The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club

by Jessica Morrison

  “It’s not the real thing,” Dan says quickly. “I went back to that store in Recoleta, but the one you wanted had been sold. This one’s the closest thing I could find, but it’s not a diamond. We can pick out the real one together when we’re back in the States.” Real one. Together. We. I hear the words, but they aren’t adding up into anything I understand. “You can come to Boston, or I can go to Seattle,” I hear him say, his voice small, as though from a distance.

  “What.” It isn’t a question, just the only word that comes to mind. It hangs in the air between us for a moment.

  “Sorry?” Dan squints at me, trying to decipher.

  “What are you saying?”

  “Cassie.” He grabs my hand. “I’m asking you to marry me.”

  The details of the scene come into focus. Wax slowly tracking down the candlesticks and oozing onto the tile tabletop. Bubbles rising and bursting inside the two full glasses. Dan perched shakily on one knee. Coldplay warbling sincerely in the background. The scent of vanilla cloying in the hot night. Then something even clearer pulls into view. Dan at my parents’ front door, stepping inside, shaking my stepdad’s hand, complimenting the spread my mother has put out for us. She’s set out the good dishes, the expensive nut mix with no peanuts. She beams at Dan with approval, thrilled at this catch of a man her daughter has landed, all her hard work paying off in one spectacular parental moment. My stepdad looks on supportively. I see Dan meeting my friends, who adore him instantly, Dan working in the garage on weekends when he’s not playing golf, Dan on a beach in Puerto Vallarta. It looks so perfect. Everything is the way I’ve always thought it would be.

  This is it, I tell myself. The drama and confusion of the last few months have been leading me to this moment. It all seems so obvious that this is the way it was supposed to be. Yes, I shout in my head. Yes! Yes! Yes!

  The word leaps into my throat.

  I choke it back down.

  I look at Dan waiting for an answer. He watches me calmly. Why is Dan so calm? I see him again in my parents’ house, at backyard barbecues, on the beach. He looks calm there, too. Happy. But how do I look? Am I happy? Content? I can’t see myself. Where am I in all those moments? Inside this brilliant plan I’ve made, where am I?

  I need a second to catch my breath. I hold up a finger, but my breath slips away. The buzzing starts in my ears; it’s soft, but I can hear it. My chest contracts slightly. I press my hand to my breastbone. A tingling in my shoulder. Panic is coming.

  “Where am I?” I whisper, the words snagging in my throat. Dan leans in toward me. “Where am I?”

  “You’re here with me.” He crinkles his brow. “Are you okay, sweetie? Too much bubbly, I think.”

  I look at him and realize that he’s right, though not about the champagne. I am here. He is there in Seattle or Boston or wherever, and I am right here in Buenos Aires, watching this other life unfold as though it’s happening to someone else. Part of me wants so badly to say yes, to take the easy way out. But I can’t. I’m looking at Dan—perfect Dan—and knowing in every cell and corpuscle that the wrong man is kneeling beside me. I force the words out.

  “I can’t marry you, Dan.” The buzzing recedes. Breath comes. I inhale long and deep. It feels like this is the first breath I have ever taken.

  “Why not?” His voice is unsure, his eyes pleading and hopeful.

  “You’re a great guy. A really, really, really great guy. Any woman would be lucky to have you. But I don’t . . . I don’t love you.” I shake my head at myself, both astounded and incredibly proud. I am rejecting the perfect man. I haven’t found a job. I will go home broke and alone, with nothing to show for my six months here. None of this has gone the way I expected, but I’ll be okay. I came to Buenos Aires all by myself, didn’t I? I had no job, no friends, no Spanish. But I found ways to be productive, I made friends, I even learned a bit of the language, to my surprise. I didn’t fall apart or run home. I didn’t get kidnapped. Someone once told me I am brave, and I’m beginning to think he was right.

  “Oh.” Dan contemplates this for a minute, still balanced precariously on one knee. I’m thanking my lucky stars for getting off so easily when he stands up and paces the floor. Then he stops and holds up his hand.

  “Hold on. Wait. Why can’t this work? We want all the same things. Your plan, the whole thing, it could have been me who wrote that stuff. And I can give you all of it, every single thing. Home, family, everything you want.”

