Page 2 of When Javi Dumped Mari

Mari

Now

Javi looks good. Really good. Objectively speaking, that is.

The vintage chandeliers above us highlight the bridge of his strong nose, his enviably high cheekbones, the smoothness of his medium-brown skin.

He’s licking his lips as he studies the menu, accentuating the well-defined contours of his Cupid’s bow.

His thick eyebrows stand apart from the rest of his features, the one attribute that isn’t meticulously groomed.

Nearly twelve years and he still hasn’t figured out how to tame them; okay, maybe I am biased, but that nod to imperfection only adds to his appeal.

God, this is all new to me. Is it okay to admire a handsome man who isn’t my fiancé, or am I the asshole?

Wait, what am I thinking? Of course I can appreciate that Javi’s criminally fine.

So long as that’s where the admiration train ends—and it does.

Because I’ve moved on. In fact, any lingering doubts about my ability to put my feelings for Javi to rest have been silenced by this evening’s experiment.

My heart didn’t race the moment I saw him, nor did butterflies flutter in my belly.

Sweet Jesus, I’m finally free.

I smile up at Alex and brush my shoulder against him, more confident than ever that he’s my person.

Judging by Javi’s rigid posture and the tightness in his expression, he isn’t similarly convinced.

Well, that’s not my problem. Contrary to whatever Javi might believe, this engagement isn’t an impulse or a rebound.

It’s a manifestation of the mature love I’ve always dreamed of. Steady. Dependable. Grown.

The server’s reappearance breaks the tension, our uneasy trio watching with overly rapt attention as he presents the bottle of Prosecco to Alex and prepares to pop the cork. A casual observer could rationally assume we’re expecting to be tested on the specifics of the process.

“Okay with you?” Alex asks us.

I nod. “Fine with me, but Javi doesn’t drink wine.”

Alex looks over at Javi. “For sobriety reasons? Health?”

“Neither. It’s a preference.”

“Ah,” Alex says. “Would you like to order something else? For the toast?”

“No, thanks,” Javi says, shaking his head. “I’ll just stick with water.”

I’m so invested in these two liking each other that I’m surveying their actions through a microscope, mentally high-fiving them for merely being civil.

On a normal day, Javi and I would jump at any opportunity to poke fun at each other, to laugh together.

Not today. Everyone’s on their best behavior, and apparently our best behavior is stale as hell.

Alex and I raise our flutes. With his eyes fixed on the area behind us, Javi follows suit, positioning his water goblet in front of his face like a shield.

“To Mari,” Alex says, his eyes glowing with affection, “the woman who has made me the happiest man on earth.”

Javi’s gaze flicks to the ceiling before he adds, “I’m wishing you both the very best as you embark on this”—he clears his throat—“next chapter of your lives. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Alex and I say in unison as we all clink glasses.

I study Javi, my perusal drifting to his broad shoulders, highlighted by the exquisite fit of his navy blazer.

The tie’s a surprise, especially because he once said they always make him feel like he’s cosplaying a middle-aged man.

Then it hits me: He’s dressed up for a reason.

“Oh, wait a minute,” I say, snapping my fingers.

“Earlier you said you had good news. Tell us what it is, so we can drink to that too.”

“It’s nothing,” Javi says, waving his hand dismissively.

“If it’s good news, it can’t be nothing. Spill.”

He studies me carefully, as if my reaction to whatever he’s about to say needs to be stored in his mental archive. “I finished the libretto for The Mailroom. The skeleton of it, I should say. And I took Jeremy up on his offer to stay with him while I write the rest of the lyrics.”

My heart swells. He’s been working on that musical for years, and he’s finally made some progress. This is exactly what I wanted for him. Precisely what I urged him to do the last time we saw each other.

“Javi. That’s amazing news, and definitely not nothing. It’s a breakthrough.”

“It is,” he says, beaming at me.

“You’ll be in California,” I say, stating the obvious while trying to absorb the implications of his temporary relocation. Javi will be here. In my hometown. We can see each other more often. Get together for lunch when I’m not working.

“For the next six months,” he confirms. “Maybe less, depending on how things go.” Before I can pepper him with questions, he glances at Alex and freezes, as if he’s just now remembering my fiancé is here with us.

Blowing out a short breath, Javi shifts in his seat and leans forward.

