Houston, We Have a Problema

by Gwendolyn Zepeda

  The ride back to her place passed quickly in a blur of streetlights. As he walked her up to her door, Jessica couldn’t help but feel some butterflies. It was their second date — if you counted the coffee as the first. Was he going to kiss her? Should she invite him in? She tried to remember the last time she’d gone on a typical second date, instead of seducing or being seduced by someone in an entirely inappropriate way.

  At the top of the stairs, she remembered that she didn’t have anything to offer him anyway, except for diet soda. If she was going to date this guy on a regular basis, she told herself, she’d have to buy a couple of bottles of wine. Classy wine. And a corkscrew. . . . Stop it, she told herself. You’re mentally babbling.

  When they reached the door, though, she managed to turn to him with perfect poise and a smile. “I had a good time.”

  “I did, too.”

  She took her keys from her purse and held them tight as she unlocked the door, so he wouldn’t see her fingers tremble and know how nervous she was. Finally, the door open, she turned to him again, her mind racing over multiple options of what to say.

  “I can’t wait to see you next week,” he said, leaning forward. “I’ll call you, okay?”

  “Okay,” she said, looking up at him. As he leaned closer, her eyelids seemed to know just when to close. Very lightly, his lips brushed hers, his hands holding her shoulders gently.

  Then he pulled away, and her eyes opened to his smile.

  “Okay. Bye!” Before she had time to say anything else, he turned and left.

  She stood on her balcony and watched him drive away, then thought, Well, that wasn’t bad at all.

  Inside her apartment, she kicked off her shoes and threw her purse on the table, then remembered her phone. It was still off.

  There’d been two missed calls, one with a message. From Guillermo.

  “Chiquitita . . . are you still mad? I told you I was sorry. I’m sorry, okay? Call me back.”

  Shaking her head, Jessica hung up the phone and left it on the table for the rest of the night.

  15

  Monday morning at work, after murmuring all the necessary greetings and taking care of the guys’ biggest “emergencies” — Fred couldn’t find a file, and Ted needed help opening a client’s e-mail attachment that turned out to be a video of a donkey knocking down a farmer — Jessica checked her horoscope online:

  “An unexpected phone call leads to exciting new possibilities. Your lucky number is 17.”

  She thought over all the work she’d done on the ALMA web site the day before, trying to remember something that had involved the number 17. Just in case, she tapped her pencil on her desk seventeen times.

  The tapping apparently caught Olga’s attention, because she looked up and started in with her usual questions. “So, did you go on any dates this weekend, Jessica?” she called across the room.

  “Olga, go on and leave that girl alone,” said Rochelle. “All your busybodying’s going to get you in trouble one of these days.”

  “What?” Olga said innocently. “Jessica’s young and pretty, and single. She should be out with men. Rich men. Oh, that reminds me . . . come here, you two.”

  Jessica and Rochelle went over to Olga’s desk and formed a gossip huddle.

  “You want to know what I heard?” Olga whispered loudly. “Mr. Cochran’s thinking about hiring another broker for our department.”

  “Really?” Jessica’s eyes widened at the prospect of something interesting happening at their office.

  “Mm-hmm. He says we’ve been getting so much big business, we need someone to do the smaller files so the guys can have more time.”

  Jessica frowned. “Well, they could just give those to us.”

  “Not me,” said Olga, shaking her head. “I don’t want to be a broker. I have enough to do taking care of Mr. Cochran.”

  “Well, me and Rochelle, then,” said Jessica.

  “Who’d do our work, then?” said Rochelle.

  “They could hire another assistant to help out. That’d be cheaper than hiring another broker,” Jessica said. “Plus, they wouldn’t have to train us. We already know what to do.”

  “I don’t know about that. I don’t know that I’d be wanting to do all that extra work,” said Rochelle.

  “Mr. Cochran could give us both a raise. A new title. Business cards. We’d be real brokers, full-time.” Jessica was getting excited just thinking about it. It’d be nice to have her own cards. She’d have to buy some suits, too.

