Page 11 of When Javi Dumped Mari

Mari

Now

“The guy’s in love with you,” Alex says matter-of-factly.

I’ve been wondering when Alex was going to share his take on Javi; it’s been a couple of hours since dinner, and he hasn’t said a peep.

I stop wiping the makeup off my face and meet his gaze in the mirror. “Javi’s a good friend, that’s all. I assure you, he’s not in love with me. There is nothing to worry about.”

I glance at the tubes and jars in Alex’s arsenal, a regimen of serums and creams that keeps his skin baby soft.

It used to bother me that Alex is more high-maintenance than most people.

But then we traveled together to San Antonio for a weekend getaway, and let me just say, there’s no better feeling than realizing you can borrow your man’s hyaluronic acid when you’ve forgotten your own.

“I’m not worried,” he says, watching me carefully as he works through his multistep nighttime routine, a pair of striped pajama pants hanging off his hips and his firm chest bare. “Just stating the obvious.”

“You’re not even a little bit jealous of our relationship, then?” I ask, inwardly wincing at the trace of hopefulness in my voice.

He chuckles as he rubs moisturizer onto his face. “Jealousy springs from insecurity, so no, I’m not even a little bit jealous.”

That’s partially true, sure, but I think it’s more complicated than that.

We’re all insecure to some degree—insecure in ourselves, insecure in our connections, insecure about our futures—but sometimes we don’t express these rational feelings because society tells us being confident is the endgame: “Never let them see you sweat,” “Never bend your head,” “Believe in yourself and you’re halfway there.

” But the inspirational quote that lives rent-free in my head and resides on a Post-it at my desk is this: “You are allowed to be both a masterpiece and a work in progress, simultaneously.” (Thanks, Sophia Bush.)

Alex tends to view issues in black and white; I’m more likely than he is to see the grays in any given situation.

I’m also firmly in the camp that believes a little insecurity is normal.

It only develops into a problem when that lack of confidence leads to the exertion of control over another person.

Nevertheless, I’m grateful for Alex’s clear-cut perspective now.

How uncomfortable would it be for everyone if the green-eyed monster lurked around every corner as we prepared for this wedding?

Especially when there’s no basis for it—as I’ve learned time and again.

I step behind him, pressing my forehead against his back and wrapping my arms around his waist. “Thanks for being so understanding about all this. I bet some other cishet grooms would balk at the idea of their fiancée choosing to have a guy friend in the wedding party.”

He turns around and leans against the vanity, then pulls me into a loose embrace.

“I want you to be happy. If having Javier as your man of honor is going to help that happen, I’m certainly not going to stand in the way.

You deserve the world, princesa, and I’m going to do everything I can to give it to you. ”

“Keep talking like that, and I’ll drag you to City Hall myself.

” I tip my head up for a kiss, but we’re pulled out of the moment by the sound of the ringtone designated for my mother, a blaring alarm—because if she’s calling and not leaving a minute-long voice note on WhatsApp asking if I’ve forgotten her very existence, then something’s happening.

I dash to the bedroom and snatch my cell phone off the nightstand. “Al?? M?e? Tudo bem?”

“Tudo, filha. E você?”

I’m staring at her profile photo, so I request to switch to video, and after a few seconds of fumbling on her end, she appears on the screen with a broad smile on her face and the ends of her relaxed strands peeking out from under a red headscarf.

She’s fine. And just like that, my heart rate slows.

One of the drawbacks of having a mother who lives on another continent is that I never know if she’s truly okay, and I worry I’ll learn from a phone call that she’s truly not.

We make it work, but I’d be lying if I said it isn’t challenging sometimes.

“Tudo ótimo! Tento falar com você desde na semana passada.”

Alex enters the bedroom, then crouches out of view as he puts on a T-shirt.

I repeat myself for his benefit. “Everything’s great. I’ve been trying to reach you since last week. I have news!”

“Tell me,” she says, sitting down at her kitchen table.

“Alex and I are engaged!”

Her eyes bulge, and she covers her mouth with her free hand. “Isso é sério?”

“Yes,” I say on a laugh. “He asked last week.”

“How did it happen? Did he do something special? Go down on one knee?”

“Nothing like that,” I say. “He took me to a jeweler and said I could pick out whichever ring I wanted.” I flash said ring at the screen.

“Oh, how…nice. It’s big.”

I motion for Alex to come closer. “And he’s right here.”

My mother snaps her mouth shut and smiles. “Congratulations! You’re a wonderful couple.”

“Obrigado, minha sogra,” Alex says.

My mother gives him a cheesy grin. “Que lindo! You’re learning Portuguese.”

“I’m trying,” he says.

“That’s all we can ask of you,” my mother says, nodding.

“I’ll let you two talk,” he says with a wave, and then he slips out of the room and closes the door behind him.

I give her a knowing look. “Let’s hear it.” Because I can guarantee she’s been holding her tongue.

She shrugs, her lips pursed in innocence. “What do you mean? I’m happy for you.”

“There’s a ‘but’ in there somewhere, right?”

“Wrong. Only you know what and who is going to make you happy. If you think Alex is the right person, then I’ll support you.” She waggles her eyebrows. “Is he good in bed?”

I slap a hand over my eyes and groan. “Nope, we’re not going there.”

She cackles.

“We’re getting married in May,” I say, dropping the bomb when she’s disarmed.

Her laughter abruptly stops, and she squints at me. “Why so soon? Don’t you need more time to make sure this is what you want? To organize?”

“This is what I want,” I say firmly. In a less urgent tone, I add, “And my dream venue happens to have a rare opening.”

We chat a bit about the particulars: dates, my plans for the run-up to the wedding, her observation that she and my father should minimize their interactions when she comes here for the festivities.

“What does Javi say about all this?” she asks.

The question stuns me into silence. I draw away from the phone, and when I regain the ability to speak, I say, “He’s happy for us?”

She tilts her head to the side and peers at the screen. It’s like she’s standing right in front of me. “Is that a question?” she asks.

“No, it’s not a question. I just saw him a couple of hours ago, and he is happy for us.”

“Okay, but from what you’ve told me, Javi knows you better than anyone, so I’m curious to hear what he really thinks.”

I let out an exaggerated groan, my frustration with Javi’s reaction to the news resurfacing. This line of inquiry makes no sense. What does Javi have to do with any of this? And since when did my mother become his advocate? “Who made Javi the arbiter of my love life anyway?”

My mother’s forehead creases, and a look of bewilderment overtakes her face. “ You did, Marisol. You did.”

Dammit. Why are mothers always so astute?