She lifts the glass from the table and signals to a server for a bottle of water.

  I wait for her to get her water, not saying a word.

  “What is your story?” she asks after she takes a few sips of water.

  “My story is a little different. I met someone...”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “And, um... He felt special to me. I think he was. Maybe he still is. But, he wasn’t truthful to me. And when I tried to confront him, he bailed on me.”

  She waits for me to continue.

  “I haven’t heard from him after that, and then I ran into him again. It goes without saying that we are no longer together, and the things between us are irremediably broken since I can no longer trust him.”

  “What was he lying about?”

  “Pretty much everything. Who he was. His age. He pretended to be someone else entirely. To be fair, the circumstances favored him. It was a case of mistaken identity–– that he says, was an opportunity for him to get to know me better. He also says that he didn't dare to tell me the truth because he was afraid that I’d break up with him.”

  “So it would’ve happened anyway.”

  “Probably.”

  “There wasn’t much to choose, then.”

  “That’s what he says.”

  “Why did he bail on you?”

  “He panicked.”

  “How old is he?”

  It takes me a few moments before I mutter the response.

  “Twenty-one.”

  Her eyes widen in surprise.

  “That makes sense.”

  “Does it?” I ask baffled.

  “Mmm-hmm. Had he told you from the beginning chances are you would’ve given him a hard time.”

  “Possibly.”

  “So he used the opportunity–– which is bold, but didn’t know what to do when shit hit the fan–– which is explainable. He doesn’t have much experience.”

  “Apparently he has–– at least in other departments, and he acquired it mostly with older women.”

  “I bet he did,” she says, stretching a knowing smile. “But not with the kind of woman he felt deeply for.”

  My mouth drops open.

  “That’s when they lose their heads and make mistakes,” she adds to my surprise.

  “Well, I’m not so sure about that. A few nights ago we ran into each other again. We both were with other people.”

  “Were you really with the other man?”

  “No.”

  “Was he with the other woman?”

  “Chances are that he was. Especially after we had an argument in the restroom.”

  A disappointed sigh falls from her lips.

  “I accused him of things that were all true,” I say. “And he was angry with me, and tried to talk me out of seeing this man, but that’s not what made the things between us irremediably broken. Through my anger, I also vented my frustration for not being able to glue this thing back together. I don’t know if it’s possible, and that’s why I wanted to talk to you. Right now, everything feels lost, and perhaps it is. Despite what I said to him, seeing him with someone else made me sick to my stomach. I don’t know if I could be with him again because of that fact alone. Not to say that I can’t trust him anymore.”

  The last words come wrapped in desperation.

  “I wish things were back to how they were a while ago,” I say, aware that it’s not possible.

  Her faint smile is bad news.

  “Things can never be the same as long as you go through a growing process, and if you are lucky that’s exactly what this is,” she says. “Your first big test. Your 'make it or break it' test. At this point, things could go either way, get better or worse. Or they could get worse and then better. It all depends on how much you two feel for each other. And how much you hold onto each other.”

  “Right now, there isn’t much of that. I don’ t even know if we are still in speaking terms.”

  “Well... then you need to let time to do its thing and hope that all is not lost. If it is, there’s your answer. If it’s not, several things need to happen. He needs to grow and grow fast. You cannot go back in time. He needs to rush after you. He will lead, and he’s already done it beautifully. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have fallen for him. And you will need to become stronger. Lose your fears, the ifs, and buts, and chew on a big chunk of reality. Learn that life is not a ballroom, and we aren’t always waltzing. Real life is not a game. And people are not peons. Life is not perfect, and nor are the people that cross paths with us. Everything is messy, fluid, and at times, confusing. To know if a man is good, you have to look deep into his heart and listen to your gut. It doesn’t matter what X, Y, and Z think about him. It doesn’t matter if he hits some self-help guru’s list. It doesn’t even matter what your mom thinks about him. All it matters is what you see in him. He is your man. And you have to be his woman, and most people don’t understand that it doesn’t have to do with the pocketbook, the chores, or the bedroom. It’s something deeper than that. When you find that man, your heart becomes one with his, and that’s all he needs to be the best man for you, and make you happy.”

  15

  EVE

  The first week of January

  “Happy New Year!”

  “Happy New Year to you too, Lillian,” I say evenly as I walk into my office.

  The morning light pours through the windows, cold and gray like my heart.

  The delicious aroma of freshly brewed coffee drifts through the air uplifting my spirits.

  She points to the cup waiting for me on the table.

  “Espresso with steamed whole milk as you requested.”

  My gaze tips down.

  “Thank you so much. You saved my life,” I say, grinning as I wrap my fingers around the sleeve and lift the cup to my lips.

  The first sip of espresso throws a shudder of pleasure through me.

