The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club

by Jessica Morrison

  When he reappears a few minutes later, he’s holding a plate of food. “You’ve been working so hard, I was worried you didn’t get enough to eat. It’s a bit cold, I’m afraid.”

  “That’s okay. I took a short dinner break,” I joke.

  “Did you like the food?”

  “I loved it,” I say with maybe too much enthusiasm. “Martin is a grilling genius. Though half the time, I had no idea what I was eating.”

  “Best not to ask,” Mateo says in a hushed voice. “We Argentines make a point of eating the whole cow.”

  “Thanks for the tip,” I say, smiling, and begin to clear glasses from the side table.

  Suddenly, I feel the heat of him behind me. There can’t be more than a few inches between us. His right arm reaches around me and . . . picks up an empty wineglass.

  I exhale. Always reading too much into things, I scold myself. But then he leans in closer, so close I can feel his dress shirt against my bare shoulder blades. His chest is warm through the fabric. I’m so glad I wore my strappy-backed top.

  “Why do I feel like you’ve been avoiding me?” he whispers in my ear, his lips tickling the sensitive skin there.

  I drop a glass.

  A dozen heads whip around in our direction. Mateo steps back as though recoiling from an electric shock. Andrea says something loudly in Spanish. Everyone laughs and returns to their drinks. I run to the kitchen to look for a broom. I find it in a closet near the stove, a closet just big enough for one person to hide in. After contemplating this option for a moment, I grab the broom and head back out into the salon.

  When I return, the four remaining guests are gathering their coats from a chair in the corner. “Buenas noches,” they say to us, one of them patting Mateo on his shoulder. “Buenas noches,” I say with a large smile, waving my broom like an idiot.

  Mateo looks at me intensely. We are alone in the room. I start to sweep. “You never answered my question,” he says.

  “Your question?” I bend to pick up a few large chunks of glass from under a chair. I sweep under the credenza, under the table, under the love seat. “You know, if you don’t do this right the first time, you’re stepping on glass for years to come.”

  “I think you’re still doing it.” I am vaguely aware of Andrea and her husband saying long goodbyes to their guests in the front hall. Mostly, I hear my heart thudding in my ears. What am I so afraid of?

  “Doing what?” I begin collecting empty glasses again, trying to apply all my focus to the task. No matter how much I move, it is painfully clear that Mateo is remaining perfectly still.

  “Avoiding me.”

  “What’s the matter? Were you getting lonely?” I look at him with a teasing smirk. “Because you looked pretty entertained to me.”

  “Were you watching me?” He smiles that devilish smile and cocks his head to the right. It takes the length of a breath for the electricity to travel from my chest to my toes. I understand that flirting is a national sport in Argentina, but he’s not playing fair.

  “You wish.”

  I set the stack of glasses on the side table and turn to start on the bar, but my foot catches the carpet. Before I can hit the hardwood, Mateo grabs my elbow. I jerk against the grip, take a grounding step, and right myself again. His hand is still on my elbow, grip loosened but still there, warm and heavy.

  My own hand to my chest, I take a deep breath. Then another. “Thanks. Yikes, that could have been ugly. Again.” I push out a laugh.

  “You’re welcome. Though I kind of wish you fell.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Only because this time, dogs or no dogs, I would have kissed you. Like I wanted to that first day.” There is no smile or smirk or cocked head, just his eyes looking straight into mine. His fingers tighten around my arm. Electricity fires through my body in every direction, followed by a sobering jolt of fear. What am I so afraid of? I think of those women all over him tonight. I hear Andrea’s voice in my head. Girl to girl to girl. But it’s more than that. Antonio is hardly the monogamous type, and I couldn’t care less. So what is it?

  Mateo takes a step closer, and I know the answer: I could care about him.

  And where would that get me?

  You can take the girl out of The Plan, but you can’t take The Plan out of the girl.

  We are mere inches apart, our eyes still locked. He tilts his head down and parts his lips ever so slightly. I don’t move. I don’t breathe. Every cell in my body wants to kiss this man, but I can’t. Please don’t kiss me, I whisper in my head.

  “Aha!” Martin bellows behind Mateo. “Andrea makes maté.” He clasps his hands together happily, then stops and looks at us. “I interrupt?”

  “No. Está bien,” I say.

  “Good. Then you come, sí?”

  “Por supuesto,” I answer with a big smile. “Gracias.”

  “Sí.” Mateo drops his hand from my arm and looks at me. Before he can stop me, I follow Martin out into the courtyard.

  I’ve watched Andrea drink yerba maté countless times. When she cleans, after a long day of running errands, in the evenings while she watches Friends reruns dubbed in Spanish, when she checks her e-mail in the small home office, before she goes to bed. Taking short sips from the silver straw, refilling the tiny pot with more hot water as it drains, she reminds me of an old man puffing on a pipe. When you are invited to take maté, my guidebooks say, you are being invited into the Argentine culture. It is a very rare experience for tourists, many of whom buy the pots and straws at local fairs as souvenirs but will never enjoy the hot herbal drink with a local. It is a small, yet powerful reminder that though I will be here only a few more months, I am not simply passing through.

