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Isla
I cannot believe I went to that interview wearing this damn dress. Somehow I scored the job, and I hope it was because they saw something inside of me they liked; not just liked what they saw—or rather, didn’t see—on the outside.
Bordeaux was interesting. I allow my mind to wander as it attempts to make sense of my feelings. Of course I know who he is. Bordeaux Daniels, a regular guy who was thrust into the limelight after a talent scout heard his band play at Iconic, the music venue above the record shop, a few years ago. He’s the lead singer for Reckless Desires, and is probably on the bedroom wall of every woman from preteen all the way through midlife-crisis. What I didn’t know is that he was the owner of the panty-dropping voice inviting me in for an interview at The Vinyl Kitty. I didn’t even know Frankie, the owner, was a grandmother to a famous rockstar.
The way his eyes locked with mine sent electric shocks up and down my spine, though I’m not sure what the hell that means because that has never happened before. Not even with Manuel, who was the love of my life.
My favorite part of the entire interview was the look of surprise when I didn’t freak out over him like he was some piece of man meat to devour. I’m assuming that’s what he expects any woman in close proximity to do. I tried my best to ignore the feeling in my chest when I looked at him. I don’t want that feeling. I don’t. But it was instant. The moment I looked into those eyes of his.
Bordeaux is very, very far from the type of man that I would normally gravitate toward. I’ve never been into the bad boy type of guy. And Bordeaux definitely has the bad boy thing going on. His shirtless body is what sells his band’s records. I mean, their music is decent enough for what it is, but his body is definitely the focal point for their marketing team.
I don’t want to sit here, daydreaming about him, but that’s exactly what I find myself doing.
His handshake was firm but fleeting, and I couldn’t help but notice how tall he was in comparison to me. He towered over me so much so that I had to slightly turn my neck up to meet his eyes with mine. And his eyes. They’re a whole other story. I am fully convinced that sparkling blue ocean waves are locked inside his almond shaped eyes. The very first thing I noticed about him, despite the black ink that decorated his skin, were those eyes. They pulled me in and I had to fight, beg for them to let me go.
I don’t remember having such a disgustingly magnetic, visceral reaction to a man ever before. And that tells me all I need to know; steer clear, girlfriend. If there’s one thing I don’t need to do, it’s fall for a goddamn rockstar.
Bordeaux is an ungodly attractive man, but he isn’t the man for me. I’m supposed to marry someone with a college education, something I assume he doesn’t have since he was whisked into the whole instant-stardom thing. I’ve only dated clean cut guys, the kind that bring my mother flowers and walk me to the door after dates to the movies. Guys who ask to kiss me and definitely do not have their skin decked out with art. I also haven’t ever dated a man with muscles like his, either.
He’s definitely something else.
I realize I’m judging him, and hard. I don’t know this guy and I have no idea why I’m trying to convince myself that he’s no good. My conscience sounds more and more like my mother every single day.
I try to think about what my therapist would say if I told her all of this in a session. She’d probably tell me that I’m trying to protect myself. That I don’t want to let myself fawn all over him because what if I actually have a connection with a rockstar and get my heart broken?
Jesus.Reel it in, girl. You met him once and he didn’t seem to reciprocate the electric sparks you felt.
“Guess who just got a job at The Vinyl Kitty?!” I allow myself a flicker of happiness before my mother stomps it out with her harsh tone.
“The Vinyl Kitty sounds like a sex shop,” my mom says, and I laugh so hard I snort and then laugh even harder.
Once I calm myself down I say, “You know very well it’s a record shop, Mami.”
A letter sits on top of a stack of mail on the table and my eyes narrow when I see it. The stamp is a wedding bell and the envelope shines with an opalescent shimmer.
My eyes scan the words on the envelope and my heart sinks so far into my stomach I feel sick.
The return address label. Manuel.
There’s no fucking way.
My mom pushes the annoyingly, eye-catching glittery envelope in front of me, her eyes not meeting mine at the kitchen table, and a flood of tears pool in my eyes. I press shaking fingertips to the paper, running it along the swoopy black letters. I slide the cardstock out, carefully, like it’s a bomb, and really, it is. A ticking time bomb that I knew was coming. I just didn’t think it would be here so soon.
You Are Cordially Invited…
To the wedding of
Manuel Rodriguez
&
Emilia Castillo
I don’t bother continuing, not needing to dig the knife into my chest any deeper. The damage is done. I drop the invitation back onto the table and push it toward my mother.
“Did you know about this?” I ask her, forcing the tears back as they sting the corners of my eyes, not allowing her to see me upset. Our families are undeniably close; his parents and mine have been friends for decades. They were the reason we were pushed together in the first place.
“I had a small idea, yes.” She thumbs at the invitation instead of looking at me.
