Page 62 of Cava with My Colleague

The formality sounds ridiculous even to my own ears, but this is what we’ve agreed to. Professional. Colleagues. Nothing more.

Jade arrived exactly at 7:30—not early enough that we’d have to make small conversation, not late enough to seem like she’s avoiding me. We’ve perfected this dance over the past few days.

I hand her the presentation clicker, careful not to let our fingers touch. She takes it with a small nod, no smile.

The Geneva venue is smaller than some of the others—maybe one hundred seats—but the setup is the same. I’ve done this so many times I could do it in my sleep. Jade moves to connect her laptop to the projector, and I step to the opposite side of the stage to arrange the remaining brochures.

We avoid each other, careful to maintain our distance like we might burst into flames if we get too close.

When she needs a cable that’s near me, she doesn’t ask me to hand it to her. She walks around, reaches past my shoulder, grabs it herself. I smell her shampoo—something citrusy—and have to force myself not to turn toward her.

“Excuse me,” she murmurs, already stepping away.

“Of course.”

I feel like an idiot.

The worst part isn’t wanting her. It’s knowing, with the particular self-knowledge of someone who took fifteen years to feel anything at all, exactly what it means that I do.

The presentation goes well. Jade’s presentations always go well now. She’s confident, connects with the audience, shares her personal story with the right amount of vulnerability.

I translate beside her, my French smooth and professional. I don’t watch her the way I used to—cataloging her expressions, noticing when she touches her wrist to ground herself, seeing the way her face lights up when a patient asks an engaged question.

I keep my eyes on the audience. On my tablet. Anywhere but her.

She clicks to the next slide and I translate, my voice steady. We’re a well-oiled machine. Two professionals doing a job.

No one is going to notice that we haven’t made eye contact once during the entire forty-five-minute presentation.

Probably.

Jade and I wrap up the presentation and make it through the Q&A. I’m packing up equipment when I hear a familiar voice.

“Carlos!”

I turn to find Paul Hoffman approaching with a broad smile. We went to university together, remained friends even though our careers took different paths—him into pharmaceutical sales, me into marketing. He lives in Lyon now, and I’d texted him earlier this week that I’d be near.

“Paul.” I hug him, genuinely happy to see a friendly face. “Thank you for coming.”

“Of course! I wouldn’t miss it.” He claps me on the shoulder, then his expression shifts to concern. “Though I have to say, my friend, you seem . . . off tonight. Not your usual self.”

My spine stiffens. “Off?”

“Your energy. You barely smiled during the entire presentation. Very serious, very closed off.” He studies my face. “This isn’t like you. Usually you’re so engaged with the audience, making connections. Tonight you were . . . I don’t know. Distant? Is everything all right?”

I force a smile. “Everything is fine. Just tired from the tour, perhaps.”

Paul doesn’t look convinced. “You’re sure? Because if something’s bothering you—work, personal, whatever—you know you can talk to me.”

“I appreciate that, but truly, I’m fine.” I need to change the subject. “How is Elena?”

He allows the deflection, launching into updates about his family, but I can see he’s not fully bought my reassurance. After a few minutes, he checks his watch.

“I should get going—dinner reservation. But Carlos, seriously. Take care of yourself. You look like you need a break.”

He walks away, and I’m left standing there with the uncomfortable realization that even Paul, who knows nothing about Jade or our situation, can see something is wrong.

I’m not hiding it as well as I thought.