Page 67 of Cava with My Colleague

I unlock my door and step inside. Close it. Lean against it.

The room is dark except for the light from the hallway seeping under the door. I don’t turn on the lights. Just stand there, breathing.

My phone buzzes. Fernando, checking in about dropping Izan off tomorrow. I respond automatically, then toss the phone on the bed.

I should shower. Should order room service. Should do something productive.

Instead, I lie down on top of the covers, still fully dressed, and stare at the ceiling.

I’m happy with my life.

I said it. Meant it.

Didn’t I?

Before Jade, yes. Contentedly settled. Happily routine. Saturday dinners and park walks and helping Diana with little Carmen.

Now I’m in a hotel room in Geneva, lying to myself.

I wanted to kiss her in that elevator. I wanted to pull her close and tell her I think about her constantly. Tell her that watching her with patients makes something in my chest ache. That this past week of cold professionalism has been awful.

Before Jade, I never would have had this screaming, aching desire.

But I told her the truth: my life is settled, simple, good.

She’s leaving.

What would I even be offering her? Disrupt your life in Austin for a complicated long-distance thing with a grandfather?

No.

The distance is right. Necessary.

I’m protecting both of us.

So why does it feel like I’m losing something vital?

I pull out my phone again, look at my lock screen—Carmen’s face, all gummy smile and bright eyes.

This is my life. This is what matters.

“I’m happy with my life.”

I repeat it like a prayer.

Like a lie.

I close my eyes and see Jade’s face in the elevator—the moment when she realized I was rejecting her. The way her expression closed off.

I fall asleep still dressed, my phone clutched in my hand, telling myself it’s better this way.

And dream of citrus-scented hair slipping through my fingers.

The next night, I arrive home from work and settle onto the couch. The weather is nasty outside, howling. Summers are usually dry and hot, but this is the second summer in recent memory where we’ve gotten a dangerous deluge. At least it’s not hail like it was last time.

Izan puts his chin on my knee and grumbles. His walk was abbreviated, a quick potty stop, and he’s cranky about it, as if I control the weather.

I take a picture of the old man’s face and send it to Jade.