“And that’s how I want it,” I tell him. “I promise, there are arrangements being made as we speak. I am more than willing to negotiate to keep this from going on unnecessarily. I can only hope that Cruz will take it.”
“He’s a bloodsucker,” he says. “If it’s high enough, he’ll take it. Even if it’s not that high, it has to seem high to him. Make it seem like you’re suffering because of the settlement, and he’ll take whatever you give him.”
Another good bit of advice, and it’s not even noon yet on this horrible day. I give Pedro a curious look, wondering how many incidents like this one he’s been involved in. His face gives me nothing, but I feel like his words have given me all I need to know.
Vera has her Spanish class tonight, and for the second week in a row, she thinks she is going to miss it. Yet even though I know we are staying out of trouble and keeping us both safe by staying inside, I know it can’t go on like this.
I had an idea earlier in the day. On the way home, once I lost the paparazzi car that was trailing me, I stopped by a party supply store on the edges of the city. I picked up a few things, and then I came straight home.
Her class starts at seven, and at six o’clock I am reaching into the closet and pulling out the shopping bag. I bring it out to the kitchen where she is leaning against the bar, sipping on a glass of red wine and flipping through a fashion magazine, looking bored.
I wave the bag at her. “Guess what I have?”
She shuts the magazine and looks up at me with dull eyes. “What?”
I grin at her, knowing more than she does, and empty out some of the contents onto the counter. A blond mullet wig and a long black Cher one spill over in glossy strands.
“Role playing?” she asks, her eyes starting to sparkle more.
“Maybe later,” I tell her. “But for now, it’s our way to your Spanish class.”
She takes a moment to consider it. “Wait, what?”
I toss her the long black one which she catches. “You put on that, I put on this. We walk out of the building and I take you straight to class. No one will know it’s us.”
She gives me an unimpressed scowl. “Yeah right they won’t know.”
“They won’t,” I say, and tip out the rest of the bag. There’s an acid wash denim vest and a big black hoodie with the words “Amsterdam High” printed on it. “The beautiful vest is for me, and the classy sweater is for you.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’ll be laughing soon, but I assure you I am not kidding now.” I pick up the mullet and the vest. “You don’t believe me?”
I take off my shirt, slip on the godawful vest, and pull on the wig. When I turn to face Vera, she’s smiling. It’s a pitiful one, brought on because I look like such an idiot, but a smile is a smile and hers are worth millions.
“Oh wow,” she says. “You look pretty hot.”
I nod at the black wig. “Not as hot as you will be, my Estrella.”
She sighs dramatically but still puts on the sweatshirt and plunks the wig on her head. She straightens it, shiny fake pieces falling in her face, and eyes me. “Are you happy now?”
“It’s entirely inappropriate but I’m extremely turned on,” I tell her as I look her up and down. “You look like a very bad girl, caught by the police for stealing a six-pack of beer and a bag of marijuana from someone’s car.”
Her expression becomes seductive. “Well, you know there is nothing inappropriate about being turned on. Not when it comes to me, anyway.”
She comes over to me and wraps her arms around me and the stiff vest.
“You have class,” I tell her, prying her arms off me.
“You can’t tell me what to do.”
“I can and I did,” I say, smacking her on her plump ass. “Now come on.”
“Are we seriously going outside in these?”
I nod. “Very serious. Just for a few blocks, until the photographers are out of sight. Although,” I say, turning to the mirror in the hall and admiring my ridiculous image, “I am growing awfully fond of this look.”
She rolls her eyes and grabs her bag, then slips the hood up over her black hair.
Moments later we head out the front door, big sunglasses on both of our faces. I hunch down a bit, slumping my shoulders forward, masking my normally great posture, and paste a lazy smile on my face. Vera does the same. We don’t look a thing like we normally do—angry and defiant—but even then my heart is racing in my throat, and I am certain we will be found out.
At first their eyes and cameras are all on us, but we are saved by another couple coming toward the building. I know them—Italians, Gio and his blond wife Sophia—and they are just classy enough to distract the cameras. We walk away and are forgotten.
Still, we don’t shed our disguises until we are only a few blocks from the building where she takes her classes. While she goes in, I wait outside, grabbing a cup of coffee at a nearby café until she is done and comes out to join me.
Something about being outside, in the night where the air has dared to drop a few degrees, makes me feel more alive than I have in weeks. I can feel it coming off of Vera too, this energy that for once isn’t formed from chaos and fear. We both have plenty to be afraid of, but as we walk hand in hand down hushed streets, even with our disguises stuffed inside her overflowing bag we feel anonymous and free. It doesn’t mean that we don’t get a few odd looks here and there—we do. People recognize us. But we keep walking as if it doesn’t mean a thing.
Just as Warren had said, we have each other, and that is all we need. Our own little world in our own little solar system in our own little universe. Tonight, we are infinite.
We go to a bar and stay there for hours. We snack on tapas, drink cool sangria, watch people from our dark booth, talk to each other in Spanish. She is improving.
