Page 97 of Cava with My Colleague

About the way she looked at me in Seville—like I was someone worth choosing.

I was happy during the tour. Not content, not settled—happy.

Because of her.

And now she’s leaving this week, and I’m just . . . letting it happen. Accepting it. Like I accepted being alone for eleven years. Like I’ve accepted a half-life because it felt safer than risking my heart again.

“What am I doing?” I ask aloud.

Izan lifts his head from his paws, tail giving a tentative wag.

“I’m being a coward,” I tell him. “That’s what I’m doing.”

I had told myself it was self-knowledge. That I understood how I worked—that I needed real closeness before I felt anything, that I wasn’t built for easy attraction, that this was simply the shape of me. And for years that felt like wisdom. Like a boundary, not a wall.

But at some point—I don’t know exactly when—the self-knowledge became an excuse. I don’t feel things for strangers because I wouldn’t let anyone get close enough to stop being a stranger. A boundary I’d chosen turned into armor I’d stopped noticing I was wearing.

The difference, I think, is this: a boundary is something you know about yourself. Armor is something you hide behind.

I know myself. I know I need time, and closeness, and trust built slowly. That’s real. That’s still true.

But I also spent decades making sure no one got close enough for any of it to matter. That part isn’t self-knowledge. That’s fear with better posture.

I think about Jade in Monaco right now, with her friends. Probably laughing, drinking wine, being the vibrant, alive person she is. Making her own choices about her future.

Choices that might not include me.

Unless I give her a reason to choose differently.

The thought terrifies me. What if she says no? What if I tell her how I feel and she leaves anyway? What if I give her my heart and she breaks it?

But what if she says yes?

What if I fight for this—for us—and she meets me halfway?

What if I’m brave enough to risk being happy instead of just safe?

“I need to tell her,” I say to Izan. To Marisol’s photo. To myself. “I need to tell her right now.”

But she’s in Monaco. Tomorrow she flies back. She has two weeks to catch Lola up on all of their projects and pack her things and then she’ll be gone.

Logically, I know I have time left with her. But it doesn’t feel like enough. My heart races, telling me I don’t have time to wait. Don’t have time to carefully plan what to say or how to say it.

I need to go to her.

Do I?

I take a moment to temper myself. Jade is having—hopefully—the perfect last weekend with her friends. This weekend is not about me and her.

But I don’t want to waste another minute of my time with her, so I better have a plan.

What should I say? “Don’t go to Austin, stay in Madrid for me”? That’s not fair. Her life is in Austin. Her career, her friends before they all moved, everything she’s built.

But I think about what Fernando said: You’re just letting her go?

And I realize I can’t. I can’t let her leave without telling her.

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