Page 58 of Cava with My Colleague

22

Jade

Carlos and I have traveled separately again, and the tension in the event room is thick enough to cut with a knife.

We’re setting up for the presentation in Luxembourg, and we’ve barely said two words to each other. He arrived first and when I walked in, he gave me a curt nod and went back to arranging brochures.

I’m wearing the red wrap dress today, the one I bought in Amsterdam that Rebecca said makes me look like I run the company.

I take care with how I look. I always have—maybe because for most of my early life, what I wore was out of my control—God-fearing women didn’t dress like I wanted to. Now I choose everything. The earrings, the lipstick, the particular shade of red that makes me feel like I belong in any room I walk into.

I’m keeping my promise to myself. Professional distance only. Three presentations left, and then I never have to see him again.

But god, it’s awkward.

I connect my laptop to the projector, hyperaware of where he is on the other side of the stage. Every time I glance over, he’s focused intently on whatever task he’s doing—organizing materials, checking his tablet, anything to avoid looking at me.

This is what we’re doing now, apparently. Pretending the kiss never happened. Pretending the past few weeks of getting closer never happened.

Fine. I can do that too.

Attendees start filing in, and I busy myself with last-minute slide checks I don’t actually need to do. Anything to avoid the suffocating silence between us.

Finally, I can’t take it anymore.

“How was your weekend?” I ask in Spanish as we finish setting out the last of the brochures. My voice comes out stiff, formal—a rote greeting, nothing more.

“Good,” he says without looking at me. A pause, then: “How was your date?”

I blink. “What date?”

His eyes finally meet mine, and there’s something sharp in them. “Your weekend in Rome. With your friends.”

“That wasn’t a—” I stop myself. Is he being deliberately obtuse? Or is he just making conversation? I can’t tell anymore.

“How was your date?” I ask, unable to keep the edge out of my voice. “The woman you met in Barcelona? That date?”

Carlos’s eyes widen and he takes two steps toward me, leaning in. “That was not a date,” he hisses. “My god—that’s my nuera.”

“Wait, your . . .” That’s a word I don’t know. Not daughter, hija, I know that one, or sister, hermana.

“Daughter-in-law,” he finishes for me in English. His voice is tight. “Do not joke about me dating my son’s wife!”

I sputter. “You have a son?”

“Yes.” Carlos straightens and glances around. No one is paying attention to us, but attendees are starting to fill in.

“You took her up to your room,” I accuse.

Carlos clenches his jaw. “Diana is breastfeeding. She pumped before dinner and left her bag in my room.”

“Breastfeeding,” I echo.

“Yes. For my granddaughter.”

My mind is reeling. A son. A daughter-in-law. A granddaughter. The woman I saw him with was family.

But instead of relief, I feel something worse—a yawning gap opening up between us.