Page 47 of When Javi Dumped Mari

Javi

Now

Luiz Campos’s home is trolling me.

Lifestyles of the Rich and Odious. It’s not the home Mari grew up in; it’s the home Luiz purchased after Mari’s mother left him and he felt the need to, as Mari put it, “level up.” I always knew Mari’s dad was wealthy, but seeing that affluence firsthand is more daunting than I ever would have guessed.

The Lyft driver leaves me outside the gates, where I punch in the code Mari gave me and sigh at the prospect of spending an evening with people who will inevitably ask me how I know the guests of honor.

How would they respond if I told them I’m in love with Mari and would give my left nut to drop-kick Alex off the face of the earth?

Eh, I should probably keep that to myself.

As I climb the steps to the massive double doors, I squint against the brightness of the spotlights trained on the house; there are enough of them to light up the Eiffel Tower.

It’s not only the excess I’m appalled by; it’s that Luiz Campos gets to live like this.

You know who should be the beneficiary of all this opulence?

Ms. Camacho, my sixth-grade teacher at Our Lady of Mount Carmel, the nicest, most hardworking person I ever met.

I mean, she taught horny middle school boys about the perils of seeking the pleasures of the flesh.

Now that was a tireless and futile endeavor deserving of a reward.

A woman in a catering uniform answers the door and steps back to let me in, her bland expression likely signaling what kind of evening this promises to be. “The festivities are in the grand room.”

“Thank you. Should I be scared?”

Her eyes widen, then narrow before she gives me an impish smile. “Very.”

Luiz, or whoever decorated this place, sure likes tiered chandeliers. The furniture’s obviously bespoke, or at least it’s the kind that doesn’t come in a box with instructions for its assembly. In fact, half the shit in here looks like it belongs in a museum.

I smooth my hands over the front of my thighs before venturing down the hall toward the sounds of classical music and polite chatter; along the way, I dodge a few servers rushing past me with empty hors d’oeuvres trays.

The party space is stately, with high-gloss tile floors and ceiling-height windows in an area that’s as wide and tall as an aircraft hangar.

Okay, that last part’s an exaggeration, but the effect on my psyche is the same.

A magnificent black baby grand piano rests on a dedicated platform in the far left corner of the room.

It doesn’t take me long to find Mari in the crowd.

She looks stunning in a sleek white dress that ends just above her knees.

Her curly hair is subdued into an intricate hairstyle that emphasizes the almond shape of her dark brown eyes.

She’s standing next to Chloe, their heads close together as they talk, both of their gazes bouncing around the room.

I smile to myself—because I know bochinche when I see it, and in a gathering like this one, I bet there’s plenty to gossip about.

When Mari spots me, her eyes gleam with affection, and then she’s gliding across the room in my direction, her friend in tow. “You made it!”

“I told you I would,” I say, meeting her halfway for a quick hug.

When I step back, Chloe pats my stomach. “Just making sure the abs are still there.”

I chuckle. “Never change, my new friend.”

“I don’t intend to,” she says with a wink.

We stare at each other, perhaps a beat too long, because Mari clears her throat and says, “Well, I’ll leave you to chat. You’ll both be in the wedding”—she crosses her eyes—“obviously, so it’s great that you two are getting along. Yeah, okay, I’m going to make the rounds.”

Mari rushes off, leaving Chloe and me staring after her.

“She thinks we had a moment back there,” Chloe observes.

“That’s not what that was, right?”

“Right. We’re both still wondering why any of this is happening,” she says, gesturing at the room.

“Exactly.”

“But we’re going to support our girl.”

“Of course,” I say, nodding gravely.

She leans in. “While providing numerous opportunities for her to consider her choices, just to ensure she’s certain.”

She’s a co-conspirator, then. I wasn’t sure about Chloe before, but now I’m a fan. “Precisely what I was thinking, though not in such eloquent terms.”

Chloe laughs. “I’m so glad we’re on the same page.” Her gaze snags on someone by the open bar. “Excuse me, I have a junior associate to intimidate.”

“I bet you can achieve that simply by existing.”

She turns around and hugs me. “I’m rooting for you.”

I’m in a daze as Chloe walks away, thrown off by her statement.