  My plan. The thought of it makes me weary. I think of the note in my purse on the floor near the door. Love doesn’t come on schedule. Or in the right place or the right time, the right size or the right color. I look down at my fidgeting hands, at the water-stained floor, at the chipped polish on my left big toe. These imperfect things are real, not some spreadsheet on a computer. I didn’t plan to be sitting here on this couch saying no to a marriage proposal to a dear, sweet man, but these are the moments that make up a life, for better or worse. “I was wrong,” I say. “It’s not enough. It’s not everything.”

  Dan slumps onto the couch beside me, nearly knocking over one of the candlesticks. He takes my hand. The fake ring digs into my skin. Our faces are inches apart; I can feel his breath on my forehead. Every part of me is trembling. It’s not just Dan I’m letting go of here. I’m letting go of an idea of myself. It feels terrifying and crazy and really, really, really good. “I don’t get it,” he says, shaking his head. “We’re perfect for each other.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” I say. “But I think I’m done with perfect.”

  The second I get back to my apartment, I fire up my laptop. I haven’t decided if I’m having a breakthrough or a breakdown. Either way, there’s no time to lose. I locate ThePlan2.xls on my hard drive and highlight it. I do the same to ThePlan1.xls, ThePlan1b.xls, and ThePlan1bBackup.xls, to make sure. With my hand, my arm, my entire body shaking, my finger hovers over the delete button. I can do this, I tell myself. I am already doing it.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Three mornings in a row, I wake up and tell myself, This is the day I talk to Mateo. The time left until I go home is ticking down fast, and I hate the thought of leaving things the way they are between us. Even Dan and I have promised to keep in contact as friends, although I half suspect the first (and perhaps only) correspondence from him will be a wedding announcement in the not too distant future. It’s not that I expect to get birthday cards from Mateo, but it would make me feel a lot better if I knew there wasn’t someone on the other side of the world who hated me. It doesn’t matter who was right or who was wrong, I tell myself. I can be the bigger person. I’ll apologize for what I said, for what I wrote, for sticking my nose in where it doesn’t belong. Who doesn’t like to hear that he’s right? My courage bolstered, I get dressed, head outside, and start walking in the direction of the pink and blue house. A few blocks from my destination, the doubt starts. What if Mateo refuses to listen? What if he won’t talk to me? Or worse, what if he doesn’t care one way or another? So every day I wake up and tell myself, This is the day I talk to Mateo, and every morning I lose my nerve.

  Thankfully, Andrea’s house is full of distractions. Christmas is still two weeks away, but Martin is home again, so there is no shortage of reasons to celebrate. Each day is filled with music and laughter and the scent of lavish meals. The five pounds I lost over the last six months by walking everywhere are put back on easily, thanks to the endless spreads of baked goods, roast meats, and red wine. “You live only once,” Andrea scolds when I refuse yet another plate of cookies.

  “You’re right,” I say, taking the biggest cookie on the plate. The soft, buttery shortbread melts in my mouth. I decide then and there to give up on talking to Mateo. I’ve got better things to do with the time I’ve got left here.

  Today, with me as her sous chef, Andrea is preparing a Brazilian feast, while Martin and Jorge put the final touches on the giant tree in the salon. After dinner, with one tired little boy tucked into his bed
upstairs, we sip maté around the tree. The lights twinkle gold against homemade paper decorations. Argentine holiday music plays gently. The happy reunited couple snuggles on the love seat. They hold hands, kiss each other on the forehead. I stretch out on the chaise with Lola at my feet, her soft fur tickling my bare toes. Andrea tells stories about Brazil at Christmastime. Martin fills me in on local customs. No one mentions our absent fourth party or the fact that I leave in six days.

  The holiday music follows as I climb the stairs to my apartment. While I undress for bed, I can hear Andrea and Martin through the open courtyard doors, cooing sweetly to each other. Life isn’t perfect—they hardly see each other—but they are a couple in love.

  Tucking under the covers, I catch the glint from Dan’s ring on the nightstand. “A souvenir,” he had said, pushing it into my hand before I stepped into the waiting cab that night. I didn’t want to keep it, but now I’m glad I did. It is a souvenir, though not of Dan and me. This ring, I’ve decided, will be my talisman against bad decisions, my icon of imperfection and all its joys.

