“Au revoir,” the stuck-up hostess chirped on my way out the door.
I hadn’t pressed the elevator’s button immediately; instead, I made a detour to the bathroom. It was almost as extravagant as the restaurant, all marble with gold accents, an enormous, gilded mirror, lilac-scented perfume, white cloth hand towels, breath mints, and even free tampons.
That’s an extravagance, FYI.
I found an unoccupied stall and slid its bolt into place before plopping down on the toilet in my fully zipped-up shorts. Here I was, for the second time today, taking a breather in the bathroom to pull myself together. Isa’s father was having an affair?Howcould he be having an affair?
I felt so oblivious, and I felt terrible for Isa. Seeing her dad and his lover/mistress/girlfriend kissing at lunch together? The look on her face told me she was completely and utterly and awfully blindsided.
You need to calm down,I told myself, eyes closed as a toilet flushed.Once you get down there, you need to be her rock. Youareher rock. You’vealwaysbeen her rock, and that isn’t going to change.
After my heart rate slowed, I stood up and unlocked mystall…only to feel my stomach drop a hundred stories and my feet freeze in its doorway.
Mr.Cruz’s whatever was washing her hands at the sinks. Her platinum blond hair fell down her back, and she wore a blush-colored bandage dress that hugged every curve. She looked like Meghan Markle’s character inSuits,wearing way-too-sexy work outfits. Not that this was a business lunch, but still. And jeez, she looked like she was only in her late twenties. Twenty-eight, maybe?
I wondered what I should do. Try to slip out without being seen? Try to slip out and be both seen and judged for not washing my hands? Or…
Forcing my feet to unfreeze themselves, I marched straight up to the sinks, turned the gold faucet as I pumped my individual soap dispenser, and rubbed my hands before rinsing them under the warm water.
I dare you,I thought.I dare you to talk to me.
She did.
“I like your jewelry,” she said, wiping her hands dry with a hand towel. She nodded at the earrings Isa had given me for my birthday. Gold-wire teardrop hoops with a small blue-gray gemstone dangling from each one. “The same color as your eyes,” Isa had said after I’d unwrapped them.
“Thank you,” I replied, and grabbed a towel for myself. “I like your…” Isa would never forgive me if I complimented that dress, and neither would I. I glanced down at the woman’s heels, nude with ankle straps. “Your shoes are pretty.”
“Thanks!” She looked away from touching up her makeupin the mirror. “I’m guessing you’re also into the whole upcycling thing?” She gestured offhandedly to my shorts, making it very easy to determine that she wasnot.
How unfortunate. Sustainable fashion was on the rise!
“Oh, yeah,” I said, modeling my half-green, half-striped shorts. “My boyfriend helped make these.”
She laughed. “Oh, really?” she asked suggestively. “In exchange forwhat?”
A wave of rage crashed in my chest. I hated her. “Nothing…,” I said slowly, then slyly, “Luis is just very sweet that way. His grandmother taught him to sew back in”—I adopted Isa’s impeccable Spanish accent—“Buenos Aires.”
This time, her spine straightened—seriously, that dress didn’t hide much—and she blinked in the mirror. “I’m sorry.” Her brows pinched together. “What did you say?”
“That my boyfriend is the best,” I said, remembering how precise Ev had been when cutting apart the fabric, how seriously he’d taken helping me.I love him,I’d thought as I watched, my heart glowing.I love him so much.
The woman didn’t respond, probably still stuck on what she thought she’d heard. So I took that as my opportunity to dig deeper.
“Are you celebrating something today?” I asked. “I saw you and your dad toast champagne at your table.” I feigned a smile. “I wish my father would take me out to lunch more often.”
Mr.Cruz’s date wrinkled her nose. “God, no, he’s not my dad,” she said. “He’s myboyfriend.” She leaned forward totouch up her eyeshadow. “And we are, actually. We’re celebrating our one-year anniversary today.”
Holy shit,I thought, stomach swirling.One year?
Mr.Cruz had been having an affair for an entire freakingyear?!
“Oh, congratulations,” I said smoothly, then hummed a tune. “April twenty-ninth.”
The woman again went still. She’d recognized the song.
And her reaction told me that she knew Mr.Cruz was married.
“It’s not April twenty-ninth,” she said slowly. “It’s May seventeenth.”