I don’t want anyone to root for me; I want everyone to root for Mari.

Even if we can’t figure our shit out, I want her to be happy.

That’s the primary goal. If that means she ends up with Alex, then I’ll have to accept her choice.

In the meantime, though, I need to engage in some reconnaissance.

I look up and scan the area around me, my gaze eventually landing on Mari, who’s watching me with a frown. I lift an eyebrow in question, to ask her what’s up. She motions me toward one of the room’s two entryways.

She meets me there. “You doing okay?”

“I’m fine. Why?”

“Figured this might be a lot for you.”

“It is a lot…but I can handle it.”

“Come with me,” she says, holding out her hand.

I don’t ask her where we’re going, and I don’t really care.

I’m with Mari. That’s enough. She leads me down a long hallway, then up a winding staircase that ends at a massive landing.

A few steps later, she pushes open a door and we’re in a bedroom.

Judging by the Usher and Rihanna posters on the walls, it’s a teenager’s bedroom.

A light blue comforter and a dozen stuffed Minions of various sizes cover the bed.

“It’s a time capsule,” I say, slowly spinning to take it all in.

“He hasn’t changed a thing in here since I left for college.”

I walk over to the nightstand on the far end of the room and pick up a framed photo. In it, a woman is blocking her eyes against the sun’s rays as she stares at the sea. “Is this Patrícia?”

“It is,” she says, nodding. “I love this photo so much. It’s how I think of her, even now. Sometimes I have to remind myself that my mother no longer looks like this, that she’s aged.”

“It’s hard to think of our parents growing old, but with age comes wisdom; that’s what my father says, at least.”

Mari stares at the portrait, her gaze vacant.

I lay a hand on her arm. “Well, now it’s my turn to ask: Are you okay?”

She laughs. “I’m doing great.”

“Any wedding jitters? I can parachute you out of here at a moment’s notice. Just say the word.”

“That won’t be necessary, but thanks for the offer,” she says, giving me a half smile.

“Then what do you need, Mari?” My voice sounds strained and just a bit urgent to my own ears. She must hear it too. “You can ask me for anything, Mari. Anything .”

“I need you to be my friend,” she whispers.

I pull her into my arms and hug her close. “I am, Mari. I am.”

And I could be so much more if she asked me to. But I’m beginning to think that’ll never happen. Could it be that I’ve been kidding myself this whole time? Do I still have a shot? Or have I lost her already?

***

Now that the party’s in full swing, I easily blend into the crowd and drift over to the baby grand—I can’t help myself.

It’s a beauty, and nothing like the Yamaha electric keyboard I begged my parents to buy me so I could teach myself how to play.

Unlike the well-loved keyboard I used in my teens, this piano is décor, ornamental rather than functional.

An instrument capable of creating soul-stirring melodies relegated to the role of demonstrating status.

I lay my fingers on the black keys, the sharps and flats that alter a note’s natural pitch.

I hit middle C and glance around; no one notices, so I mess around bit, seeing if the piano is in tune, and it most certainly is.

When I look up, servers are whipping through the room handing out glasses of champagne, and then Luiz taps his own glass with a cocktail fork.

Chloe joins me by the piano, two glasses of champagne in her hands. “Want one?”

“I’ll pass, but I don’t mind holding it,” I say, taking a flute.

“Not ready to drink to their union?” Chloe asks.

“Something like that.”

“Good evening, everyone,” Luiz says, his deep baritone commanding everyone’s attention.

“Thank you all for coming out tonight to help me celebrate the fast-approaching marriage of two of my favorite people: my daughter, Marisol Campos, and her fiancé, Alejandro Cordero, who goes by Alex for short. Now, what you probably do know is that theirs is a whirlwind romance, and no, Marisol is not pregnant.”

Someone in the audience gasps, and Mari grimaces, but the majority of the guests laugh, because that’s what Luiz expects them to do, and he’s their boss. “But what you probably don’t know is that Alex is an accomplished musician, and in honor of his wife-to-be, he’s prepared a special performance.”

So that explains why Alex is nowhere to be seen.

Excited chatter runs through the crowd, followed by tittering among the onlookers when Alex makes his way to a chair at the head of the room.