  “Well, I don’t know about all that,” said Rochelle. “Something tells me Mr. Cochran isn’t going to see it that way.”

  “Then we’ll just have to make him see it that way,” Jessica said. “Come on, Rochelle. This is a good opportunity for us. You don’t want to keep doing the same thing forever, do you?”

  Before she could reply, Mr. Cochran opened his door and cleared his throat. “Olga, I need you. If you ladies aren’t too busy.”

  Olga jumped up to help him. Jessica and Rochelle went back to their desks.

  Jessica wasn’t sure if the new broker job was supposed to be confidential information. But if not, she’d tell Mr. Cochran she was interested as soon as possible. It was a really good opportunity — just like Madame Hortensia had told her to watch out for.

  She had to wonder, though, if the ALMA web site was already her one big job opportunity, was she supposed to bother with pursuing a promotion at McCormick?

  Maybe, to be safe, she should try her best to snag both. At least until she could go back to Madame Hortensia and find out which one was the sure thing.

  16

  The next day at work, Jessica had lunch in the cafeteria with Tiffany Wyman from the forty-second floor, her occasional source of office gossip and hangover commiseration. The minute she got back to her desk, Olga called out her name.

  “Jessica, can you come help me real quick? I have to finish this thing for Mr. Cochran and I can’t figure out what happened to it.”

  Jessica went over and looked at Olga’s monitor. It displayed one of McCormick’s internal job postings.

  DEPT: MIDDLE MARKET

  POSITION: BROKER

  SALARY GRADE: EX-6

  REQUIRES: P&C LICENSE

  TEAM PLAYER

  REPORTS TO: J. COCHRAN

  “I can’t make this last part line up with the rest,” Olga said forlornly.

  Jessica reached over to fix it for her. “Is this a job description for our department? For the new broker?” She knew it was. It said so right there.

  “I guess. I’m just typing what Mr. Cochran told me to.” Olga held up his yellow legal pad. Jessica saw that he’d written, “Give to HR asap.”

  There was no use freaking out, Jessica decided as she went back to her own desk. Obviously, Mr. Cochran was posting the job companywide because he had to. It was the law or something — you had to post all jobs internally first. McCormick may have been frozen in the 1950s, but they still had to follow the rules, right?

  She had to make sure that she applied and got interviewed first. Who else in the company would even want the job? She was the obvious choice. How dumb would Mr. Cochran have to be not to promote her?

  Right on cue, the man himself strolled in. Jessica gave him a few minutes to settle himself into his office, then hopped up, smoothed her skirt, and marched in after him.

  “Mr. Cochran, can I talk to you for a moment?”

  He looked up at her curiously. “Jessica. What is it?”

  Now that she was standing before him, she, too, was wondering what on earth she was going to say. “Uh . . . do you mind if I close the door?”

  “Be my guest.”

  She narrowly avoided knocking over the golf clubs he kept in the corner but managed to grab them and stay poised. Pretend you’re presenting a web site, she told herself. “Mr. Cochran, I wanted to talk to you about my work in this department.”

  He looked at her and said nothing. Waiting.

  “Sin
ce coming to McCormick three years ago, I’ve learned a lot. I’ve taken on more responsibilities than my predecessor did, and I’ve been handling a book of forty-five small accounts on my own.”

  “Okay.” Mr. Cochran’s nod showed that he was willing to take her word for it, but that he was in a hurry for her to get to the point.

  “So, I wanted to let you know that I enjoy the work I’ve been doing, and I’d like you to consider me for any new opportunities that may come up in the future.” She smiled confidently, hoping she wasn’t getting Olga in trouble by hinting about the new broker position.

