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“Cheers.” Our glasses clink and we drink up.
“So,” I say. “What’s this business about having lots to catch up on? What did I miss?” I inquire.
“Umm, you didn’t miss out on anything. Apparently, I’m the one who missed out,” she quips, sipping her wine.
I raise an eyebrow, wondering where she heard the gossip from. “What do you know?”
“What happened with Amaury?”
“How do you know something happened with him?”
“Chica, por favor, don’t act as if nothing happened.” Her hands are flailing as she’s speaking. “He came by the office Thursday asking for you. Said he hadn’t seen or spoken to you since last Saturday and he was worried.”
“He went by the office?” I’m surprised to hear this. I didn’t think Amaury would be that guy. “Did he cause a scene? Did Lily say anything?”
I’ll never forget the day Carmine showed up at my office in Boston. I was working late on a project with Mona, and he showed up unannounced, storming through the halls as if he owned the place. Luckily, I was alone with Mona. I was so embarrassed. After I calmed him down and left with him, Mona began regularly inquiring about my relationship with Carmine. I never had the courage to accept her offers of help or to tell her the whole truth.
Her head shakes. “Nah, he was chill, just asked for you. He was there for maybe five minutes. Lily didn’t even see him.” Thank goodness, I can’t even fathom what I would do if he’d caused a scene or upset Lily. Amaury doesn’t seem like a guy who would cause a scene. Then again, how much do I really know him?
“That’s it?”
“About his visit, yeah. But there’s more to the story,hací que habla! I’m waiting to hear all thechisme.” Her enthusiasm for me to fill her in on the gossip is cute even if I’m dreading retelling having my heart ripped apart.
The waiter interrupts us to take our order, and I order our usual,enrollado, a one-pound skirt steak and fries for us to share with aprovoleta, grilled provolone cheese, for us to start with.
I fill Dayi in about Saturday night’s events and how I scrambled out of there with my tail between my legs.
“Wait, he’s married?” she asks, her eyes wide.
“Yup. Leave it to me to find the married guy. I make the worst decisions when it comes to men.”
“Is he married married, or Cuban married?” she asks, her hands animated as she’s speaking.
The wine glass hovers at my lips. “Umm, what’s the difference?”
“Girl, if he’s married married, you’re done because he’s a shady ass motherfucker! If he’s Cuban married, then he’s not really married and there’s nothing to worry about.”
“I’m confused. What the heck does that even mean?” I pour us both more wine because this conversation isn’t getting easier.
“Chica. When we’re in a serious relationship, we Cubans tend to call each otheresposoandesposa, even if we’re not actually married.” That’s a first for me—couples referring to each other as husband and wife if they’re not married, but it doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. If I’ve learned anything since moving to Miami, it’s that I don’t know much about Latino culture outside of my own.
“What? Why?”
Her shoulders rise in uncertainty. “We just do!” she exclaims, taking a long sip of wine.
“Oh. Well, I don’t know if it’s his actual wife or not. He didn’t deny it or even look me in the eye, which is basically a confirmation if you ask me. Besides, I didn’t stick around long enough to find out, and I haven’t spoken to him since then.”
My phone vibrates on the table, and I flip it to see who’s calling. Unknown number, again. I’ve been getting more of these calls, but they never leave a message. A chill runs up my spine. I silence it and place it facedown again.
“Is that him?”
I shake my head and pull from my wine glass, then run my finger back and forth along the rim. “No. Unknown number.”
“You need to find out,” she adds.
“Find out who the unknown number is?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“No. Hello! We’re talking about Amaury. You okay?” she inquires, her lips twisting.
