Page 65 of Cava with My Colleague

“His name is Fernando,” I start. “He just turned thirty and works in graphic design. His wife is Diana—the woman you saw me with. They have a daughter, Carmencita. She’s eight months old.”

I pull out my phone, find the pictures. Jade shifts slightly closer so she can see the screen. Not touching, but closer than we’ve been in days.

I show her the photos—Carmencita in the chest carrier, Carmencita with Izan, the family photo from Retiro Park.

“She’s beautiful,” Jade says softly. “They all look so happy.”

“They are.” I scroll to another photo—Fernando and Diana laughing at something off-camera. “Fernando is . . . he’s the best thing I’ve ever done. Him and his family, they’re my whole world.”

“What about his mother?” Jade asks carefully.

I turn the phone off and set it on the floor between us. “She passed away years ago. Ovarian cancer.”

A beat of understanding passes between us. For both of us, our job is about more than a paycheck or the research. “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you. It’s one of the reasons I got into this position. I worked for a car manufacturer before, but with everything I learned while Marisol was in treatment . . . Anyway, we had an . . .” I search for the right words. I’ve never had to explain this to someone, and that thought makes me shift. “Unconventional marriage.”

Jade waits, not pushing, just listening.

“Spain was still recovering from Franco when we were young. My wife—her name was Marisol—her father was an MP with the Partido Popular. Very conservative. Very Catholic. Very anti-gay.”

Jade frowns.

“I loved her—she was my best friend. So we married. By the time Fernando was born, Marisol’s relationship with her father had deteriorated. We moved to Chueca. The neighborhood was rough then—crime, drugs, poverty. But without her father’s money, it was what we could afford. And it was the best thing we ever did.”

Jade hugs her knees, all of her attention on me, on the rusty memories I’m dredging up.

“Marisol was a lesbian.” Jade’s eyebrows raise. “It was . . . hard,” I admit. “We weren’t . . . in love. Not like that. But we loved each other.”

“That must have been difficult.”

“It was complicated,” I agree. I pause. “Eventually, Chueca changed. Grew. And Marisol changed too. She was able to discover herself, to live authentically. We stayed married, stayed a family. But she had her life, I had mine.”

“And yours?” Jade asks.

The question is simple. The answer is more complicated.

“Fernando,” I say. “Work. The neighborhood.” I pause. “There were a few years early on—after we’d settled into what we were—where I thought perhaps I would find someone. Someone for me. But I’m not . . .” I consider the right way to say this. “I’m not a person who feels things quickly. I need to know someone before anything else happens. Getting to know someone takes time I didn’t always have, and was an investment I wasn’t always sure I wanted to give.”

The truth of it, when I say it out loud, is that Marisol had found her world and I had slowly, quietly, stopped looking for mine.

“So no,” I say. “There wasn’t anyone else. Not really.”

“That’s actually beautiful,” Jade says quietly. “That you gave her that space. That you built a family together anyway.”

“It was complicated,” I repeat. “My whole life has been complicated. The marriage, the neighborhood, raising Fernando through all of it. The uncertainty. The constant adaptation.”

I look at her directly now. “And now it’s not. Now it’s simple. Settled. I have Fernando, Diana, and Carmencita. Saturday dinners at my apartment. Park walks with Izan. My routine.”

The words feel rehearsed even though they’re not. Like I’m convincing myself as much as her.

“I’m fifty-six, Jade. I’ve had a complicated relationship. The uncertainty. The upheaval.”

Her face shutters at my certainty. She’s younger than me by sixteen years. She’s American. Our lives have been very different—and still are.

“I’m happy with my life,” I say, and the words sit heavy between us.

She’s quiet for a long moment. Won’t meet my eyes.