  Andrea always offers me some of her maté, and I take a few sips of the bitter tealike drink to be polite, but I know immediately that this moment in the courtyard, the dark sky a soothing blanket above us, is something different, something special. Mostly, I am honored to be in the company of these people, to be allowed inside the warm fold of their old friendship. The four of us take turns sipping the hot liquid from the silver straw. Andrea has added a bit of sugar against her husband’s protests. At first it is strong, then mellows into something akin to green tea. While we sip, Andrea does most of the talking, entertaining us with stories from their collective past. Martin and Mateo jump in constantly to add details she’s forgotten. Their rapport, the ease with which they tease one another, the eruptions of laughter, all make me long for Sam and Trish and the other friends I left back home. At the same time it makes me sad to think how soon I will be saying goodbye to these kind people. The thought, like the maté, is bittersweet.

  “So how do you all know each other, anyway?” I interrupt, wanting to change the subject in my head to something more joyful.

  The laughter stops, and everyone looks at one another furtively. Mateo stares at the table. Andrea sips long and hard at the maté straw, making a gurgling that signals the water is low. Martin busies himself with the task of refilling the pot for her. My question seems to have hit a nerve, but I haven’t the slightest idea why.

  “Well,” Andrea starts slowly. “Mateo and I have been friends for so long, it’s hard to say when . . .” Mateo gives her a quick sideways glance. Martin concentrates hard on refilling the tiny maté pot. There is a particular ritual to it, Andrea has explained, but he seems to be getting a bit carried away, patting the pot with his palm, assessing its insides, adding more maté. He mumbles something in Spanish that I can’t make out.

  “Martin, do you need help with that?” I ask teasingly.

  “So now the American is going to show me how to make maté?” He chuckles and slaps his thigh lightly. Then he adds too much hot water from a thermos under the table. It spills over, and we all laugh.

  “We are all friends from so long ago,” Andrea says finally.

  I nod and grin knowingly. “Friendships like that last forever.”

  “Not always,” Mateo says, barely audi
ble over Andrea, who coos lovingly to Martin in Spanish.

  “Yes, well,” Andrea interjects. “People come and people go.”

  “It’s the one thing you can count on,” Mateo adds flatly, sounding disconcertingly like my mother. He looks up and examines the star-filled sky.

  “I hope that’s not true,” I say, my mouth curving into a coy smile. I am thinking of our moment in the salon, parted lips separated by mere inches, what might have happened if Martin hadn’t burst in on us. Where could that have led? Now I’ll never know. Why did I fight it? “There would be no such thing as family, or marriage, for that matter.”

  Mateo snorts out a snide chuckle. “I suppose you believe in true love and all that other Hollywood crap,” he says with a snarl. I shift uncomfortably in my chair, thrown off balance by this inexplicable return of the old—and I thought gone—Mateo.

  “I—I believe in the possibility of it,” I stutter. “How can you not?”

  “Have you found it?”

  “Of course,” I say, then check myself. Jeff and Lauren writhe naked and entwined in my mind. How long before these memories no longer come to me crystal-clear and sharp as an X-Acto blade? “Well, no. Not yet. But I—”

  “Life isn’t a Tom Hanks movie, Cassandra.”

  “I love Tom Hanks!” Andrea exclaims. “Big is very funny, no? And Sleepless in Seattle. Not You Have Mail. I did not like that at all. Her hair looked funny.”

  “I know life isn’t a movie,” I continue, determined to salvage my point. “But that doesn’t mean those things don’t exist. Millions of love stories have been written for a reason.”

  “Yes, to stop us from thinking about the reality that nothing is forever, that happily ever after is a fairy tale.”

  “Ah, the fairy tales. What happened to all the fairy tales?” asks Andrea jovially, snuggling into her husband’s lap. “I had princesses and dragons, and Jorge has books about talking dogs. This is a shame, no?”

  “Sí, mi amore. A shame.” Martin passes her the freshened maté and wraps his arms around her small frame.

  The subject is successfully changed, but the evening is unrecoverable. It isn’t long before our little party breaks up, our goodbyes said with obvious awkwardness, a half-full maté pot abandoned in the courtyard, the kiss that wasn’t a kiss dissipating into the cool morning air.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  So much of the night was wonderful. Beyond wonderful. Perfect, almost. But it’s this tirade against true love that I can’t let go of. Just when I start to think M is someone special, someone like no one I’ve ever met before, just when I begin to regret everything I’ve ever written about him in this blog, he does another 180 and turns back into the old M. Life isn’t a Tom Hanks movie. What does he take me for? Some vapid, lovelorn, weak-minded woman, no doubt. What am I supposed to make of this return to the sarcastic, condescending man I could barely stand? Was I right all along? Is he really just a total snob? Or was he trying to tell me something about our ambiguous moment in the salon? Was he regretful and wanting to warn me away? Well, my Argentine friend, mission accomplished.

