Page 44 of Cava with My Colleague

“How could you?” I hiss. “Our conversation was private and you turned around and told Rebecca?” I’m so mad I can’t even begin to have this conversation in Spanish and Carlos follows my lead, answering in English.

He leans forward, jaw clenching. “Don’t be so selfish, Jade,” he snaps. “This isn’t just about you. This is my job, too, and⁠—”

I take a step closer. “It was private. I can’t believe you told her about falling off the stage.”

Carlos crosses his arms. “It provides context. She needed to understand how serious this is.”

“Well, congratulations, it’s so serious she might take me off the tour. I’m glad my trauma has given you ammunition to use against me.”

Carlos spreads his hands. “You can’t honestly tell me that you think this is going well? That you’re happy doing this?”

“Well then you should have spoken up before we started.”

“You shouldn’t have withheld pertinent information.”

“I didn’t know it was going to be that bad! The previous presentations were fine. You had no right. Whatever is happening on that stage—that’s mine to manage. You don’t get to take it to Rebecca behind my back.”

“You’re right, it wasn’t mine to share. But Jade—” Carlos stops. He points to the ballroom. “Those patients out there don’t deserve ‘fine.’”

That hits me like a punch to the solar plexus.

“They deserve a presentation that packs emotion, a presentation that gives them information and hope. This is our one chance to be a face and a story, not just a treatment.”

Goddamn it. Carlos is right and holy hell is he good at his job. I close my eyes and turn my head away. “It should be you giving the presentation. Or anyone else. You’re right.”

When I open my eyes, Carlos’s gaze meets mine. “Maybe,” he allows. “But I don’t think you really believe that. I’ve seen you with these people one-on-one. In some ways, that matters even more. But it can’t be everything. I saw when Rebecca told you there would be opportunities to talk to patients. You wanted that, but something is in your way.”

Carlos leaves, and I stand there, shaken.

I know I’m feeling defensive. I know that this is all my fault. I’m angry at Carlos and Rebecca, but most of all I’m angry that I didn’t take this seriously enough.

I need to talk to someone, find a therapist. I need a plan. I need . . .

I need my friends.

I pull out my phone.

Jade

I need help.

17

Carlos

* * *

We have a few hours before our presentation, so I spent the time walking around the city with my new camera, trying to be spontaneous like Jade would be. It’s tiring, but when I return to the hotel, I have three pictures, judiciously taken, to commemorate my trip.

I’m reviewing my translation notes for the third time when Jade arrives backstage at our Paris presentation. This one is our biggest, and I expect she’s going to be even more nervous. She’s fifteen minutes early, which is unusual for her. She’s also pale, her hands gripping the handle of her laptop bag so tightly her knuckles have gone white. So that’s familiar.

“Buenos días,” I offer.

She nods but doesn’t speak, just moves past me to set up her laptop at the podium. I watch her for a moment, trying to gauge her state of mind. After Zurich, I learned to read the signs—the way she holds herself too rigidly when she’s nervous, the forced brightness in her smile when she’s trying to hide anxiety.

But today feels different. There’s a determination in the set of her shoulders that wasn’t there before.

She reaches into her bag and produces a Polaroid—from a quick glimpse I identify her and three other women, the same ones that came to Vienna. She props it against the base of the podium, adjusting it until it faces her directly. A talisman. Small and specific and entirely hers.