Houston, We Have a Problema

by Gwendolyn Zepeda

  As if he’d read her mind, he said, “I work with David at Halronburco.”

  Jessica imagined him in the mailroom or maybe working on someone’s computer.

  “Hey . . . Jessica. I remember now,” he went on. “You’re the one who did the fan site for David’s Fairlane, right?”

  “Yeah, that was me. But that wasn’t my idea. That’s not the kind of thing I normally —”

  “No, it was good. Cutting-edge. It’s not your fault your brother-in-law’s a total geek.” His smile was warm. His eyes really were very green, she noticed. “I especially liked the way you Photoshopped your sister’s picture into the rearview mirror.”

  “You saw that?” Jessica couldn’t suppress a wicked smile. She loved adding extra little touches like that to her sites, and most people never noticed.

  “I did. It was great. So, is that what you do? Web development?”

  “Yes. Well, on the side. When I’m not at my day job, in insurance.”

  “Oh yeah? Which company?” he asked, seemingly with great interest.

  “McCormick. It’s a brokerage.” She didn’t want to talk about her job. Who cared? She’d rather go back to talking about music or anything else.

  “I have a friend who used to work at McCormick, way back,” he said. “Are they still using the Dictaphones and the mimeograph machines?”

  “Dictaphones yes, mimeographs no. But I heard they have an abacus in Accounting.” She kept her face mock serious, as he had done earlier. “Why, do you have an interest in antique business machinery? Maybe I could take you on a tour sometime.” This guy wasn’t exactly her type, but Jessica was never one to shy away from harmless flirting, especially in an otherwise boring situation.

  “That sounds good,” he said. “But I’d be more interested in taking you out sometime. Are you going to see the Bombay Crew at Sun Bar this weekend?”

  An electric thrill went through Jessica before she had time to formulate a response. This cute, funny guy had just asked her out, right in the middle of her sister’s kitchen. And then she realized that this, right here, was what Madame Hortensia had predicted — a man who would make Guillermo jealous! And he was cute, too. Not exactly her type, but she wasn’t planning to marry this guy. She needed him only long enough to get Guillermo’s attention.

  “Do you have a card?” he asked, snapping her back to the present.

  “Um . . . no.” She looked around for something more sophisticated than a paper towel that she could write her number on.

  “Well, here. Take mine, then.” He took one out of his wallet. She glanced at it and saw that his last name was Randall. Under his name, it said, “Vice President, Consulting.”

  What the heck? she thought. He was a vice president at Halronburco? Jessica immediately felt awkward, almost tricked. If he was a corporate big shot, why was he standing here dressed like a normal guy, talking about Latin house and Indian hip-hop? She didn’t know what to think.

  Meanwhile, he was saying, “I came by to drop off some files for David, but I can’t stay. If I’d known there’d be someone interesting at this barbecue, I wouldn’t have made other plans —”

  Just then, Sabrina burst in through the back door. “There you are!” She looked from Jessica to Jonathan to the plate of makeshift tacos on her counter. “What are you guys doing?”

  “I just met your sister,” Jonathan said. “Where’ve you been hiding her, Sabrina?”

  She laughed and punched him playfully on the arm. “No-where. I’ve been trying to get her to come out and visit for months. But she’s always running around downtown, just like you.” She flashed him her most charming smile, then turned back to her sister’s dinner. “Jessica, I would’ve let you have another burger. You should’ve just asked.”

  Despite all her phony middle-class manners, Sabrina could be pretty blunt. And clueless sometimes. And embarrassing. Jessica opened her mouth, hoping something polite yet withering would come out of it. Instead, Jonathan spoke.

  “Sabrina, don’t let me interrupt your time with your sister. I’m taking off now.”

  “Oh, wait!” she protested. “Don’t go! You haven’t eaten!”

  “I’m sorry. I wish I could stay, but I really have to go. I’ll catch you guys on the next one. Let’s have dinner. I’ll e-mail David.” He turned to Jessica. “It was really nice meeting you.” She smiled politely, and then he was gone.