  “Okay. Well, thank you for letting me know that, Jessica. I’ll certainly keep it in mind.” Mr. Cochran turned to the laptop on his antique mahogany desk. Jessica saw that he was looking at a web site for a nearby bed-and-breakfast. She stood there for a second longer, just in case he was about to mention the broker position opening up. He didn’t, so she gave up and turned to go.

  “Go ahead and close the door behind you,” he called over his shoulder.

  Jessica gave him one last smile as she closed it. He didn’t notice, and it became a frown as she turned and made her way back to her desk.

  Well, I tried, she told herself as she opened a spreadsheet and started a new batch of work. It occurred to her that she had never actually come right out and asked for this promotion, but surely a businessman like Mr. Cochran would understand her subtlety. In fact, he’d probably even see it as an asset for dealing with clients. After that, he’d be sure to realize that promoting her was a good idea.

  Was it a good idea, though? she asked herself. Being a full-fledged broker meant more than just business cards and new suits. She would have a ton more responsibility, plus she’d have to travel. Not exciting travel, but flying out to meet clients and talk to them about their insurance. She stared at her monitor without seeing it, trying to imagine herself in the new role. It wasn’t that she couldn’t do the work — she knew she could. The question was, did she want to?

  All of a sudden, her e-mail pinged. The sender’s name was unfamiliar to her. The subject line read, “Take your career to the next level.”

  She opened the e-mail. It was an advertisement for energizing vitamin supplements.

  But, no, it was more than that, she realized. It was a sign. She was meant to want this promotion. After all, there was no point to staying in insurance if she never meant to move upward, was there?

  Jessica deleted the e-mail and got back to work.

  17

  On the way home, she plugged in the earbud to her cell and turned it on to check messages. She expected that one or both of her parents had probably called, because she hadn’t heard from them in a while. She hoped they’d gotten over their argument from the week before.

  Neither of her parents had called, it turned out. But Guillermo had.

  “Chiquitita, you never called me back. I was thinking we would do something fun, but I guess you were too busy.” There was a pause, and she heard him take a deep breath, as if he were about to do something unpleasant. “Listen, Jessica. I know I hurt you the other day, and I wish I hadn’t. Like I said, I’m sorry. If you want me . . . Tell me if you want me to stop painting other women, and I will. That lady paid me a lot, but not enough if it means you’re not going to talk to me anymore.” Another pause. “Okay. Please call me back, corazón.”

  Jessica hung up and drove in silence, not sure what to think.

  It was true that Guillermo had been a complete jerk — not just that night, but for weeks on end now. Not only did he say inconsiderate things, but he simply took her for granted in general. It was as if he thought she had nothing better to do than hang out with him, spur of the moment, to talk about art and have sex. And, sure, that had been enough for her at first, but he acted as though that were supposed to satisfy her forever, no matter how long their relationship went on.

  She was tired of it. He should have stepped up his game a long time ago. She should have made him.

  Then again, she couldn’t help but dwell on his offer never to paint other women again. It had surprised her to hear him say such a thing — he was normally so keen on retaining his independence. He must have really been scared of losing her, to make a promise like that.

  It was too bad that he didn’t realize he had already lost her, practically.

  Jessica rounded the curve that led to her apartment, driving on autopilot while his words nibbled at her mind. He didn’t realize, she thought, then felt the old guilt again. How could he realize, when he didn’t even know she was seeing someone else now?

  Was she being fair? Here he was, offering to change for her, but she hadn’t even given him a chance to change before moving on with someone else. After all, she told herself, it wasn’t as if he could read her mind. Sure, she had gotten mad at him numerous times, but he’d never seemed to take that seriously. It was as if he expected women to get mad at men on a regular basis, as if it were part of a normal relationship. Jessica knew from experience that a lot of Latino men were like that.

  What if she had sat him down and explained why she was unhappy with him? Told him that she’d wanted more out of their relationship?

  Had she even known that was the case, she asked herself, before she’d started dating Jonathan?

  These thoughts nagged at her as she climbed the stairs to her apartment. Then a new one flickered into her head: Why didn’t Guillermo want to paint her?

