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But wait—we’re back to using our goddamned surnames?
I didn’t expect him to take me in his arms as if he’s my boyfriend. But, c’mon, it wouldn’t be too much to ask for a bit more warmth after a night apart.
His indifference disconcerts me.
Why won’t he look at me?
Not ready to play cat and mouse with him, I decide to just step aside and wait until he says it’s time to go. I take a peek at my watch. It’s eight thirty. I peer out the hotel door and see the limo waiting. Why aren’t we leaving? Eric doesn’t acknowledge my presence and keeps on reading the paper, his jaw tense. Is he still mad? I want to ask him, but I don’t want to go first.
I don’t move. I don’t sigh. I’m sure he’s waiting for me to do something so he can give me a sharp scolding.
People—about 90 percent of them businesspeople like us—pass us by. Now it’s eight thirty-five. I’m surprised we’re still here. Eric is a lunatic when it comes to punctuality. Twenty to nine. He’s being totally cool, not giving a damn that I’m standing here like a half-wit. And then I hear the rat-a-tat of sharp heels. It’s Amanda, wearing a suit jacket and white skirt.
She doesn’t look at me. She has eyes only for Eric.
“I’m sorry about the holdup, Eric,” she says to him in German. “There was a problem with my clothes.”
I notice that he smiles. And looks at her. His blue eyes scan her from top to bottom.
“Don’t worry about it, Amanda. The wait was worth it. Did you sleep OK?”
“Yes,” she responds, not bothering with my presence. “I slept some.”
I slept some?
Did she say, “I slept some”? What are these two idiots trying to tell me?
She smiles, then touches his waist.
I’m having a hard time breathing as I realize what’s happened between these two, and I want to scream. Suddenly, Eric puts his hand on Amanda’s back and very quickly grazes her waist.
“C’mon, let’s go; the driver is waiting.”
I don’t know what to do. An uncontrollable jealousy like nothing I’ve ever felt boils inside me, and I just want to grab a beautiful vase and smash it over his head.
My heart’s going a mile a minute. This is humiliating, enraging—and he continues, indifferent.
Eric’s still mad, and I don’t understand why. But no. I’m not going to give in. Eric doesn’t know me, and nobody’s going to make a fool out of me.
I start after them.
If that idiotic German thinks I’m going to make a scene, he’s got another think coming. I’m not going to give in that easily. At the limo, the driver opens the door. Amanda climbs in, then Eric, but when I’m about to step inside, Eric stops me with his hand.
“Miss Flores, please sit up front with the driver.”
Bam! That’s quite a slap in the face!
But I can be a cool customer too.
“As you say, Mr.Zimmerman,” I respond, chill as ice.
Indifferently, I sit next to the driver. But now I’m beyond enraged. For a few seconds, I hear them chatting and laughing behind me, and then that’s interrupted by the metallic noise of opaque glass sliding closed near my ear. I take a sideways glance as it separates the front seat from the back of the limo.
I’m furious. Without realizing it, I’m digging my nails into the palms of my hands.
“Would you like to listen to some music?” the driver asks.
I nod. I can’t talk. I put on my sunglasses and try to hide my face. Suddenly, Dani Martín’s song “Mi lamento” comes on, and I want to cry something fierce.