  This latest entry, I think with no small amount of satisfaction, ought to get them going. No matter the subject matter, I always feel better when I blog. I’m averaging about four hundred hits a day, which seems like an awful lot. Knowing that so many people care, that I’m not completely alone even as I sit here plunking away on my laptop in this city so far from home, makes nights like this that much more bearable.

  Sometimes I even get some good advice. Everyone has an opinion. The latest topic for hot debate: Is my infatuation with Mateo something new, or was I into him all along? “It makes sense,” writes virgin@heart.com. “She criticized him way too harshly and way too often. It had to be an elaborate cover-up.” Her comment stirs up a flurry of agreement. “I saw through it all along,” claims kanders@biznet.com. Regardless of how off base this theory is, I enjoy the back-and-forth—not so much for the occasional pearls of wisdom but for the satisfaction of knowing that something I’ve created has brought all these disparate people together. Energized by their enthusiasm, I look forward to blogging at the end of every day—or at the start of the next, as the case may be.

  It’s 4:48 A.M., I note, sighing heavily at the clock. If I’m not asleep by now, I figure, I might as well skip it. I check my e-mail. It’s been a couple of days—surely a sign of personal growth—and there are eleven new messages from the usual suspects. I know the content without even opening them, but the predictability doesn’t make the ritual any less enjoyable. Sam and Trish filling me in on their office gossip—I don’t know the players, but the drama is amusing all the same; job postings from my mom that have no relation to my degree or professional experience; Internet jokes, riddles, and goofy cartoons from my stepdad that have been around the World Wide Web a hundred times (I don’t have the heart to tell him I’ve seen them already); a cryptic quotation by some obscure genius from C.J., the quirky but sweet programmer at my old job whom I’ve managed to stay in touch with; and two or three messages concerning online master’s degrees, penis enlargement pills, and other very important, time-limited offers that I CAN’T MISS OUT ON!

  And something from Jeff.

  Just seeing his name (which even my mother has had the tact to avoid in our cross-continental communications) is enough to send me reeling. I brace myself against the chair, arms strapped behind me as in a straitjacket, and stare at the subject line. “Please read,” it says simply, horribly, in bold black letters. Read? For the second time in twenty-four hours, I can’t breathe. He might as well be standing in front of me, the words alone have such effect. Almost three months and no contact. It’s an e-mail apparition, I tell myself. It isn’t real. There must be another jkeller@bdfmlegal.com.

  But I know it’s him.

  A world of possibilities ricochets through my mind. A thousand scenarios. He can’t remember where he put the insurance papers. He’s suing me for the engagement ring I sold on eBay. He’s become a Buddhist monk and is coming to terms with past wrongs. And then the frightening, thrilling, unavoidable thought: He wants me back.

  Could that be it? Do I want that to be it? The shape of him, of us, rises from the bold black letters. My perfect fiancé. Our enviable home. My ideal life. The Plan. It all knits together from fragments I haven’t let myself think about for so many weeks, coming back into focus slowly, like a past life merging into the here and now.

  The prospect of it is too much to take. I can’t open the e-mail. I let go of the chair and fly across the room to my giant white bed. I burrow under the down duvet, find comfort under the weight of pillows.

  In the quiet, downy undercover light, I assess. Do I want him back? No, no, I don’t. I definitely don’t. But I do want him to want me back. Yes, I want that more than anything. I savor the image of Jeff alone and crying, railing against his bad judgment, against his unpredictable, surprising, challenging, imperfect Lauren. I love the taste of him pining away for me, his perfect Cassie, always to be lost. If only, he’s thinking, pounding his fists against his muted gray walls, Japanese knickknacks jiggling off the Ikea shelf and smashing against the hardwood floor. If only . . . And here I am having the time of my life, a new and exciting experience around every corner, hundreds of people online waiting to hear what’s next, and there he is—dejected and alone.

  I have to open that e-mail. I crawl out of my fluffy refuge and face the glowing screen again. I touch the mouse, hold my breath, and double-click.

  Cassie,

  I have some news that I want you to hear from me and not someone else. I know I’ve hurt you badly and I can’t stand to hurt you again. But here goes . . .

  Lauren and I are getting married. It just happened. I asked one day and she said yes. It was a surprise to both of us, really. Anyway, I thought you should know. I don’t expect you to be happy for me, but I hope you won’t hate me.

  I hope you are okay.

  Jeff

  Jeff is getting
married. Jeff is getting married. To someone else. Lauren is marrying Jeff. My Jeff. He doesn’t want me back. Nobody wants me back. Nobody is pining away for me, pounding his fists, wishing for what might have been. Other people are living my what-might-have-been without me. Jeff will get his wife. Lauren will get her perfect man, perfect home, perfect life. Meanwhile, I am flitting around with Antonio, almost letting myself fall for Mateo, who doesn’t want marriage or love or anything real, widening the gaping hole in my résumé, and wasting my meager savings on useless trinkets. Almost three months and I can’t even speak Spanish.

  It feels like the blood is draining from my body, pooling in my hands and feet. They are so heavy. Everything is slipping away. I am tired. I close the e-mail. Summoning what is left of my waning energy, I retreat to my bed once more. There is much crying and then, finally, sleep.