Page 26 of When Javi Dumped Mari

Mari

Two Years and Two Months Before the Wedding

I’m a petty person when I need to be. This walk-through is proof of that. Particularly because I asked my clients to do their worst. I mean, it’s only fair. Javi did ghost me all those years ago, so why not ghost him now? In a manner of speaking, that is.

Maybe I shouldn’t be entertaining him at all, but I’ve always had a soft spot for Javi, and the passage of time has dulled the pain of his rejection.

It’s not as if I’m planning to rekindle our friendship.

No, it’s too late for bygones. Still, we’re adults now, and I’ve always wondered why Javi decided to drop out of my life. Let’s call it curiosity.

Behind me, Javi’s quiet as he takes in the intentionally ominous scene. I must say, the creak of the floorboards is a nice touch.

“What is this place?” he whispers.

“This is all part of the experience. To evoke the feeling that you’re doing something illicit.”

There’s a protective film on the floor that crackles with every step. Several strides in, I slip on a wet spot. It’s a hazard that needs to be removed from the final iteration of this nighttime attraction, but for tonight, I’m amused.

Since I, too, have a role to play, I let out an exaggerated yelp. “Oh God, is that blood?”

Javi fishes out his phone and angles the light to illuminate the ground. “It’s definitely red. Is this a damn crime scene, Mari? How well do you know these clients?”

“They gave me the go-ahead to do the walk-through minutes before we entered. I doubt there’s been a murder since then. I’m being ridiculous. It’s probably just paint.”

“We have two seconds to figure this out,” Javi says in a low voice. “Otherwise, we’re leaving.”

A figure suddenly appears by the stairs, and before I can decipher who or what it’s meant to be, it scurries away.

“Goddamn,” Javi exclaims. “What the fuck was that?”

“What? What?” I whisper, faking a tremor so he thinks I’m just as alarmed as he is. “I didn’t see anything.”

“You didn’t see that person?” he asks, his voice tight. “They scrambled away like a subway rat. Actually, subway rats will just stare you down while they drag a slice of pizza across the train tracks. This was something else.”

I look back at him. “Maybe you’re seeing things?”

Even in the dark, I can’t miss his brown eyes narrowing.

“That’s my point,” he says. “I am seeing things.”

Before I can respond, a figure taps Javi on the shoulder. Javi leaps in the air like an Olympic gymnast, spins around, and yells, “Holy shit!” In milliseconds, he lands on his feet, hauls me behind him, and throws up his hands as if he’s readying for a full-on brawl.

We’re staring at what looks like a zombie. Gray scaly skin punctured by bullets, a mouth filled with dirty yellow teeth (though the canines are missing), and leeches embedded in this monster’s bare chest. If I weren’t in on the prank, I’d be sprinting to the door.

“En el nombre del Padre, y del Hijo, y del Espíritu Santo. Amén,” Javi chants. “?Vayase, Demonio!”

Feigning terror, I plaster the front of my body against the back of Javi’s. “Are you praying?”

“I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing,” he whispers. “I’m hoping this is a fever dream and I’m going to wake up any minute now. Would you look at me the same if I pissed my pants? It’s a definite possibility.”

The snort escapes me before I can suppress it, and I’m unable to hold it together after that. Resting my hands on my knees, I let out a deep belly laugh as my eyes well. I wanted to go the distance, but there’s no way I can.

Javi whips around. “Are you laughing ?”

I slowly straighten to my full height and wink at Javi. “Gotcha!”

The zombie chuckles, and I immediately recognize the voice as that of Tripp Holdings, one of the owners of this spooky venture.

“Tripp, is that you?” I ask.

“It sure is,” Tripp says, his wide grin making him appear vastly less intimidating than he did moments ago. He lumbers away, and after a few seconds, the basement lights flicker on and off, then finally remain on—barely. Tripp takes one look at Javi and says, “I’ll give you two a moment.”

Javi’s staring at me, his face scrunched up in a way that suggests he’s partly annoyed and mostly confused. “What’s going on?”

“Just a little joke,” I say with a smile.

His face clears. “Ah. Payback, I suppose.”

I wondered about this—whether he’d give me the opening to skewer him as he deserves.

I was totally prepared to be cordial and leave the past in its place, but now that he’s acknowledged what happened between us, the saltiness I vowed to suppress seeps out of my pores.

I meet his stare with my own glare. “So you agree payback is fitting.”

He sighs, then twists back and forth as he scans the space around us. There isn’t much to see. The room’s huge, but there’s no furniture to speak of, and the only décor is the tarlike black paint covering the walls.

“Can we sit somewhere and talk?” he asks.

“Ah, now you’re ready to talk? Six years later?”

He grimaces. “You have every right to be mad at me. You owe me nothing, Mari. But just remember I was young.”

“And dumb,” I add.

“That too,” he says, his lips curving into a cautious smile.

“Well, then. Let’s get your dumb ass a drink.”

I gesture for him to follow me down a narrow hall that leads to the heart of my client’s concept: a bar and lounge area with a vibe that’s both ominous and sensual.

There’s so much to absorb. High-top tables draped in rich burgundy velvet and enclosed in wrought-iron cages.

Midnight-black chandeliers with crow-shaped candelabras dripping in crystals.

Two-seater settees framed by gold-polished spikes facing the bar.

Javi’s jaw drops as he takes in his surroundings. “What is this place?”

I climb onto one of the settees and scoot over so he can join me. “It’s called Friday Night Frights. Think haunted mansion meets vampire den meets speakeasy.”

“Right. Because making someone shit their pants before you ply them with alcohol makes a lot of sense.”