  Sabrina picked up one of Jessica’s tacos and took a bite. “Mm. Good. Okay, so what did y’all talk about?”

  Jessica snatched the taco from Sabrina’s hand. “Nothing.”

  “Really? Dang.”

  “Dang what?” Already, Jessica was suspicious.

  “I sent him in here so he would see you and maybe ask you out.” Sabrina was completely off the cuff, as if it were normal to constantly pimp out one’s sister to strangers. Jessica frowned.

  “Why are you making that face?” her sister asked. “Didn’t you think he was cute?”

  Jessica made her face neutral. No use giving Sabrina’s nosiness any ammunition. “Sure. If you like that type.”

  “I thought he was your type. With the teenage clothes and the no-name coffee shops and all that. He’s just like you. Except that he lives in a nice town house and drives an Audi.” Her voice trilled on the last word as if she were announcing that he was Bill Gates.

  Jessica knew, then, that the whole thing had been too good to be true. This Jonathan guy hadn’t been what he seemed at all. It was unfortunate, too, because he really had been cute. Not that she’d actually been interested. But still. She rolled her eyes in annoyance at her sister’s predictability. “God, Sabrina. You’re such a . . .”

  “What? A nice sister?”

  “No. You’re such a coconut. Why do you keep trying to set me up with David’s stuck-up corporate friends? Are you hoping I’ll turn white, too?” Jessica kept her tone light, but she really wanted to hear what her sister would say to this.

  “Whatever,” said Sabrina. “If marrying a nice guy and living in a nice house makes me white, then say hello to your bolilla sister.”

  Jessica shook her head. Her sister had no shame.

  Sabrina went on with her mission. “But did you like him or not? You want me to tell David to tell him —”

  “Sabrina, I don’t even know this guy.”

  “So ask him out for coffee and get to know him.”

  “I told you, he’s not my type.”

  “Because he’s white, right? You’re so racist, Jessica. Just like Papi.”

  Jessica gasped. If there weren’t half a taco still left on her plate, she would have walked out the door right then.

  10

  And then she says, ‘You’re racist, just like our dad!’ And I was like, ‘Oh, my God, I can’t believe you just said that.’ Can you believe she said that?” Jessica hit the accelerator hard and wedged her way between two SUVs that didn’t want to let her merge onto the freeway. She’d decided to call her friend Marisol so she’d have company for the long drive home from Sugarland.

  “Not that you were racist, no.”

  “I know, right? Wait, why are you saying it like that?” Jessica demanded. Marisol hadn’t sounded completely convinced.

  She didn’t answer right off the bat. She was at work, as usual, and Jessica could imagine her sitting there in her tiny office. She would be dressed in jeans and some kind of peasant blouse, with two or three wood bead necklaces and her long black hair pinned up because it was always too hot at her work.

  “I’m not sure I’m seeing the issue,” Marisol finally said. “You said he was cute, he made you laugh, and he likes the same crazy music you like. So what’s the problem? That this Jonathan guy’s a vice president at his job? I don’t get it.”

  Jessica thought it over for a moment. A BMW swept by, preventing her from entering the fast lane. “Well, first of all, Mari, remember that I’m not seriously considering dating anyone else. I’m only supposed to find someone who will make Guil
lermo jealous.”

  Marisol sighed into Jessica’s earbud. “Because the old lady with the neon hand sign said so, you mean?”

  Jessica was indignant. “I told you — Madame Hortensia knows things that normal strangers wouldn’t know. She really is psychic. But, okay, aside from that . . . Marisol, this Jonathan guy is a vice president at Halronburco. That means he has to be one of those big corporate types, like all the annoying ones at my work. Like my dad’s bosses who are always putting him down.”

  “Sure. Some corporate guys are jerks. But you said this one seemed nice.”

  “Come on, Mari. You know what I mean. I’m not going to mess with somebody who expects me to just drop my culture and . . . my family . . . and run out to the suburbs just because he has an expensive car or a big 401(k) or whatever.”

