Page 12 of Cava with My Colleague

I’m lucky he didn’t swallow it, I think.

When I straighten, the woman is cocking her head. Her eyes travel over the baby strapped to my chest, down to my black jeans and up again to my face. She smiles and I glance at Fernando, who looks smug.

I narrow my eyes.

Did he intentionally aim for this woman?

She’s roughly my age, and behind her I can see a blanket and a book spread out on the grass. There’s no one lounging on the blanket or chasing after the dog. She’s attractive, but I don’t feel anything . . . other than maybe mild annoyance at my son. This isn’t the first time we’ve “stumbled” upon a lone woman.

Not that I’m interested in dating. Anyone. I know that I won’t ever feel the way about someone that I did with Marisol.

Which is one of the many reasons I said no when Jade asked me out. She’s too . . . colorful. Loud. She’s the kind of woman that visits a sex shop. With a friend.

Seeing her outside of work just reiterated that. She’d look youthful, trendy. Things I have no interest in.

I shake my head, half to get Jade out of my mind, and half in sympathy for the woman in front of me.

“Sorry,” I say, and give her a quick smile. “Enjoy your Sunday.”

“You, too,” she calls back, turning to chase after her dog.

My son nudges me. “Smile. And ask her name!”

I roll my eyes. “I’m not looking for a relationship.”

“Dad, you deserve love,” he points out.

“I have love. I had love,” I insist. And I mean it. Whatever I had with Marisol was real, even if it wasn’t the right shape.

“Romantic love.”

He always brings up this idea that I need a romantic interest in my life. I don’t. I’m perfectly happy with the life that I have now.

Fernando knew his mother and I weren’t compatible. And a few years ago, in an unusual reversal of roles, Fernando took a quiet moment to ask me if I was attracted to anyone at all—if I was maybe asexual.

It didn’t feel right. Marisol and I were abstinent for other reasons when we were first dating, but I had wanted her—had married her and made Fernando and struggled with incompatibility and the lack of being desired. I had grieved, in a way, and then accepted it.

And we were a family, she wanted us to be a family, regardless of her sexuality.

Now, I have more important things in my life than sex and relationships.

I look down at Carmen, her tiny fingers wrapped around Diana’s. Marisol would have loved being a grandmother. She would have spoiled this little one rotten.

“I’m not interested,” I say firmly. “I have everything I need.”

“I was thinking about my birthday.” Fernando changes the topic. “What if we went out to A Coruña? Spend some time by the seaside? Would that work with your tour schedule?”

I mentally roll through my calendar. Fernando is turning thirty in June, which is right in the middle of the presentations. He’s used to this; we often celebrate a few weeks before or after. “Mid-June, we have a week between Barcelona and Luxembourg.”

“You’re doing Luxembourg this year?”

“Yes, instead of Zaragoza.”

Fernando considers that. “Isn’t Mercedes’s family there? She must be disappointed not to expense a trip home.”

“Mercedes isn’t going this year. Jade is.” I pronounce it the American way—no guttural J, and a silent E.

Fernando twists to look at me, and when Carmen flails her arms happily, interrupting our view, Fernando reaches out and gives her a finger to grab. I can’t see her face, but I bet it matches the wide, goofy smile Fernando is giving her while she grips his finger.