I hold in a chuckle. “I’m not here to judge my client’s ideas. I’m here to ensure those ideas don’t lead to a lawsuit.”

“Fair enough,” Javi says, easing onto the spot beside me.

The bartender, who’s also Tripp’s longtime partner, sidles over; his hair is entwined with lifelike snakes, and he’s wearing a cape made of heavy brocade. “Hey, baby girl. May I interest you in a cocktail?”

“Hey, Samir. I could use three, but I’ll settle for one.” Gesturing to Javi, I add, “This is Javier. We knew each other in college.”

Javi’s gaze meets mine before he takes Samir’s outstretched hand. He has absolutely no right to be affronted by my perfectly accurate description of our connection. “Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise.” Samir spins and plucks a menu off the liquor shelf. “Here you go. Let me know your pleasure.”

I quickly scan the cocktail descriptions and pass the menu to Javi. “I’ll try the Mummy Martini.”

“Just a club soda for me, thanks,” Javi says, handing Samir the menu. “The Count Vodkula sounds impressive, though. Belvedere’s a good choice. I’d go with that too.”

Samir tilts his head, his eyes widening in surprise. “You bartend?”

“On the weekends,” Javi says.

“Well, all right, then. A Mummy Martini and a club soda coming right up,” Samir says. As he backs away, he laughs ominously.

We watch his performance with raised brows.

“Too much?” he asks, noticing our underwhelming response to his theatrical cackle.

“Needs work,” I say, charitably.

Samir chuckles. “Noted.”

Once Samir’s out of earshot, I turn to Javi. “So that answers one of my questions. You’re acting during the week and bartending on weekends.”

“Which is ironic since I have the world’s worst poker face and I can’t hold my liquor for shit.” He lifts a finger in the air as though he’s just remembered something. “Oh, and I’m working on my grand opus.”

“The musical?”

“Yeah,” he says, lowering his chin. “Still.”

“That just means it’ll be fully cooked when you’re done. What’s it about?”

“The working title is The Mailroom . It’s about the people who work in the mailroom of this nameless corporation.

The contents of an interoffice memo spill out and everyone learns that there’s a plan to promote from within, that someone in the mailroom is going to move up in the ranks and fast. So each of the main characters thinks about the life they have now and the life they want. The life they always dreamed of.”

“How’d you come up with the idea?”

“My dad inspired it, actually,” he says, straightening his shoulders. “One of his first jobs out of high school was working in a mailroom in Midtown. For Aramark. You know, the food company?”

I nod, not wanting to interrupt. Not when Javier’s eyes are brightening as he speaks, his passion for this project evident in his lively demeanor.

“Anyway,” he continues, “my dad told me he learned a big life lesson there. See, a coworker kept coming in late, and everybody used to tease her about it. An older woman, Jamaican. And he said one day everyone was leaving and she was pleading for someone to give her a ride home. She needed to get there in a rush. And my dad decided to do her this favor. And when he dropped her off, she invited him in for coffee before he got back on the road. So my dad says he walks in and discovers that this woman needed to get home to relieve the caretaker watching her disabled teenage son.”

“Oh, that’s why she was always late,” I say.

“Exactly. And after that, he never let anyone tease her about not being on time. I’m sure he told me this in the context of teaching me empathy.

He always says we never know what people are going through, and we should be mindful of that.

” He looks up and frowns, as if he can’t believe he got caught up in his own words.

It’s wonderful to be reminded of the boy I once knew.

The one who became so animated only around me.

“So yeah, it’s really about these people who have challenging lives outside the mailroom and what getting a promotion would mean for them. ”

“With a running commentary on the proletariat and bourgeoisie, of course.”

“You know me well,” he says, nodding enthusiastically.

“What about costumes? Any bedazzled Muppets?”

We grin at each other, remembering his senior design project.

“Nothing like that,” he says after a beat. “Just normal workwear.”

“So, this musical. There’s a catch, right? I just know there is.”

Javi nods, his lips curving into a devious smile. “The mailroom supervisor planted the fake memo as a way to improve productivity. Because he’s gunning for a promotion. But if you tell anyone that twist, I’ll never speak to…”

He fidgets with the napkin in his hand.

I enjoy seeing him squirm. It’s satisfying in a way I didn’t expect. “That threat’s lost its force, considering you stopped speaking to me for no apparent reason.”

“Mari—”

“Here we are,” Samir says jovially, unaware he’s interrupting. He places our drinks in front of us, then disappears in a cloud of literal smoke (courtesy of the bag of dry ice he’s dragging behind him).

I take a sip of the martini, savoring the espresso flavor that hits my tongue.

“Listen, Javi, let’s forget about it, okay?

Everything happens for a reason and all that.

” It’s a flippant response that doesn’t quite fit the relationship we once had, but that’s entirely my point.

We don’t have the relationship we once had, and the fault for that sits squarely on Javi’s shoulders.

Javi, meanwhile, stares at his glass, worrying his bottom lip. He’s struggling with his thoughts. I can tell because there’s a little divot between his eyebrows that always appears when he’s grappling with the very heady musings in that overcomplicated brain of his.

We’re adults now. Who the hell cares why he dumped me all those years ago? Right now, Javi’s just a handsome man I ran into on a business trip. Admittedly, we have history , but none of it matters.

He’s just a guy.

A guy I wouldn’t mind getting to know (again) while I’m in New York.

So I absolve him of his sins and give him a reprieve, knocking his knee with mine. “Seriously, Javi, there’s no need to explain. Let’s enjoy the night and see where it takes us, okay?”

“Yeah?” he asks, his eyes glinting with hope, and relief, and maybe a little interest.

“Yeah.”