  “I thought you said he liked the same music as you, and he hung out at the clubs you hang out at. Did he tell you he wanted to marry you and force you to drop your culture?” Marisol said in her counselor-reasoning-with-hormonal-youth voice.

  “Of course not. But —”

  “But that’s what Sabrina did with David, and you don’t want to be the same way? Listen, no one’s asking you to settle down in the suburbs and start shopping at Pottery Barn. One date with a guy doesn’t mean that you’re going to marry him and conform to some weird societal norm.”

  “Well . . .” Jessica cut off the BMW this time, then gave the rich white-guy driver a sarcastic wave of thanks in her rearview mirror. “You know what? Really, now that I think about it, he probably didn’t even really want to go out with me. Maybe he was just being polite, or networking or whatever. Why would someone like that want to mess with someone like me? Unless he has some Latina fetish or something.”

  “Are you serious? Come on, Jessi. Stop it. Why wouldn’t he want to go out with you? He could be someone that actually sees you for who you are and doesn’t care about race or money.”

  “Sure,” Jessica said, sarcastic and doubtful.

  “Listen, Jessi. I’m not going to tell you to go out with a guy you don’t like, just to prove something or to make your sister happy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “But at the same time,” Marisol continued, “I don’t think you should jump to conclusions or write someone off just because he looks like your brother-in-law or because he has a nice car or whatever. If you do that, you’re no better than the kind of person you’ve been describing.”

  “Wait —”

  Marisol went on, undeterred. “You said at the beginning that he was interesting, that you made each other laugh, and that he noticed how good you were at web design.”

  “Well —”

  “Why can’t you just believe that he can be a good person, especially when he recognizes how pretty, smart, funny, and talented you are? You know, I almost have to wonder . . . Okay, listen. Don’t get mad, but I’m starting to wonder if, with your whole bad-boy fetish thing —”

  Jessica decided to stop this line of thought before it went too far. “Marisol, if this is about Guillermo or Robert —”

  “It’s not. I’m not saying it’s been any one guy.”

  Jessica sighed. “I’m just trying to keep it real, okay? Just because neither of them had a lot of money —”

  “Chica, I’m not saying anything about their money, and I’m not telling you not to keep it real.” Marisol’s voice had become gentle, even a little sad, like a doctor’s when he’s about to announce that someone has cancer.

  “Well, what are you saying, then?” Jessica had the feeling it wasn’t something she wanted to hear.

  “That you’re so used to players now, you might not know how to act when a guy treats you right.”

  Jessica almost ran into a broken crate that had fallen into her lane. She swerved to miss it. Under her rearview mirror, the Virgin swung in circles, as if she couldn’t make up her mind.

  “Marisol, that’s pretty cold-blooded.”

  “I’m just saying, Jessi. You know I wouldn’t tell you if I didn’t care.”

  “No, I know. But Guillermo’s not a player,” she explained. “Just because he’s a little flaky sometimes, that doesn’t mean he’s trying to take advantage of me.”

  Marisol didn’t say anything to that.

  Jessica went on. “I know sometimes it seems like he gets on my nerves, and that we have a lot of drama. But that’s just the way it is. You know — that’s how it is when you date Latinos. Dramatic. Spicy. Exciting.” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, though, she realized that Marisol never dated people like that.

  Ever since they’d met back in kindergarten, Jessica had been the one with man trouble. She’d been the one to get tangled up with the bad boys, right from the start. Marisol, on the other hand, always dated perfectly nice, respectable men. Boring men, Jessica thought secretly. She sometimes wished she could be more like her best friend when it came to avoiding drama. But then, Jessica couldn’t help wondering if Marisol ever got to have really good sex — the kind of sex you’d call in sick for.

  “I’m sorry,” said Marisol, breaking into her reverie. “I’m not trying to tell you how to run your life.”

  Jessica sighed. “I know you aren’t.”

  “If you don’t want to go out with this guy, you shouldn’t. But at the same time, if he’s nice and funny, why not give him a chance? You know?”