  I so needed this.

  “Your schedule is on the computer. Your first meeting is at two o’clock.”

  “Thank you again,” I murmur before I set the cup down. “Anything crazy going on?” I ask as clamor travels along the hallway.

  She whips her gaze in that direction too.

  “No. Just the usual first day of work rush. Although there is something...” she mutters as she takes a step closer to me.

  I look at her.

  She checks the corridor first before she brings her eyes back to me.

  “Rumor has it that Curl Clemens leaves the firm in a week or so.”

  “What?” I gasp under my breath. “I thought that we are expanding.”

  “We are. And that’s part of the reason. The information that he is so successful and we’re growing by leaps and bounds, leaked everywhere else, and the ad agencies started to be interested in him, and one of them made him an offer that he couldn’t refuse.

  I turn a blank stare to the office sitting across from mine.

  “What about Samantha Jackson?”

  “Things are not that clear with her, but she might be part of the package.”

  I toss her a questioning look.

  “Meaning?”

  “He might take her with him.”

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “Mmm-hmm. Someone in Accounting has a relative who works in the big ad agency that recruited them. She couldn’t reveal the agency’s name. It’s hush, hush.”

  “So what happens if they leave?” I ask, sliding into my chair.

  She props herself against my desk, crosses her arms on her chest, and pivots slightly toward me.

  “I can’t tell for sure,” she says under her breath. “What happened in the past was that, when new people were brought in–– especially at the top, a mix of good and bad things happened. Any change of this magnitude has a ripple effect, and sooner or later people of lower ranks either get a promotion or leave.”

  “Why?”

  “Clashes of personalities. The culture of the place changes. Stuff like that.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes. These things are inevitable,” she murmurs. “Hopefully, it won’t be us,” she says just as Samantha and her secretary march down the corridor.

  Lillian straightens her back and pushes away from my desk.

  “I’ll be in my office if you need me,” she says.

  “Sure,” I mutter as I flip my laptop open.

  Still under the impression of the news, I start checking my emails.

  It takes me a couple of hours to get back in the rhythm, but once I do, the workday flies by, and by the end of the afternoon, I realize how much I missed working in an office.

  Early evening, I pick up takeout from a restaurant on my way home. An hour later, I find myself eating dinner in my kitchen.

  It’s close to six thirty when I crash onto the couch in my living room, my tablet in my hand.

  I don’t know what props me to run another online search.

  I guess the thought has never left me since I had that talk with Samantha Jackson on the second day of Christmas.

  This time, I pair a different set of keywords. Tiago Diego Rossi, The Thunder.

  A few search results pop up immediately.

  I click the first link. It takes me to an article about sports events. I scan it rapidly, looking for pictures or information.

  I find one photograph that portrays a fighter training in a boxing ring. The photographic angle shows only his profile but even so, my heart begins to race because I know it’s him.

  I read a few articles, all praising the combat sport and the fighter in question. I go back to the results and click on the pictures, not knowing what I’d find.

  To my relief, no social media photographs pop up. No personal pictures either.

  Most of them don’t show much of him anyway, but frankly, that’s a blessing.

  Encouraged, I go back to the articles and search through the information, hoping to find a few more useful bits. One of the pieces mentions the place where he trains for the upcoming events. It’s a place in Brooklyn, different than the sports club I visited before.

  I check the time before I push out of my seat and head to my walk-in closet.

  Twenty minutes later, I dash out of my building. Hat, gloves, and winter jacket on, I walk briskly down the street.

  I take a train to Brooklyn, and then a cab, and close to eight o’clock, I push open the door of the sports club in question.

  I don’t expect to find him here. It’s Monday evening after all, but that doesn’t stop me from trying. At least, I want to find more information.

  Despite the cold weather, the place is jammed. Some lift weights while others warm up in the boxing rings.

  I slide along the wall, checking them out.

  “Are you looking for someone, sweetie?”

  A buffed up man looks at me from a bench. Curious eyes move all over my face.

  “Uh... Yeah. I actually do,” I say, nearing the man. “I’m looking for Tiago Rossi.”

  He observes me for a moment before he gives me a quick once over.

  “Do you know what days he’s in?” I ask.

  “He’s here tonight.”

  My pulse rate soars.

  “Now?”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “Where?” I ask, swinging my gaze around, looking at the plight of men clad in boxer shorts.

  “He’s in the back,” he says, drawing my eyes back to him.

  It takes him a few more seconds before he pushes to his feet and motions me to follow him.

  A few moments later, he walks me through a side door and a dimly lit corridor before he pushes open another door.

  A room, smaller than the one we walked from sprawls in front of me. A few benches line the walls.

  He tips his chin curtly, pointing to a boxing ring where two men throw punches at each other.

