“Try, you already lost a lot of weight,” he says in a soft command, then sits on the chair opposite me and leans forward. “I promise you, in three days, we’ll be on a beach in Tulum, and all you need to do is bathe in the sun.”
I offer him a small smile, even though there’s not a part of me that is excited to be in Tulum. I break a piece of bread and try to eat. Julian watches me closely as if he’s afraid I’ll choke on something.
He watches me eat until I finish the plate, my stomach hurting at the end of it. But he’s right, if I am going to survive this, I need to be strong.
The rest of the day drags, and the wind moans through the gaps in the stone walls as a storm comes. I can hear the big waves crashing against the rocks below the cliffs. Inside the cabin, Julian tries to fill the emptiness with small talk. He finds an old deck of cards and clears a space on the table.
“Come on,” he says, flashing that easy smile of his. “One game of Truco. For old times’ sake.”
He leans back, a nostalgic smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth when he says, “I remember that night in Puerto Madero. When your brother decided he was a world-class negotiator.”
I let out a huff of a laugh, the strain in my shoulders dropping an inch. “What happened?”
“Mateo was convinced the woman was overcharging us for those empanadas because we looked like‘clueless tourists.’So, he pulled me aside and said, ‘Watch this, Jules. I’m going to use my charm to get us a dozen for the price of two.’”
I lean on the coffee table, resting my face on my arms as I watch him tell the story, a genuine smile appearing on my face.
“Mateo doesn’t have anegotiatingvoice. He only has anI’m-offering-you-a-bribevoice.” I chuckle.
“Exactly! He walks up to this tiny, unimpressedabuelaand tries to speak with an accent. He tells her—with a straight face—that we are famous food critics from Rome and that if she gives us a discount, he’ll put her on the front page of a magazine that doesn’t exist.”
“And?” I grin, remembering how silly Mateo can be at times.
“And she didn’t blink. She just looked at him, looked at his expensive watch, and told him in perfect, flawless English: ‘Foryou, the price just doubled because your accent is an insult to my ears.’”
I burst out laughing, picturing Mateo’s offended face.
“But the best part?” Julian continues. “Mateo was so offended that he tried to argue about the‘purity of the pastry crust’to prove he knew his stuff. He reached for a napkin to demonstrate something, accidentally knocked over a massive jar of chimichurri, and spent the next twenty minutes trying to blot a green oil stain out of his three-thousand-dollar suede loafers.”
Julian shook his head, laughing. “He looked like a frantic cat. I just stood there eating my empanada, watching him get defeated by a condiment jar.”
When our laughter dies away, leaving a sudden, deep silence in its wake. My chest aches with the memory of Mateo’s voice—a sound that is becoming harder to summon every day.
“I miss him, Julian,” My voice falters, the grief sudden and harsh. “I miss him so much it feels like I’m breathing underwater every day.”
Julian’s face softens. He tucks a lock of hair behind my right ear, his touch warm and gentle.
“I miss him too,” he murmurs, his forefinger wiping a tear from my cheek. “But you’re not alone. I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”
“I’m sorry I ruined your life, Julian. I shouldn’t have dragged you into this mess.” I whisper the words I’ve been wanting to tell him.
He shakes his head before reaching over to touch my knee, saying, “You didn’t make me. I chose this. I chose you.” His words are sure as he locks eyes with me. My breath catches as I scramble for words to respond with, but I find nothing.
I offer him a sad smile instead, my sight blurred with tears. He looks at me with such tenderness, and for a moment I feel like unraveling.
When he leans in, I don’t flinch. His brown eyes dance between my own and my lips. This time, I look at him.
Really, look at him.
I see a man who dropped everything and followed me despite knowing the danger that awaited him. A man who has done his best to take care of me without anyone asking him to. A man who stayed and watched me fall in love with another despite his feelings.
I don’t pull back.
I tell myself this is what I need.
I tell myself to accept the warmth, to let the comfort of a good man drown out the cold.
When his lips meet mine, I lean into him. I grip his shoulders, forcing my body to respond, desperate to feel something. Something real. Anything that can bury every other thought running in my head.
