Page 21 of When Javi Dumped Mari

Mari

Eight Years and Five Months Before the Wedding

Saturday morning, Javi and I eat at Derby’s Diner, where we demolish the best blueberry pancakes on earth—because of course I’m qualified to confer that title.

To my delight, Javi and my favorite waitress, Gloria, a Filipina server who says she doesn’t look old enough to be anyone’s grandmother (it’s true), immediately click.

Their rapport likely was fated; in a former life, Gloria was a cabaret performer in Chicago, and she isn’t shy about showing off her vocal chops as she delivers the patrons’ meals and charms the hefty tips off them.

She wraps up a slice of apple pie for Javi, telling him with a wink and a smile that it’s on the house.

“Do you enjoy what you do?” he asks her.

“I love it,” she says, slipping a pencil in her bouffant-styled ash-gray hair, her hands on her trim hips. “Can’t you tell?

“I can,” Javi says on a laugh. “But I’m also wondering if you miss being onstage.”

She waves a hand behind her. “Oh, honey, that was ages ago. A different lifetime ago. I was a natural. A true talent—if I do say so myself. But our priorities change. Our wants and desires blossom into something else. These days, I want to spend all of my time with my grandbabies. Working here means I’m off at two, and I don’t think about this place until I return the next morning. It’s all about perspective.”

Javi nods. “Absolutely.”

Gloria reaches over and pinches Javi’s cheeks in that way only older women of a certain generation can get away with.

“You’re such a cutie.” She meets my gaze, her eyes flashing with mischief.

“Don’t lose this one, sweetie!” Before I can clarify that Javi and I aren’t together, she saunters off singing a line about rocking someone’s world.

Javi and I grin at each other.

“She’s a firecracker,” he says.

“Now you see why I love her,” I reply.

While we wait for the check, Javi jots down notes in his phone, his fingers typing at warp speed.

“What’s got you so excited?” I ask.

“Gloria’s given me an idea about the musical. A possible backstory for one of the characters. And I can see the number in my head, so I’m trying to write down my thoughts before I forget it all.”

I love seeing this side of him. This passion. It’s an unguarded moment. More often than not he appears ambivalent about writing this musical, but right now, I can plainly see that it’s more important to him than he lets on.

“So this trip isn’t a total bust, then?” I ask.

He looks up from his phone and squishes his eyebrows together. “A bust? Mari, I’m spending time with you. How could that ever be anything less than perfect?”

“Well, now you’re just trying to get me to drop my panties.”

He blinks a few times, then stares at me, his eyes huge as saucers. “That’s not what…”

I throw my head back and cackle, drawing the attention of a few customers.

He flattens his lips into a thin line. “Cute.”

“You say that a lot about me,” I say, giving him a pointed look.

“I do. It’s an acronym.”

“It is?” I ask, leaning over the table because he’s blowing my mind. “What’s the acronym?”

“Can. U. Take. Embarrassment.” He chuckles, though I don’t get what’s funny. “Think about it: I say it every time you do something awkward.”

I stare at him, my brain whirring as I repeat the acronym in my head. “Seriously?”

“No,” he says with a grin. “I made that shit up on the spot.”

I throw a napkin at him. “Rude.”

“Admit it,” he says, brushing off his shoulders and waggling his eyebrows. “I almost had you.”

“Yeah, you did,” I say, holding back a smile. “Even though it didn’t make a bit of sense, I knew there was an insult in there, so I was about to make you sleep on the floor tonight.”

“The day’s still young,” he says.

Now that I think about it, he’s right. The pier should be fine, but we still have a party to go to after that. And as Javi and I both know, parties are his kryptonite.

***

“Tell me who’s throwing this get-together again,” Javi asks as we climb the flight of steps leading to the entrance of an impressive apartment complex a short drive from campus. It’s gated. And I know from our host that there’s an infinity pool on the roof. Javi will love that.

“Her name’s Rielle, and she’s a first-year law student like me. I met her during orientation. She’s good people.”

“Cool,” Javi says, though I know he’s reserving judgment on whether Rielle is, in fact, good people.

“So mostly law students will be here?” he asks.

“Yeah, that’s my guess. But don’t worry, we’re a chill bunch. And we don’t have to stay long. I just promised to swing by. She’s excited to meet you.”

Javi stumbles to a stop and pins me in place with a wide-eyed stare. “Me? Why would she be excited to meet me?”

“I told her about you, silly,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Mentioned that you were visiting.”

With his lips pressed together, he pulls on the sleeves of his burgundy knit shirt, straightening the cuffs before he resumes walking. As we enter the vestibule, he puffs out a breath and rolls his shoulders. “Okay, let’s do this.”