It’s almost a shame to go home, but we both know we must. Tonight has been another Band-Aid, but it’s one that we desperately needed or else we would tear at the seams. It feels impossibly good to have all the worries placed aside for now, locked in a heavy steel box, to only think about enjoying life and each other.
A few minutes from the apartment we don our disguises again, and just a block away, I grab Vera by the waist and pull her into a narrow, empty alley. I spin her around so that she’s pressed up against the stone wall. I kiss her passionately, tucking the synthetic hairs behind her ears. It may not feel like hers, but her soft mouth certainly does.
She reaches for me, one hand tugging at the band of my pants, the other at my neck. In this moment, both of us look like strangers and both of us are free, yet we choose each other.
It’s dirty here in this alley, the wall slick with heat, the ground uneven stone, and we are exposed to the world. But our disguises make me feel safe, and I am driven by the desire of being a wanted man, acting scandalous in plain sight of a city in pursuit.
I bury my lips into her neck, biting, kissing, tasting, and she deftly undoes my belt and unzips my fly. I push her higher up the wall, holding her there, her skirt shoved up around her hips. I take her there, fast and hard, bold and brash. I drive myself in deep, feeling every inch of her, and I am so completely enveloped by her hot tight hold that my eyes roll back in my head. I feel like we’re giving the proverbial finger to the world, proving in our own way that it can’t keep us down, that we can handle whatever comes our way. It’s always more than just sex when it comes to us, and this time is no exception.
After we’ve both come, she slides down to her feet and falls into my arms. I hold her tight, regaining my composure, and it takes me a moment to realize where we are and where we have to go.
“There’s nothing like a little bit of role playing,” she jokes as she pulls away from me, her wig askew.
I smile, but inwardly I disagree. That wasn’t role playing at all.
We straighten ourselves out and head to the apartment. There are only three photographers outside now—the rest must have given up—and I d
on’t see Carlos among them. I avoid eye contact, and it’s only just as we are walking in through the door that I see a flashbulb go off and hear someone yell, “Mr. Casalles!”
But it’s too late. We are safe inside, and they only have a picture of the back of my head. It means we can’t use these disguises again, but for just the one night together, it was worth it.
Chapter Nine
It was weird The photo of us—me as the redneck and Vera as a Goth queen—is shown in a lesser tabloid the next day, but aside from that there isn’t much else to report. On Thursday I get a call from my lawyer, and for once it’s good news. It seems as if Mr. Cruz is more than willing to settle out of court. It was probably his plan all along, although I make it clear that if this does happen, he has to promise never to take another photograph or write another article about me or my family again. My lawyer seems to think that won’t be a dealbreaker, but I don’t dare share his optimism. This month has turned me into a hardened man.
“Baby,” I hear Vera purr from beside me. I groan and look at the mahogany clock on the bedside table. It’s almost eight a.m. Usually Friday mornings start a little slow, but today I was hoping to get into work early so that I could leave just after lunch. Vera and I have weekend plans to visit San Sebastian on the north coast, and I’m hoping I can convince Isabel to let us take Chloe Ann with us. I think the refreshing waves of the Atlantic will be like a tonic to our overwrought souls, something to recharge us again. Normally we would take advantage of the condo in Barcelona, but we both know what happened the last time we were there.
I swear in Spanish and quickly roll out of bed. Vera is propped up under the sheets looking like the most irresistible seductress. It’s a real pity that I can’t stay a few moments longer and enjoy her but it’s all about little sacrifices for the greater good.
On my way to the office I try Isabel’s phone, hoping to ask about Chloe Ann, but I just get her voicemail. I text her instead and then stop by a corner store to pick up a quick coffee and a handful of gossip magazines. I know it looks ridiculous—a businessman buying these shit stories—but it’s almost become a daily ritual for me.
I drive to the stadium and get there with a few minutes to spare. I sit in the SUV, sip my coffee, and then quickly peruse them.
What I see in the first magazine I pick up, on the first page, makes my blood ice over.
The headline boldly states: The Truth About Mateo Casalles.
It is not written by Carlos Cruz; instead it’s by some woman in a smaller magazine called Caliente. There are no new photos to accompany the story, just one of me cheering after scoring a goal for Atlético, one of me and Isabel leaving my old restaurant, and one of me and Vera kissing on the street, probably taken a year ago.
The photos aren’t the focus of the article at any rate. The focus is the lies.
The whole article is about someone, an anonymous source who is apparently close to me, who says they have the whole truth about the situation.
And the scary, terrible, disturbing fact of the matter is—they do know something. Most of what they say is outright lies—like I’ve cheated on Isabel before, that I got out of the restaurant business because it was going bankrupt—but there are some truths.
It’s the truth that is the most damaging.
It is the truth about Vera.
The article explains how the “anonymous” source had suspicions about her, thinking she was nothing more than a “Canadian refugee,” and looked into her situation. She was able to obtain that Vera was in the country thanks to a work permit through Las Palabras, but she had been recently fired, and would have to leave the country soon or risk deportation.
I don’t panic. I don’t lose it. I merely drive the car away from the stadium and head straight to Isabel’s. I don’t care about work. I don’t honk at the traffic. It’s like I’m purely on auto-pilot now, heading toward the only place I know that I can get answers.
