Free The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club by Jessica Morrison Page B

entire body. That's when I realize one very good thing about Mateo. For a short while, he made me forget exactly what I’ve gotten myself into.

CHAPTER FOUR
    T wo blocks up, two blocks left, two blocks down, two blocks right. Head down to avoid the mines the canine population has left for me every twenty or so feet, I walk a square pattern, not so much to avoid getting lost (I do have a map—okay, three) but to avoid feeling more lost than I already do. I realize that this route will take me back to the front door of Andrea’s yellow house, but that’s about as much excitement as I can take right now.
    The population of Buenos Aires is, thankfully, spread out, and the neighborhood—my neighborhood, I suppose—is rather peaceful now that the drag queens have retreated. My occasional sidewalk companions are mostly solitary Argentines moving quickly and with serious intent. It’s the middle of the day in the middle of the week, after all, and unlike me, these people have places to go, people to see. At the first stirrings of jealousy, I remind myself to enjoy this rare opportunity of pure, guilt-free leisure—a delicacy I haven’t tasted in years. But it’s no use. The thought of wandering aimlessly is enough to make me run back to the apartment, Mateo or no Mateo. I need something to propel me forward. I focus on the plug converter and new hair dryer I need. Hardly a checkmark-worthy goal, but better than no goal at all.
    I recall Andrea mentioning something last night about a grocery store and other shops on the main street a few blocks over. Assuming I’ll find a hardware or electronics store there, I take a sharp turn and cross the quiet street with what feels vaguely like enthusiasm.
    Now that I have a plan, short-term as it may be, I indulge in a slower gait, wanting to draw out this feeling of purpose as long as possible. After I buy a hair dryer, what will I do with myself? I push away the question and try not to think too far ahead. Peppered among the more modern concrete apartment buildings are beautiful gems of architecture that assert happier, more prosperous chapters into the city’s current story. Strolling from block to block, I am faced again and again with the disparity between what this place is and what it must have once been. One neighbor’s house crumbles from neglect as another’s stands proud and cared for, a representative of a surviving elite. Some homes have been given up on completely, for-sale signs propped up against boarded windows. Another seems to have been abandoned in a hurry. The upstairs windows are shuttered tight, the front gate left ajar. Three cats loll about in a deep, thick garden overgrown with weeds. Someone started painting the pale blue walls a pretty ballet pink and then gave up a third of the way. There are no ladders or paint cans visible, so I can only assume that the painting stopped some time ago. I stop and stare for a minute, intrigued by the mystery of it. Even in such a state of disrepair, this humbled structure has an undeniable charm. But my curiosity shifts quickly into discomfort. What would make someone stop painting in the middle like that? I don’t know why it bothers me so much, but it does. I can’t get it out of my mind. It’s not the hopelessness about it or the sense of defeat—so many of the houses have that same sad air about them. It’s the half-painted wall, the fact that whoever lived there looked forward to a bright future that included pink paint. There must have been much life and love there once. No one paints a house pink if they aren’t ridiculously happy. No one stops painting halfway unless that happiness was abruptly taken away. The explanation can’t be only financial; unlike the other homes in similar states of disrepair, this one has no for-sale signs. No, inside those walls, someone’s life went sideways. I can feel it. And that’s when I realize, rather uncomfortably, that if I were a house I would look exactly like