“Well, enough about what I’m up to. I need to know more about this”—he points back and forth between Alex and me, feigning nonchalance—“and how it came about.”

Alex chuckles, his long fingers gliding over the stem of his wineglass.

“I don’t know that there’s much to say. I mean, you’ve known her a lot longer than I have, so you also know how amazing she is.

Marisol’s everything. I’d been circling around her for more than a year.

One day, I just decided to shoot my shot.

” Alex looks over at me and rests his free hand on mine.

“To my surprise, she was open to it. And when it’s right, it’s right, so here we are. ”

“So here you are,” Javi agrees, though I swear there’s a hint of mockery in his tone. He studies us, a pensive expression on his face. “This was when? Six months ago?”

“Give or take,” Alex says, nodding, then looking to me for confirmation.

“Yeah, something like that,” I say, scanning the dining room. “Shouldn’t we have ordered by now?”

As if on cue, a different server than the one who brought us the wine (Umberto, he informs us) appears at our table, runs through the specials, and asks if we have any questions. When we tell him we’re ready to order, he looks to me first.

“I’ll have the—”

“Seafood risotto,” Javi finishes with a grin.

I laugh. “Am I that predictable?”

“C’mon now, you’re on a personal mission to try the risotto dish at every Italian restaurant you go to.”

“True, true,” I say, playfully covering my face with the menu.

“And you, sir?” Umberto asks Alex.

“The branzino, please. With asparagus, no cheese.”

“Do you have a food allergy we should know about?”

“None at all.” Alex pats his stomach. “Just watching my figure.”

“Ah, I see,” Umberto says flatly before shifting to face Javi. “What about you, sir?”

“I’ll have the lasagna,” Javi says, staring at Alex, who’s staring right back at him. “ All the cheese, please.”

Umberto’s wide smile transforms his face, revealing laugh lines that tell me he’s no stranger to joyous times. “Very good, sir.” Then he collects our menus and abandons us to fend for ourselves in Awkwardville.

I tap my finger on the table, racking my brain for a topic that can bridge the distance between these men. To my relief, Alex fills the silence.

“So, Javier,” he says, wearing a serious expression. “I just want to be up front about something: I’m not trying to replace you. Or erase you. Or box you out. I understand how much you mean to Marisol, and I don’t intend to get in the way of that. Her happiness is my priority.”

I lean into Alex, smiling up at him. This is why Alex is my perfect match.

He chose me. He wants to be with me. As my therapist often says, I deserve someone who’s prepared to love me without reservation; Alex is the only man in my life who qualifies.

He’s bright, ambitious, kind. And sure, he’s handsome, but he doesn’t expect his looks to do the heavy lifting.

It also doesn’t hurt that my father’s estimation of me went up several notches when Alex and I announced our engagement.

Javi nods, a blank expression on his face. “Mari’s happiness has always been my priority too, so I’m sure we’ll get along just fine.”

He doesn’t say “for her sake,” but his flat affect all but shouts it.

This is what I get for not telling Javi about Alex sooner, and I only have myself to blame.

Javi deserved to know that I was dating someone, deserved to know that the relationship was progressing to the point that marriage was a possibility.

If I’m being honest, though, I needed distance from him at the time, and yes, maybe a small part of me worried that Javi would veto Alex on the spot.

Whatever the reason, it’s clear that not confiding in Javi was a misstep, and I’m prepared to own it.

“So what about you two?” Alex asks, his gaze trained on Javi. “How’d this dynamic duo happen?”

Javi narrows his eyes at me, his mouth twisted into a smirk. “You didn’t tell him about your shady past, Marisol?”

Oh, we’re going there?

I incline my head and give Javi a faint smile, granting him permission to talk about our origin story while also telegraphing that I know what he’s up to. “We were teenagers. I was a different person back then. Definitely my mother’s child.”

“And now?” Javi asks, jutting his chin.

“And now I’m my father’s child too,” I say, giving him a half shrug.

There’s no question that I’m a tamer version of the girl I was in college. Back then, I pushed buttons. Raised hell when I felt someone had been treated unfairly. Kissed a lot of frogs. But life isn’t a never-ending party; at some point, we need to take it seriously and start adulting.

Alex looks between us, his lips slightly parted. “So who’s going to tell me how you two met?”

I set my elbows on the table, rest my hands under my chin, and stare at Javi pointedly. “The floor is yours, my friend.”