrilled, and the fan e-mail is already pouring in from our members. When everything’s done, we send out a joint press release to every relevant media outlet, from
Cosmopolitan
to Webweekly.com. An editor from
Seattle
magazine responds almost instantly. They love the local angle and want to interview me by phone after the holidays. As I fire off a reply, I can’t help wondering what my old boss at Idealmatch.com would say if she saw me now. Then again, who cares?

When there’s no work left to do, I reward myself with a cold drink at El Taller. If I don’t show my face there soon, I’ve decided, I’ll never be able to again, and that simply won’t do. Instead of taking my usual spot near the window, I tuck into an armchair in the back corner. From here I have an unobstructed view of the entire café. The room is decked out in kitschy Christmas decorations, furry garlands, foil bells, and colored lights everywhere. Most tables are filled, and the waitstaff moves around the room with more hustle than usual. One wears a Santa hat. There is a new waitress I’ve never seen before. There is no Mateo.

The new waitress brings me a bottle of beer and a cheese omelet. I sip the beer slowly, closing my eyes to fully enjoy the sensation of cold liquid sliding down my throat. Sensing someone nearby, I open my eyes. The waitress with the tattooed arm is wiping down the table beside mine and looking at me.

“
Lo siento,
” she says. “
¿Te llama
Cassie,
sí?
”

“
Sí,
” I say.

“
¿Y está interesado en las pinturas de Mateo, sí?
”

Yes, I say, I was interested in his paintings.

Do I like the new one? she asks, pointing at the wall behind and above me.

I turn and see what she’s talking about, a new painting completely different from the others in the room but similar to the one in Andrea’s house. The colors are mostly bold blues and bright yellows, with a dark punch of green here and there. It is spectacular, full of life and energy, full of hope. I was so worried about running into Mateo that I didn’t even notice it.

“
Es maravilloso,
” I say. It truly is marvelous. He’s painting again. Maybe something I said got through to him after all. I guess Anna can thank me for that someday.

The tattooed waitress smiles and nods and moves on to clear the next table. When her back is to me, I reach up and touch the canvas. The paint is still tacky to the touch; it leaves a bit of green on my fingertips and a small smile across my lips.

The morning before Christmas Eve, I help Andrea get a head start on dinner. We need to eat early (meaning before eleven
P.M.
), she says, if we’re going to make the neighborhood street party tonight. There’s already a huge pot of stuffing bubbling away on the stove.

“Why so much?” I ask.

“We will be twelve this year,” she says, adding chopped onions to melted butter in a saucepan. “The neighbors on that side, Martin’s parents, Mateo . . .” She doesn’t look at me, just takes my hand and places it on a spoon and says, “Keep stirring.”

“Oh, is he coming?” I ask casually, stirring as directed. “That’s nice. I assume he will be bringing Anna?”

Andrea adds a handful of chopped apple to the onion and butter. “Anna? I don’t think so. His sister takes Christmas with her husband’s family in Uruguay.”

“His sister?”

“
Sí.
”

His sister! His sister! Of course his sister. She came back from the States a few years ago. She married an architect from Montevideo. Her name is Anna. He’d told me about her months ago. How did I not make the connection? All this time and it was his sister. I’d feel like a complete ass if I weren’t so happy. Anna is Mateo’s sister! I want to scream it from the roof. I want to do cartwheels.

My mind crashes to a stop. If Anna is his sister, why is he avoiding me? Why didn’t he return my phone call? I don’t know, but I’m not making the same mistake twice. This time I’ll ask.

“Keep stirring, please, or it burns,” Andrea says. I look down at the spitting saucepan. Bits of apple and onion stick to everything, including my T-shirt.

“Andrea, I’m so sorry, but I’ve really got to go.”

She turns to face me, smiling her all-knowing smile. “Go,
chica,
” she says, laughing. “Go! Go!”

I throw my arms around her and squeeze tight. Her great Brazilian laugh follows me out the door.

I run all the way to his house, so fast I miss it. I stop at the end of his block, turn, and walk back to 2257. Am I seeing things? There’s no pink and blue house anymore. It’s been painted green, like the painting but lighter. I step through the creaky iron gate and walk down the tile path and up to the wall. I reach out and touch the wall. It leaves green paint on my fingertips.