  Jessica signaled for her exit. “Yeah, maybe you’re right. You know, Madame Hortensia did tell me there was a chance that I’d actually end up with the new guy. But then again, maybe she didn’t mean this guy,” she countered, not wanting to jinx things either way.

  She heard Marisol sigh through the phone. “You know, you could always just decide on your own, without asking a fortune-teller’s advice.”

  Jessica shuddered. “Yeah, but then who would I blame if things went wrong?”

  Marisol laughed. “I don’t know, chica. But I’ll be here for you if they do.”

  They hung up and Jessica drove the rest of the way home.

  Despite their conversation, she still had her reservations. She couldn’t deny that she’d found Jonathan attractive, before she’d found out what he did for a living.

  On the other hand, it didn’t matter anyway, because he didn’t have her number. She still had his card, but she wasn’t going to be the one to call him and then find out that he hadn’t wanted to go out after all. And he didn’t have her number, so he couldn’t call her.

  So it was settled. Madame Hortensia had meant someone else. There was no use worrying about it anymore.

  11

  He did call, though. She’d been sitting at her desk on Monday when the phone rang.

  “Jessica?” he’d said. “It’s Jonathan. Jonathan Randall, from Sabrina and David’s barbecue? Sabrina gave me your number. I hope you don’t mind.”

  No, she hadn’t minded. Although she’d blown the whole thing out of proportion in her mind the day of the barbecue, hearing his voice again made her realize that her first instinct had been correct. He was a nice guy. So, after getting a positive sign from her screen saver in the form of a Hello Kitty in a teahouse, she’d agreed to meet Mr. Jonathan Randall for coffee.

  Now, Wednesday after work, Jessica stood at the counter of Argentine, the Montrose coffee shop with the vine-covered patio, waiting for Jonathan to meet her. Although a tiny part of her felt slightly guilty — what if Guillermo found out and was more than just jealous? what if he was completely devastated? — the rest of her was excited and only a little nervous.

  There was nothing to feel guilty about, she reminded herself. She and Guillermo were not in a committed relationship. And besides, she hadn’t even done anything yet. She was only having coffee with a guy.

  Maybe they’d have fun, though, and Jonathan would turn out to be someone she really clicked with. Although she wouldn’t count on that happening.

  On the other hand, maybe they wouldn’t click, but Guillermo would find out that she’d seen someo
ne else. What if he walked in on them right here, at Argentine? she suddenly thought. What if he then swept Jessica into his arms and confessed his love for her?

  Back and forth her mind went, with one possibility and then another. She was making herself dizzy and she hadn’t even had any caffeine yet.

  “Are you ready to order?” asked the clerk. Her mellow smile indicated that she was very patient, or else a little stoned. Jessica wondered if Jonathan was going to stand her up, then she checked her phone and saw that it was only two minutes past six.

  She was trying to decide between the Happy Hazelnut Latte and the Cosmic Cinnamon Chai when he called her name. She turned and saw him framed in the doorway with the sun shining down on his hair. He wore an expensive gray suit and looked totally different. He looked good, actually — but not at all like the guy she’d spoken to so freely at her sister’s.

  All of a sudden, anxiety rose up inside her like acid reflux. Why, she suddenly wondered, had she agreed to go out with someone she didn’t even know?

  All she had on this guy was Sabrina’s word that he was nice. That could mean anything. Sabrina would think Hitler was nice if he complimented her home decor. What if this Jonathan Randall was one of those white-collar criminals who did insider trading to pay for call girls and cocaine? Again, what if he was one of those guys with a fetish for “exotic” women? Worse — what if he was a Mormon or some weird religion that wasn’t into drinking and dancing?

  Then again, Jessica mused, Mormons probably didn’t frequent trendy Montrose coffee shops.

  “Hey. Sorry I’m late,” he told her. “You look great.”

  She looked down at herself, in her now wrinkled sweater and skirt. “Thanks. Actually, you look great. I feel kind of underdressed.”

  He looked down at his own suit, then waved it away. “What, you mean my work drag? I’m only wearing this because they make me.”