  The moment she got in the door, her phone rang again. It was Marisol.

  “Are you off work?” she said.

  “Yeah. I just got home.”

  “Okay, tell me everything now. I have a break between meetings.” For once, there was hardly any background noise on Marisol’s end.

  While removing the least comfortable parts of her work outfit, Jessica told her friend everything that had happened with Jonathan so far. Then she took a diet soda from the refrigerator and went to the couch. She lay down and listened to Marisol’s calm, therapistlike voice.

  “So he kissed you once and that was it?”

  “Uh-huh. Just once, and not even for a long time. Do you think that means he doesn’t like me after all?”

  “I seriously doubt it,” said Marisol. “He’s taking you out again, isn’t he? Maybe he’s just taking it slow, so he won’t scare you off.”

  Jessica considered this. “Yeah, maybe he sensed that I was already a little scared, because of the suit and the VP thing.”

  “Right,” said Marisol. “You should have told him right up front — your bosses at McCorporate have given you post-traumatic stress disorder.”

  Jessica laughed. “You’re right. Every time I see a white guy in a suit, I have panic attacks because I’m worried he’s going to try to run my life.”

  “But you’re going out with him again,” Marisol pointed out, “so it can’t be that bad.”

  “It isn’t,” Jessica admitted. “It’s not bad at all. Just a little weird sometimes. He always pays for everything, and we’re going to Ahi Friday, which is supposed to be superexpensive, and I feel kind of . . .”

  “Guilty for not paying your half?” Marisol supplied.

  “Right.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about it. He’s been the one doing the inviting, and it’s not like he can’t afford to pay, right?”

  “No, you’re right. It’s just . . . weird,” Jessica said. “I’m just not used to this sort of thing, you know? I’m kind of worried I’ll show up dressed in the wrong clothes, or I’ll use the wrong fork or something. You know?”

  “Please,” said Marisol. “You use chopsticks better than anyone I know. Quit worrying. You’re so funny — a lot of women would be complaining if the guy didn’t have money.”

  Jessica chuckled. “Yeah, well, if I were that kind of woman, I’d still be a virgin right now.”

  It wasn’t that every guy Jessica had ever dated had been poor, or jobless, or some total lowlife, she reflected later that evening, after she’d eaten a Lean Pock
et for dinner and was painting her toenails in front of the TV.

  Most of her previous boyfriends had grown up pretty much like her — in not-too-fancy houses, in not-too-fancy neighborhoods. Their parents had all worked hard for what they had. Some of them had parents who had never learned English.

  She felt most comfortable around people who knew how it felt to go to school in hand-me-downs or to eat tortillas and beans for dinner sometimes. Or even to have the electricity shut off once in a while, which had happened to her family. She’d brought a boy home from school to work on a project, and when they’d gotten there, the lights were off because her parents hadn’t been able to pay the bill. The boy’s name was Bryan. Jessica had had to explain in great detail — why the lights were off, why they hadn’t paid the bill, the fact that her parents, unlike his, didn’t have tons of money in savings in case of emergency. It was one of the most embarrassing things that had ever happened to her. Sabrina had managed to avoid the whole situation by staying at a friend’s house that weekend, Jessica remembered.

  Her family hadn’t always been poor. But those memories were a part of her, and they shaped her. She was pretty sure it also influenced whom she decided to befriend and even affected whom she chose to date. She preferred men who’d grown up like her, who’d had to work for what they wanted. And who had dark hair. And dark eyes. Like Guillermo.

  Thinking of Guillermo again made her remember the voice mail he’d left.

  She put down the nail polish bottle and picked up her phone again. After calling up his number on the screen, she sat and stared at it for a while, wondering what she would say.

  Guillermo, I’m seeing someone else.

  No. Not that.

  Guillermo, I want to keep seeing you, but only if you get a normal day job and start taking me on regular dates.