  I toss and turn in bed thanks to too much maté. When I finally fall asleep, I dream I’m at the Buenos Aires airport, checking in for my flight. Are those your bags? the lady asks. I shake my head. I don’t recognize them. They’re the wrong size and the wrong color. There are too many. Dozens and dozens of tiny red bags. The people in line behind me are getting irate, shouting things in Spanish. I open the bags one by one, as fast as I can, but can’t find anything that looks remotely familiar. The airline lady tells me I can’t take them with me if they aren’t mine. Just as the security men are carting me off, I see a big blue suitcase. My suitcase. That one’s mine, I try to explain. That one right there on top. But no one is listening.

  I open my eyes, and they go instantly to the corner of the apartment, where I’ve lined up my suitcases. Two large blue bags, already packed, and one empty small black carry-on. I shake my head. It’s the third time I’ve had this dream, and it’s starting to make me feel more neurotic than usual. When I looked it up on three new-age dream sites, I learned that luggage in a dream suggests the start of a journey. No freaking kidding.

  The sound of giggling in the hall is a welcome disruption of my morning self-analysis session. Andrea and Martin at it again, I assume. But when I throw on a robe and open the door, I find Jorge and the dogs. He wraps his hand around two of my fingers and pulls me toward the stairs. Andrea and Martin are in the kitchen feeding each other breakfast. I hesitate at the door, but Jorge pulls me down into a chair and crawls up on my lap, a warm, live squirming teddy bear.

  Andrea claps her hands and laughs. “Somebody’s made a friend.”

  “And it only took six months,” I say, laughing. Andrea shakes her head and squeezes his fat forearm affectionately. I want to squeeze the whole of him, but am worried this might scare him off. Jorge ignores us all, focusing his attention on the sugared medialunas set out on the table beyond his reach.

  “He knows you are one of us,” says Andrea. How bittersweet to finally belong now that I’m leaving. “Did you sleep okay?”

  “Más o menos,” I say. Martin raises an appreciative eyebrow at my Spanish.

  “Are you hungry?” Andrea pushes the plate of pastries toward me. I pop a piece of medialuna in my mouth, then tear off half for Jorge. I pour myself a cup of coffee from the carafe. Martin passes me the milk. Andrea passes me the sugar. Jorge smiles up at me, his lips coated with sugar. If you didn’t know any better, you might think we were family.

  “So, Cassie, what you will do on this beautiful Thursday?” Martin asks.

  “Is it Thursday?” I ask offhandedly, as though I’m not counting down the days on my Outlook calendar. My last Thursday. El jueves final. I don’t need a plan to tell me I’ve got something left to do. “I think I’ll take a walk.” Jorge chews on his chunk of the medialuna and smiles up at me approvingly.

  I arrive at the Plaza de Mayo in the late afternoon. The Madres have already begun their slow, steady march around the monument. The older women shuffle along, some supported at their elbows by younger versions of themselves. Mothers, wives, and sisters linked arm in arm. As on the first day I saw them here, they chat, laugh, gesture, shake their heads as they walk. Even for these stubborn women who won’t give up, life goes on.

  A few young student types recline on the grass and watch the strange, marvelous spectacle. I inch my way forward and settle on a nearby bench. From this distance, I can see the faces on the placards the women carry. In some cases, I can read the names and ages of the disappeared. Augustina rounds the obelisk with her grandmother. She looks my way, and I wave. She waves back and turns to her grandmother. Offering the old woman’s arm to another marcher, Augustina heads my way.

  “I didn’t want to interrupt,” I say as she approaches, startled that she would break from the circle of women for my sake.

  “No, please, I am happy to see you. You didn’t answer my last e-mail.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve been busy. I’m going home soon.”

  “Home?” She tilts her head and looks at me as though this idea of “home” is nonsensical.

  “America?” I say.

  “This is too bad.” She tilts her head the other way, then shrugs. “But you are here now.”

  “Yes. I wanted to say goodbye.”

  She waves the idea away with both hands. “Okay, okay, there is time after for goodbye. Now you come walk with us.” Augustina stretches her hand out to me.

  “What? Oh, no. Really, I couldn’t. But thank you.”