Oh, come the fuck on, he’s a guitarist too ?

“Hello, everyone. I know this may seem a little self-indulgent, but I’d like to share my gift for music with my future wife, and what better way to do that than to serenade her during this celebration of our forthcoming nuptials?”

Well, I can think of a thousand better ways off the top of my head, all of them involving sharing his gift with Mari in private. This guy’s something else.

“This is a piece I learned in college, which was only a year ago.” Everyone laughs, and Alex winks. “It’s called ‘Mi Luna,’ which means ‘My Moon.’?”

I’m inexplicably annoyed with the whole production, but then he starts playing, and it’s as if Carlos Santana is in the room. Alex is good . Great, even. How the hell does one person get the luck of the draw on smarts, looks, love, and artistic talent?

After a few minutes, Chloe nudges me with her shoulder. “It’s all too polished, too perfect, isn’t it?”

“I was thinking it’s unfair, but I like your take on it much better.”

Chloe leans over and whispers in my ear, “Do you play?”

I nod, my gaze bouncing between Alex and Mari as he wows the crowd with his guitar skills, the final chords of his song rising to an admittedly sensual crescendo before he plays the last delicate notes. He’s showered with enthusiastic applause, and Mari wraps her arms around him in a tight embrace.

“Well?” Chloe asks.

“Well, what?”

She sucks her teeth. “No, I meant, do you play well ?”

“I’m self-taught, but yeah, I’m a decent piano player.”

“Excellent,” she says.

“Why?”

In answer, Chloe leans back and sweeps her fingers across the piano keys. Every single person in the room turns in our direction, their gazes landing on us like one of the spotlights on Luiz’s ridiculous home.

“Ooh, someone’s challenging Alex to a music duel,” Chloe says in an excited tone.

I survey the people in the room, looking for this challenger.

“Psst, it’s you,” Chloe says before allowing herself to be swallowed by the rush of people moving forward to witness the impromptu competition.

I raise my hands in surrender. “Oh no, that was a mistake. Carry on, everyone, and well done to the groom.”

Alex’s eyes narrow on me as he approaches. “Not so fast, Javier. Why don’t you show me what you’ve got. Mari tells me you’re a musician too.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” I say, inching away from the piano.

“Unless you’re not up to the challenge.”

I turn right the fuck back around and plop onto the piano bench, cracking my knuckles as I stare Alex down.

He smirks; I simmer.

The melody that immediately comes to me is the one I’ve been toying with for months, for a song that will serve as the musical’s refrain.

It’s called “What If,” and although it isn’t finished, it’s nearly perfect because I’ve tweaked and expanded on it for hundreds of hours.

My fingers glide over the keys as I play the intro and first verse, an homage to the show tunes of early Broadway, and then I transition to a melody punctuated by African and Caribbean rhythms that matches the vibe of the character I envision singing the song’s chorus and bridge.

I’m so immersed in the piece that I’m surprised when I see Chloe and a few others nodding their heads and tapping their feet.

When I’m done, I press a hand to my heart and thank everyone for their generous applause.

Warmth radiates through my body as I absorb the positive reception.

It’s exhilarating, a peek at what I can accomplish if I just set my mind to making The Mailroom the best it can be.

I find Mari in the crowd, standing in a corner, and she looks just as proud as I feel: She’s clapping furiously, and her eyes are glistening.

Alex pats me on the back, a little too hard for it to be called a good-natured show of camaraderie. Perhaps this is the start of his villain origin story.

“Great job, friend,” he says.

“Thanks. I didn’t mean to upstage you or anything.”

He raises a single brow. “You didn’t.”

“Of course I didn’t. I’m just saying I wasn’t trying to.”

“Good to know,” he says before walking away.

Chloe tiptoes toward me, her eyes wide with mischief. “That was perfection!”

“No thanks to you,” I grumble. “Now he hates me.”

“He hates everyone who makes him look bad.” She shrugs. “It was bound to happen. I just moved things along.”

“Great. Now I have a target on my back, and I’m not even sure it isn’t deserved.”

I search for Alex in the crowd and quickly find him talking to Mari’s father, whose eyes are shooting daggers at me.

Oh shit, make that two targets.