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Even if I thought I was.
Manuel knew about Cynthia. He knew that we were abducted on our walk home from school and that I got free. He knew that she and I decided I’d run for help and come back for her. He also knew that by the time I found my way out of the forest and reached help, Cynthia was already dead.
He licked my wounds, figuratively speaking. He made me feel like I wasn’t the monster this entire city believed I was. The headlines were nothing more than attention seeking media outlets looking to make a buck off the tragedy that I lived through.
The barista clears her throat and I’m pulled back into the present. My eyes linger on the perfectly stocked, aesthetically pleasing shelves filled with coffee mugs and tumblers.
“Hi! I’m Kassie! What can I getcha today?”
Kassie looks nice. She’s overly eager but I don’t think I’ve ever encountered an employee here that isn’t.
I order a chai tea latte, feeling less Puerto Rican and more basic white bitch but tis’ the season.
Two girls sit at a small table across from mine and I can overhear their conversation. They laugh under their breath as the premium roast coffee beans are being crushed in the background. The smell of coffee might be my favorite scent in the world. It’s refreshing and dark at the same time. The perfect mixture.
“You can’t sit around waiting on Jesse for the rest of your life,” one of the girls says to the other. They probably aren’t older than fifteen or sixteen. Their moms may have dropped them off here, but listen to her talk like she’s smarter than me.
Because I know I won’t ever be with Manuel again but I can’t stop myself from wondering what would happen if we tried to repair the shattered pieces of our relationship. Not that he’s trying. He called me twice and showed up at my parents’ once. He’s dating the same woman he was fucking in our bed. It’s almost unbelievable. Like I’m living in a simulation. He’s the one who fucked up, fucked her, and I’m the one who is left cowering into myself three months later.
It hurts.
I’m so tired of it hurting.
FOUR
Isla
SIX MONTHS-POST HEARTBREAK
When I walk into The Vinyl Kitty, my favorite record shop, I immediately see him. Bells chime overhead and alert him of my presence. He’s doing something behind the counter and has to peer around it to greet me.
I’m not starstruck like the screaming women outside are—the ones pounding on the floor-to-ceiling windows, hoping to get his attention. I’ve never felt like rockstars were gods to be worshipped. Now that I’m standing in front of one of this country’s biggest celebrities though, I realize this particular guy looks a hundred times better in person than on the magazine and record covers.
Which feels almost unbelievable, even if I’m the one feeling it. Because Bordeaux Daniels is drop dead gorgeous in print. In person, however, he’s otherworldly. I walk up to him, making sure he thinks I’m totally unaffected by stumbling into Reckless Desires’ lead singer on a random weekday afternoon.
“Hi, I’m Isla,” I say, watching as Bordeaux stands, a look of recognition crossing his face. It feels weird to be recognized by someone famous. Even if it’s only by my name.
“You’re Isla Robles?” Bordeaux takes my hand in his, shakes it, and drops it quickly.
I nod because yes, I am in fact Isla Robles. The person he called less than an hour ago to come in for an interview. “Yep,” I say, looking around the shop. It’s been awhile since I’ve been in and everything looks the same, which feels comforting. Like I have a false sense of an edge up.
For the first time since I’ve walked in, I hear the music floating through the speakers in the shop. A raspy voice I don’t know—which is odd considering I like to think of myself as a pro when it comes to all things music—sings about getting lost witha woman like you.
“I’m going to ask you a few questions. We can sit over here,” Bordeaux says without introducing himself.
He probably thinks he needs no introduction and if I’m being honest, he doesn’t. He motions to a window seat area; the only spot in the small shop that looks semi-conducive for holding an interview.
My nerves hit me suddenly, like a freight train colliding with an unsuspecting car. I don’t usually get nervous. Not about things like this, things I know like the back of my hand. Ask me a song, aside from the one playing right now, and I’ll probably know the artist. Tell me to name the original members of any bands from Metallica to Destiny’s Child. I’m your girl. But right now, as hard as I’m trying to play it cool, I’m slowly unraveling.
“Hold on just one sec,” Bordeaux flicks a finger up and looks down at his phone, “I need to answer this text.”
I don’t mind. Usually I’d find something like this rude as hell but this gives me time to both calm my pesky nerves and take him in.
Honestly, he looks airbrushed.
I’m going to attribute this to the fact that Bordeaux Daniels can probably afford to hire people to custom make his skincare products. I don’t see a single pimple or blackhead, not even a mark on his face is less than perfect. I discreetly allow my eyes to trail the length of his body, looking at his tanned skin and rippling muscles. He’s wearing a white V-neck shirt that looks ordinary but was probably imported from Switzerland. His jeans are midnight denim, distressed and tattered. His knee peeks out from a hole with frayed fringe.
He thumbs away on his phone, his brows etched inward. The way his hair is long on top and buzzed short on the sides seems to fit the type of man he portrays himself to be in the media. A bad boy, a rockstar, a take-no-shit kind of man. He’s trendy without being douchey and even though all men are straight from the devil himself, I can appreciate this about him. He sits on a stool that he’s pulled up next to the window seat and bends one leg so his foot is positioned on a rung beneath him; his other legs juts out and he’s easily over six feet to my five-two on a good day.
