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“Yes,” she says without thinking. “Dinner would be amazing. I would really appreciate the company.” The words are out of her mouth before she knows what she’s saying or doing. Dinner with Diego. Of course she’s going to have dinner with Diego. It was always going to happen, because when you watch a man hungrily for months on end, he notices. And if he’s interested, he rises to the occasion and asks you out. Which is exactly what is happening right now.
Diego looks pleased. He smiles widely and stands up tall. “Perfect. How about if I swing by here to get you at closing time?” He pulls his phone from his pocket and checks the time. “Also known as seven hours and forty-three minutes from now.”
Athena laughs and pats her curly hair nervously. “I’ll be ready,” she says, already plotting how quickly she can make it back to her apartment during her lunch break to grab cuter shoes, a bag of makeup to touch up her face at the end of the day, and some perfume to spritz on and cover up the wilted, stagnant smell of the library that seems to cling to her every day.
Diego gives her a nod and a smile and goes on his way, and Athena picks up her phone to set one of those countdown timers. She titles itDinner with Diegoand smiles as she sees that they’re now at seven hours and forty minutes even. Seven hours and forty minutes until she gets to sit across from Diego, sip a glass of wine, and get to know him better.
Athena spends a good part of the morning Googling Diego and browsing his social media accounts. His Twitter reveals that he’s fairly liberal (but not too); his Facebook account doesn’t have much but a handful of friends who appear to be family (because people their age aren’t too excited about the platform, but most given in grudgingly and sign up for an account); and his Instagram is public and is entirely comprised of pictures of him running marathons, waxing poetic about trees after the rain (with accompanying photos), and a handful of pictures of his dog, Chester. He hasn’t posted on there in almost two years, but surely the pandemic killed a lot of people’s desire when it comes to sharing photos of daily life.
With every photo and every blurb she finds online about Diego (apparently he was a chess champion in high school in Trenton, and his family owns a food truck that’s extremely popular there—this tidbit is accompanied by a picture of a young, fresh-faced Diego that makes Athena nearly squeal with joy), she gets more excited.
When she finally closes out all of her search tabs and opens her email, she glances at her timed countdown toDinner with Diego: only five hours and twenty-six minutes to go.
* * *
Athena is still at her computer at five-thirty, waiting impatiently for Diego to stop by and pick her up, but trying to look like she got so busy working on something that she lost track of time. She’d run home at lunch and changed her underwear from white cotton to black satin (hey, a girl should at leastfeellike she has the potential to be a vixen, even if deep down she has no clue whether a vixen would choose black satin or opt for no panties at all), and while there, she’d grabbed her deodorant, the small bottle of Lancôme that she dabs behind her ears and in the hollow of her neck each morning, and a collection of makeup and brushes so that she could reconstruct her morning face.
“Hey,” Diego says, breezing in and looking as fresh as he had that morning. Athena is sure that he didn’t run home at lunch, and instead just looks and smells this heavenly all the time. “Ready?”
She locks her computer and stands up, grabbing her purse but leaving her makeup bag locked in the drawer. She’ll just slip in tomorrow morning and put on her makeup and deodorant before anyone sees her.
Athena turns off the office light and follows Diego. Her stomach is a shaken bottle of soda, and she’s having a hard time finding words, so she starts with, “So, how was your day?” as they step into the elevator and Diego punches the button for the bottom floor.
"I was counting down the hours until we got to hang out," Diego says with a nervous laugh, stepping back so that they're shoulder to shoulder in the elevator.
Athena can feel sweat forming on the back of her neck. "Me too," she admits, turning to look up at him. "So where do you want to go?"
"How do you feel about Mexican food?"
"Love it," she says with relief, glad that they aren't going to play the "What do you want? No, what doyouwant?" game.
"Awesome. I picked a place close by that my family loves. Are you into spicy food?"
They walk down the rainy street together, both a little shy as the conversation bounces back and forth between them. Mercifully, the sky has stopped pouring buckets, and now they're just dodging puddles and waiting for the walk signals under a gray sky.
"I'm good with spicy food," Athena says, tucking her hair behind one ear as she looks up at him playfully. "Or is that supposed to be a joke because I'm a white girl?"
Diego laughs, throwing back his head and showing a set of perfect teeth. "Nah, I just thought it was polite to ask before I take you somewhere and order a salsa so spicy that it burns your esophagus. But now that you mention it, I hadn't even noticed that you were white."
Athena bumps him playfully with her elbow and suddenly her nerves fade away. She's walking next to Diego Santana. They're about to have dinner together. He's teasing her. Athena hates to even admit it to herself, but for a second, it's like nothing horrible has ever happened--her dad is still alive, he never cheated on her mom with some weird and mysterious French lady, and Harlow was never caught in a shooting in New York--the only thing that matters is the happy feeling she hasright nowas Diego reaches down and slips her hand into his while they cross a busy street together.
The restaurant, El Paraguas, is a cozy place tucked in between a bookstore and a dry cleaner. As soon as they walk in, Athena is charmed by the open umbrellas that hang from the ceiling. A hostess seats them under a yellow umbrella covered in pink polka dots.
"Paraguasis Spanish for umbrella," Diego says with a smile, watching as she looks around at all of the different colors and patterns. “But that’s just in case you didn't know. I'm not trying to be a mansplainer." He takes the menu offered by the hostess with a nod of thanks.
“I never took you for a mansplainer.” Athena skims the margaritas on the front page of the menu and decides on a frozen strawberry one, brain freeze be damned. “Are you fluent in Spanish?”
“I grew up speaking only Spanish at home. When I got to kindergarten, I had my work cut out for me, but kids adapt, you know?”
Athena nods as the waitress stops at their table. They order drinks and Diego asks if she minds him ordering for both of them. She assures him that she’s fine with anything, so he orders mole and tacos al pastor for them, and a boy in a black apron and a white shirt sweeps by and delivers a basket of warm tortilla chips and fresh pico de gallo to eat with their margaritas.
Dinner goes well, and the conversation is easy. The margaritas don’t hurt things, as Athena is always better when she’s relaxed, and by the end of the meal (two margaritas for her, and three for Diego), they’re both laughing and talking like old friends. Diego helps her on with her coat after he pays the bill, and she loops her arm through his without even asking, leaning on him just slightly as they weave through the wooden tables beneath what must be fifty colorful umbrellas.
Athena isn’t even sure how they end up at his place, but they do. She isn’t impaired enough not to remember Diego’s hand sliding up her inner thigh in the back of the Uber, and she certainly remembers the way he turned to her and kissed her full on the mouth, his tongue salty and sweet after the tortilla chips and margaritas. The Uber driver was polite enough to keep driving without so much as a glance at them in the rearview mirror, and when he dropped them off, all he said was, “Y’all have a good night now.”
When Athena finally parts the fog of lust that’s taken over her entire being, she realizes that Diego is unzipping the back of her flowered dress and sliding it off her shoulders as they stand in his bedroom.
Do I want this?she thinks as his lips cover her neck, her collarbone, her earlobes.Of course I want this. I’m twenty-three years old. If not now, when?Her arms come free of the dress and it slides over her torso, leaving her standing there in just a black lace bra.