“It was my hardest piece.” The front door opens, and Mateo leans against the frame, smiling. His overalls are covered in every kind of green. “It took me over twelve years to finish.”

“I saw the one in El Taller. It’s wonderful, really wonderful. I’m so happy for you.”

“Did you come to critique my work?”

“No, I came to . . .” Tell you I know about Anna. Tell you I’ve been an idiot. Tell you I love you. “I needed to tell you . . .”

“Come inside,” he says, holding out his hand to me. “There’s something I want you to see.”

I step inside the green house and follow him into a dark room. Mateo pulls back the curtains, and light floods in. Except for a simple wood chair in one corner, there is no furniture, only easels and paints and canvases. Dozens of paintings in various sizes and in varying states of completion line the perimeter of the room.

“There are more,” he says, taking my hand and leading me into the kitchen. The sink is full of dirty dishes, the floor littered with take-out boxes. And the counter is covered in canvases.

“Wait,” he says. “There are more.” He pulls me to the second floor. We pass canvases in the hall, up the stairs, into a bedroom.

“There must be a hundred of them,” I whisper.

“One hundred and three,” he says.

“What happened?”

“You happened.” Mateo takes my other hand and turns me toward him. The intensity of his green eyes sends a shiver through my body.

“I inspired you?”

“Not exactly,” he says, laughing. I blush. “When you came here that night, I was furious. I needed to do something with all that anger. The first one wasn’t a very good piece, but I couldn’t stop. A lot of it was bad, but I needed to do it so I could get back to something good again.”

“Then I guess I’m glad I made you hate me.” I try to look away, but he won’t let me, holds my face in his hands.

“No, Cassie, no. I hated . . .” His voice catches. I look up, and his eyes are heavy with tears. “I hated myself. I hated what you saw in me.”

Tears roll from his deep green eyes. He tries to look away, but I won’t let him. I hold his face close to mine, so close we are almost kissing.

“Ever since I came to your door that first morning, you have amazed me over and over again.”

“I have?”

Mateo laughs softly and shakes his head. “You must have noticed how I was always trying so hard to impress you. Always talking about important things and taking you to important places. But when I found your website, I knew I would never be enough for you the way I was.”

“
You
were trying to impress
me
?” I think of all the time we spent together, from our trip to the malba to the tango lesson, me always saying and doing the exact wrong thing.

“Of course,” he says. “But it was always you who was impressing me.”

“Why didn’t you tell me all this when I saw you at the supermarket?”

“I wasn't ready,” he says. “I was so proud of you, I wanted you to be proud of me, too.”

That’s it. I draw him to me. His dark curls fall into my eyes. I run my green-tipped fingers across his cheek.

Our mouths open, eyes close. Heart beats against heart. Lips meet lips. Tongue touches tongue. It is our second kiss, our first kiss, every kiss. It is the kiss to begin all kisses. It is a kiss brimming with the promise of something I’ve yet to dream of. I’ve deleted the future that haunted me, and he’s erased the past that haunted him. There is no plan, no past, and no future. Just these two people, this moment, this kiss.

I look down at a stack of canvases beside us and whisper, “I really hope there’s a bed under there.”

He laughs and lifts the canvases off the mattress. Then he sweeps me off my feet and lays me on the bed. Every part of me quivers. It is nothing I’ve ever known before, this feeling. It is impossible, irresponsible, imperfect, and unrelenting.

“Mateo,” I whisper. “Would it be horrible of me to say that I love you?”

The word is too small to contain what I feel for this man in this place at this moment in time, but it’s all I have.

“I love you, too,” he whispers back.

And when he says the word, when we’ve both spoken it out loud, it swells to contain us. I don’t want him to make things perfect, I only want him.

I hold out my arms to him. He stops at the end of the bed and looks at me gravely. “But,” he says, “I still don’t know what comes next.”

“Anything we want,” I say, taking his hand and pulling him down beside me. “Anything at all.”

It’s been almost two months since a club night at El Taller. With the holidays behind us, I figure it’s about time to start again. I post an invite on the website to all the Broken Hearts in the area. The following Friday night, twenty-seven people pour into the café, the biggest group ever. They are all strangers.