Free The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club by Jessica Morrison
Authors: Jessica Morrison
stand up to help, assuming she’ll have her hands full with child, dogs, and probably more food, but before I can reach the handle, the door flies open. Startled, I step back, stumble over something, and land flat on my butt at exactly the moment
he
walks through the door.
I swallow my mouthful of croissant down hard. I might look ridiculous right now, but I’m determined to keep my dignity. A situation is embarrassing only if you let yourself be embarrassed, right? His eyes meet mine and I try to push out a self-deprecating laugh, but I haven’t managed to swallow completely, and bits of croissant fly out of my mouth and onto the front of my dress. Now he’s the one who’s laughing. You’re a guest in his country, I remind myself. This is Andrea’s friend or brother, perhaps, and she is a kind woman who has gone out of her way to make you feel welcome. And to be fair, this must look pretty funny.
I can’t help it. Anger, residual and freshly brewed, bubbles up. This man has done anything but make me feel welcome. I’m about to give him a piece of my mind when he reaches out his hand. He’s not completely devoid of common decency, I see. Part of me wants to ignore his offer, but we’re mending intercultural relations here. Very important stuff. I can be gracious. Yes, even an American can be gracious!
I offer him my hand. He takes it and smiles, not at all amused this time—genuinely warm and open. Did Jeff ever smile at me like this? Where did that question come from? I can feel it in my stomach, a tingling warmth spreading out to my fingertips. He lifts me slowly, and I allow myself the fleeting romantic-comedy movie fantasy of our faces drawing closer and closer together until—
There’s a loud crash somewhere in the house, followed by a fury of tapping and scratching. We look at each other, eyes wide. He releases my hand and, not quite on my feet yet, I go crashing down once more. My butt is really going to kill later. He blushes and mumbles something in Spanish. An apology? Before I can say anything, he slips back out the door he came in.
The tapping and scratching are getting louder, closer, but I can’t seem to will myself to get up. I lie on the floor and wallow in my latest humiliation. Now I’ve been dropped, figuratively and literally, by two men on two continents. Maybe someone is trying to tell me something. Maybe that whole nunnery thing isn’t such a crazy option. As I imagine myself in a habit, something wet smacks me in the head. I reach up to retrieve a damp, fuzzy toy in the shape of a bone. Ewww.
“Jorge!
¡Basta!
”
Andrea, Jorge, and a canine hurricane tumble into the room together through yet another door that I hadn’t noticed. I’m starting to feel like Alice in Wonderland. Before I can become the next dog toy, I scramble to my feet. The dogs tumble into the wall behind me, sniff about for a few seconds, and, locating the object of their collective desire, tumble out of the room again.
Andrea swoops Jorge up with one arm. “Oh, Cassandra! Are you okay?”
“Oh, yes, fine.” I brush croissant off my front. “All in one piece.”
“I’m sorry. I leave you all alone. The dogs . . . You see yourself all the trouble.”
“Oh, that’s okay. And I wasn’t alone. I met . . . uh . . . ” The infuriatingly rude Argentine man who has instantly turned me into a bumbling mess. “Um, curly hair?” Well done, Cassie.
“Oh, Mateo!” She claps her hands. “You meet Mateo! My dear friend Mateo!”
“Mateo,” I repeat. The name slides over my tongue much too easily. What did I expect? Bob or Joe? He is Argentine, I remind myself. But did his name have to be so damn sexy? I want to say it out loud again, feel the unknown syllables on my lips, but that would be strange, wouldn’t it?
“He fix everything for me all the time. He’s like second husband.” She giggles at the joke, and Jorge joins in.
“That’s very sweet of him,” I say, imagining Mateo rushing over
he
walks through the door.
I swallow my mouthful of croissant down hard. I might look ridiculous right now, but I’m determined to keep my dignity. A situation is embarrassing only if you let yourself be embarrassed, right? His eyes meet mine and I try to push out a self-deprecating laugh, but I haven’t managed to swallow completely, and bits of croissant fly out of my mouth and onto the front of my dress. Now he’s the one who’s laughing. You’re a guest in his country, I remind myself. This is Andrea’s friend or brother, perhaps, and she is a kind woman who has gone out of her way to make you feel welcome. And to be fair, this must look pretty funny.
I can’t help it. Anger, residual and freshly brewed, bubbles up. This man has done anything but make me feel welcome. I’m about to give him a piece of my mind when he reaches out his hand. He’s not completely devoid of common decency, I see. Part of me wants to ignore his offer, but we’re mending intercultural relations here. Very important stuff. I can be gracious. Yes, even an American can be gracious!
I offer him my hand. He takes it and smiles, not at all amused this time—genuinely warm and open. Did Jeff ever smile at me like this? Where did that question come from? I can feel it in my stomach, a tingling warmth spreading out to my fingertips. He lifts me slowly, and I allow myself the fleeting romantic-comedy movie fantasy of our faces drawing closer and closer together until—
There’s a loud crash somewhere in the house, followed by a fury of tapping and scratching. We look at each other, eyes wide. He releases my hand and, not quite on my feet yet, I go crashing down once more. My butt is really going to kill later. He blushes and mumbles something in Spanish. An apology? Before I can say anything, he slips back out the door he came in.
The tapping and scratching are getting louder, closer, but I can’t seem to will myself to get up. I lie on the floor and wallow in my latest humiliation. Now I’ve been dropped, figuratively and literally, by two men on two continents. Maybe someone is trying to tell me something. Maybe that whole nunnery thing isn’t such a crazy option. As I imagine myself in a habit, something wet smacks me in the head. I reach up to retrieve a damp, fuzzy toy in the shape of a bone. Ewww.
“Jorge!
¡Basta!
”
Andrea, Jorge, and a canine hurricane tumble into the room together through yet another door that I hadn’t noticed. I’m starting to feel like Alice in Wonderland. Before I can become the next dog toy, I scramble to my feet. The dogs tumble into the wall behind me, sniff about for a few seconds, and, locating the object of their collective desire, tumble out of the room again.
Andrea swoops Jorge up with one arm. “Oh, Cassandra! Are you okay?”
“Oh, yes, fine.” I brush croissant off my front. “All in one piece.”
“I’m sorry. I leave you all alone. The dogs . . . You see yourself all the trouble.”
“Oh, that’s okay. And I wasn’t alone. I met . . . uh . . . ” The infuriatingly rude Argentine man who has instantly turned me into a bumbling mess. “Um, curly hair?” Well done, Cassie.
“Oh, Mateo!” She claps her hands. “You meet Mateo! My dear friend Mateo!”
“Mateo,” I repeat. The name slides over my tongue much too easily. What did I expect? Bob or Joe? He is Argentine, I remind myself. But did his name have to be so damn sexy? I want to say it out loud again, feel the unknown syllables on my lips, but that would be strange, wouldn’t it?
“He fix everything for me all the time. He’s like second husband.” She giggles at the joke, and Jorge joins in.
“That’s very sweet of him,” I say, imagining Mateo rushing over