  “You can sit over there,” he says, showing me to a bench before he retreats and leaves me alone.

  The trainer and a few other men stand around the boxing ring. None of them seem to notice me.

  Quietly, I unwrap my muffler and pull out my hat and my gloves before I peel off my jacket and take a seat on the bench.

  The corner where I sit is darker than the rest of the room, not that anyone at the front cares to look in my direction.

  Once, I get settled, I lift my gaze and take in the two fighters.

  They both wear boxer shorts and have their hands wrapped. My eyes sweep Tiago’s back as he and his opponent exchange jab-crosses and uppercuts, without using lethal force though.

  You can tell that it’s just a show by how elegantly they dance around each other. About the same height, they have about the same built as well.

  Tiago’s skin is a bit darker and has a beautiful sheen. My eyes stay on him as I take in his muscular legs, V-shaped back, and well-cut arms. Strands of damp raven hair bounce as he and his opponent focus on their footwork.

  Loud directions come from the man standing by the boxing ring.

  It keeps going on like that for the next half an hour before they finally take a break.

  I rise to my feet and raise my hand to wave at Tiago just as he steps out of the boxing ring and pivots to walk away.

  The moment he catches sight of me, he turns to stone.

  His hands clutch his hips as he gives me a side glance, yet not making the slightest move. He looks at me as if he ponders over something. As if he tries to figure out whether to come and talk to me or not.

  My heart starts to crack and breaks.

  The moments feel like a decade when the other men start to look at me as well. I almost lose hope when he says something to them and heads my way.

  The men vanish into an adjacent room.

  Standing, I wait for him as he closes the distance between us.

  His chest glistens with sweat, his red boxer shorts sitting low, highlighting his tanned skin and the bumps of his abs.

  He doesn’t look at me until he gets really close.

  His fingers go through his hair before he finally tips his chin up and locks his gaze with mine.

  “Eve...” he says with a smooth, cold voice.

  “Tiago.”

  I take my time to say his name, melodiously wrapping my voice around every vowel, my eyes set on his face as I gauge his reaction.

  His expression remains unchanged, yet his lips part a little, in pleasant surprise–– at least that’s what I like to think.

  He gestures me to take a seat on the bench.

  We both sit, his eyes going away from mine again, my gaze sliding down his broad shoulders, tattooed chest, and muscular legs.

  “What are you doing here, Eve?” he finally asks with a strained voice as if it took him a lot of effort to push the words to his lips.

  His elbows are set on his knees, his torso tilted forward, his gaze slanted down. A few bangs brush his forehead.

  His voice is guarded as I expected it to be.

  “I wanted to see you,” I say with a quiet voice.

  He tips his face up and swings his gaze to me.

  “Why?”

  I shrug and look away to hide my eyes, feeling a lump in my throat.

  “I don’t know,” I mutter before I move my gaze back to him.

  He hasn’t made the slightest move. His eyes haven’t left my face. He looks at me intently as if he wants to read every bit of me, check every corner of my heart and learn everything there is to learn about me.

  He looks at me with curiosity, and also hope.

  He looks at me with strength but also fear of what he might find in me.

  He looks at me as if I’m someone who mattered to him at some point, and now, he wants to know if I still hold power over him.

  He looks at me, and I feel bad.

  So bad, my tears well up.

  So bad, my words fail me for a moment, and I can’t express the emotional storm I feel inside.

  So bad, I wish I could take my words back, the ones I threw at him last time we spoke.

  “I guess... I wanted to know a little more about you,” I say bitterly before I bite my lower lip to push my tears back.

  He looks at me, a little puzzled.

  “The real you,” I add.

  He studies me for a few more moments before he straightens his back and slightly turns to me.

  He searches my eyes for a few long moments, and from his face, I can’t tell whether he’s angry or surprised.

  “Real me?” he blurts out.

  Grinning ruefully, I nod.

  “Please, don’t get mad at me,” I say.

  He shakes his head.

  “I’m not mad,” he says, visibly aggravated.

  He reads my eyes for a few more seconds.

  “Do you really think that I am different than the man I was with you a few weeks back?”

  “Aren’t you?” I ask with a meek voice.

  He doesn’t move his gaze away from my eyes for a few long moments before he lets out a soft huff and finally swings his gaze away, an incredulous smile curling his lips.

  He shakes his head in disbelief, his fingers combing through his hair again.

  “You couldn’t be yourself with me,” I try to push out an explanation, fearing that I only make things worse.

  And I probably do, but I can’t stop myself from digging deeper.

  “That was the whole idea when you pretended to be someone else,” I say, defensively.

  His eyes shoot at me fast. So are his words.

  “That’s not why I did it. I’ve told you already.”

 

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