“Gracious, you’re acting like I’m sending you to the gallows.”

“Close enough,” he says, his eyes shining with humor.

I nudge Javi to my side and link arms with him. “Just be yourself. Everyone’s going to love you.”

“That’s never my goal,” he quips.

Which is unquestionably true, and one of the things I like most about Javi.

In a world where most of the men his age are cosplaying through life, Javi’s content to be himself.

As if he’s daring anyone to fault him for who he is so he can fault them for being superficial.

It’s a test many people fail, my father among them.

I’m sure his reserved demeanor is a defense mechanism too.

After all, the defenses you build are born from experience, and no one should tell you they aren’t warranted.

Javi and I don’t move through the world in exactly the same way, but there are enough similarities between us that I understand and can empathize with the land mines he’s trying to avoid.

When we exit the elevator, our jaws drop.

I’m no stranger to opulence, but this rooftop space is on another level.

Actually, it’s on two levels, both of which feature sleek black-and-white decor and panoramic glass windows that don’t disturb the amazing 360-degree views.

There’s plenty of velvet banquette seating, and heated lamps cleverly disguised as decorative columns frame the perimeter.

The infinity pool puts a bow on the whole vibe.

“Jesus,” Javi says, looking dazed. “The rent prices here must be astronomical.”

“I know.”

“Let’s get drinks, stat.”

“Definitely.” There’s a chill in the air, and I could use something to warm me up anyway.

We’re weaving through the surprisingly big crowd when I hear my name being called.

I turn and see Rielle gliding toward us, the picture of effortless chic in a white V-neck that’s doing amazing things for her cleavage, a pair of boyfriend jeans, and a pink cashmere sweater wrapped around her waist. As she strides in our direction, Rielle’s chocolate-brown hair bounces and cascades over her shoulders as if she’s auditioning for a shampoo commercial.

“I’m so glad you came!” she says, immediately tugging me into a light embrace. When we separate, her gaze lands on Javi.

“You must be the friend from New York,” she says, holding out her hand.

Javi shakes it. “Yeah, I’m Javi. Good to meet you…”

“Rielle,” she supplies with a flirty smile. To both of us, she says, “The open bar is by the DJ. Feel free to order whatever you’d like.” She looks around. “There should be servers passing around hors d’oeuvres somewhere. Let me check the kitchen. Marisol, want to come with?”

“Uh, sure,” I say, thoroughly confused yet knowing based on her conspicuous attempt at optical telepathy that she wants to speak with me in private. “I’ll just be a minute,” I tell Javi. “Want to grab us drinks?”

“No problem,” he says. “What’ll you have?”

“Any white is fine. Except moscato.”

Javi grins. “You got it.”

Rielle pulls me away, then links our arms together and leans in. “He’s hot as fuck.”

“He’s smart as fuck too,” I say a bit grumpily.

“I’m sure he is,” she says with a saucy smile, “but I’m not interested in that.”

“Well, you shouldn’t be interested in anything having to do with Javi considering you have a fiancé.”

“Boyfriend,” she corrects.

“My point remains.”

And now I’m rethinking my earlier assessment that Rielle is “good people.” What even is this?

We reach the kitchen, where she briefly speaks with someone on the catering staff, then turns back to me. “You two are just friends, right?”

“Correct.”

“So you wouldn’t mind if I chat with him?”

“He’s a grown man, Rielle. And you’re an adult too. I don’t really have a say in this.”

She playfully clips me on the shoulder. “Oh, c’mon, you know what I’m really asking here. Girl code. Would you be pissed?”

“The better question is, would your boyfriend be pissed?”

“We’re open, so no, he wouldn’t.”

My stomach drops. This guy, whom I’ve never met, was my ace in the hole, the one factor I was relying on to convince both Rielle and Javi that they shouldn’t talk, hook up, whatever.

Now it appears there’s nothing stopping them from getting together, and I’m horrified to discover that I desperately wish there were an obstacle I could throw in both of their faces.

“Well, then, have at him,” I say flatly.

“Thanks, I will,” she says with a sassy toss of her hair.

I watch her saunter out of the kitchen and glide in the direction of the bar, where Javi’s still waiting in line.

But I don’t want Rielle to “have at” Javi, as I so glibly suggested.

Not if I’m truly being honest with myself.

And because I’m overthinking everything this weekend, I’m trying to process why that would be the case.

Am I just being territorial, which itself isn’t cool, or am I grappling with feelings I buried so deep I can’t even recognize them when they surface?

Is there a word that takes overthinking to another level? Uberoverthinking? If so, that’s what I’m doing. In the end, though, I can’t forget that Javi and I are committed to being and remaining friends. Whatever happens tonight, I need to keep that goal front and center in my unruly mind.