  “Are all Americans this much shy?” She laughs and grabs me by the wrist, pulling me toward the obelisk and the marching women. My body is yanked forward. This small Argentine woman is stronger than she looks. “Vayamos.”

  As we get closer to the Madres, I bow my head, more from embarrassment than deference. I’m hoping we will slip quietly into a gap in the crowd and attract little attention. But no such luck. The circle breaks slightly where we enter. All heads turn to make sense of me, this blond American woman, this intruder.

  “I don’t belong here,” I whisper. Augustina shakes her head and squeezes my arm.

  “Madres,” she announces loudly, “ella es Cassie Moore.” A murmur of excitement percolates. I hear my name said over and over, mutating slightly while it goes around the monument, as in some surreal game of telephone. An ancient woman, even older than Augustina’s grandmother, locks her arm through mine. “Well come,” she says slowly, tapping her fingers on mine, smiling a gap-toothed smile. “Well come Cassie Moore.” The women nod in approval, and the circle of warm bodies closes back in around us.

  Augustina bumps her shoulder against mine and smiles. “They think you belong.”

  The subway rocks its way through the city. I let my body be loose, let it rock along, and think of those women opening their arms to me, enfolding me in their sacred circle. I feel blessed. There’s no other word for it. I enjoy the feeling, let the tears come warm and fast without the usual self-reproach. A teenage girl sitting alone and reading a book asks if I am okay. I nod to reassure her, but this only makes me cry harder, which in turn makes me laugh. She smiles gently and goes back to her book.

  When I open the door to the yellow house, I see a figure in the entrance wearing overalls and balancing on a ladder. My heart sinks when the man turns his head and I see that it is just Martin replacing a chandelier lightbulb in the foyer.

  “Hola, Cassie.”

  “Hola,” I say, trying to sound cheerful. “Hola, chicos,” I call out to the dogs, who are nestled against one another in a corner like puppies. Lola lazily slaps her tail against the floor tiles, but no one comes up to greet me with the usual sloppy kisses and soft head butts.

  “Don’t take this personally,” Martin says, smiling from the top of the stepladder. “Jorge runs them all day. We went to the plaza.”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Oh, yes.” He unscrews the offending bulb and holds it out at a
rm’s length, patting his various pockets with his free hand. “Always. And how was your walk?”

  “Wonderful.” I peer into the giant toolbox under the ladder and locate the package of new bulbs. I pass him one, smiling to myself. “Best walk I’ve ever taken.”

  The moment I step into the apartment, I can hear the IM going wild. Exhausted, I don’t feel like talking to anyone, virtually or otherwise. I lie down for a quick nap, but the pinging sound continues. I rise again, snorting my displeasure. The blue icon jumps excitedly in the corner of the screen. It’s C.J., and judging from the trail of IM messages, he’s been trying to get ahold of me for a while.

  I type. “I’m here. What’s up?”

  “Swedish company. Big VP. Sponsorship! Call now!” He messages as if he’s out of breath.

  “Easy, tiger. Can you expand a bit?”

  “Check your e-mail.”

  I find his forwarded message in my jammed in-box.

  Subject: Website Sponsor Proposal

  Dear Website Operator or Owner,

  Please be advised that the SVadko Company of Stockholm, Sweden, has interest in being a sponsor of your website: www.buenosairesbrokenheartsclub.com. We take several opportunities such as this in a year and would today be happy to talk to you about this exciting proposal. We believe that your website would be an ideal match for our company and its objectives. Would you please discuss this opportunity with us at the below number?

  Sincerely,

  Johan Karlsson

  Director, Global Marketing

  Isn’t SVadko that premium vodka company? I think. This has to be a joke, a crank e-mail, some sort of hoax. I look up the company’s website, and the domain name does match the one in the e-mail sender’s address. I check the contact page. There’s a Johan Karlsson listed, and the phone number is the same as the one at the bottom of the message.

  Okay, so it’s not a joke, but it must be some mistake. What would they want with my little website? I put together a few sponsorship deals for Idealmatch.com, and they were huge. Not we-can-all-cash-our-stock-options-and-retire-in-the-Bahamas huge, but definitely I-can-finally-buy-the-fully-loaded-BMW huge. I read the e-mail again, vaguely aware of the IM pinging in the background and the icon hopping up and down impatiently.