I don’t know what I’m going to say or what I’m going to do. Because of this source, someone I know that’s related to Isabel if not Isabel herself, Vera can no longer hide until January. She will have to leave. Unless she finds a new job and new sponsorship in a week—and she hasn’t really been looking since we’ve been under house arrest—she is gone.
It is the worst case scenario and it is real.
I pull the car up to the house and run to the door. This time I don’t knock, and as I barge in the unlocked house, I see dear Chloe Ann, dressed in all pink and watching TV.
“Daddy!” she cries out, and runs over to give me a hug.
“Hello, my darling,” I tell her, and squeeze her tighter than ever.
“Are you here to play with me?” she asks.
“I wish I was,” I say. “I can’t stay long, and I have to speak with your mother. How about you go up to your room for a little bit?”
“Why?”
I look at her with pleading eyes. “Please, Chloe Ann,” I implore just as Isabel comes out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. She does not seem surprised to see me.
“Mama,” Chloe Ann says, looking to her.
Isabel hesitates then nods. “Go to your room now. This will only take a moment.”
Like hell it will.
Chloe Ann pouts but runs up the stairs to her room anyway. When we hear the door shut, Isabel turns to face me.
“What do you want, Mateo?”
“What do you think? How about we cut the charades and you tell me exactly what I read today in Caliente.” I’m so angry that I’m shocked I’m able to form words, to sound so cool and collected. I feel anything but.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she says, and turns, walking into the kitchen.
I follow, undeterred. “You do. Was it you? Are you feeling guilty that you have to lie about it to me? Haven’t you lied enough already?”
She stares at me, face expressionless, and I continue. “I can read the article out loud to you if you want, but I know you’ve already read it. So who was it? You? Are you that desperate to get me?”
When she still doesn’t say anything, I can’t help but raise my voice. “Answer me!” I demand. “Tell me who spread the lies, who talked?”
She tosses the towel on the counter then turns around, leaning back against it, and folds her arms. The kitchen gleams beside her, as sterile as she is. Finally she says, “I didn’t see any lies. Especially not about Vera. That was all the truth—isn’t it?”
“Who did it?” I repeat.
“Why does it matter?”
“Was it you?”
“I wish it was,” she says snidely. “But I didn’t want to be the one to stoop to your level.”
"I defended you!" I cry out, suddenly overwhelmed by the rage burning through me, making my skin hot, seared, inflamed.
She gives me an incredulous look and brushes her blonde hair behind her ears in such a slow, easy manner that it only fuels my inner fire. "When have you ever defended me?" she says.
My mouth opens. Closes. She's trying to discredit our whole marriage; she's trying to put the noose around my neck and pull me into years of hidden wars and secret tallies and a million cards held close to the chest. I can't go down that path; I'll never get out alive.
I suck in my breath and try to control my temper. She's provoking me. She's doing a good job, she always has. "In the lobby of my apartment," I tell her, hoping that the emphasis on my burns like a pepper. "You went after Vera—spat on her. You were about to fight her. I defended you when she fought back."
Her eyes narrow, and I see it was a mistake to say this; it was a mistake to defend her. "And why did you defend me?"
"Because you're the mother of my child," I tell her. "Because you were still family. Because I was at fault, Vera was at fault, and you had every right to be upset. I defended you because I thought it was the right thing to do."
"And now?" she asks breezily, her penciled brow cocked.
My jaw feels so tense I have
to wiggle it back and forth before I can even answer. "Now I wish I hadn't. You’ll no longer get any sympathy from me, and I will no longer feel guilty for what I did."
Her upper lip curls, about to shoot something venomous my way, but I raise my hand in the air to stop her and take a step forward. "Don't let what I did make you this person. Don't let your fucking family think you belong at their level."
Isabel's face is the blank face of a glacier. Cold, impassive, smooth, and with miles buried underneath. "You should be nicer to me, Mateo. I already told you that before, didn’t I?" There is nothing but threat in her voice, and it isn't empty.
"Getting Vera deported isn't going to stop anything," I tell her. "It won't bring you and I back together. It won't stop me from loving her."
At that, she lets out a derisive snort. "This was never about love, Mateo."
"If you had ever loved me, you would understand."
My words hang between us like smoke in a dirty bar. I don't need to hear that she loved me, that our marriage wasn't just a sham for the wrong reasons, that she once believed I was her world. I don't need to hear it, but I want to hear it. I want to know that my life before this wasn't a lie, I want to know that Chloe Ann was conceived out of love.
"I never loved you," she says, and those words join the others until it's all I can do to breathe.
But it's fine. "Well, I did love you, Isabel."
"And then it just stopped."
I nod. "Sometimes love just stops," I say. "Sometimes it needs to be fed."
I hope I'm getting through to her. I'm being as sincere as I can while trying to control my temper, the helpless rage that has its hold. I don't think I was ever so open during our marriage. But I can see the ice in her eyes, the strain on her lips. She's not taking it in. She's not listening.
"All that needed feeding was your dick," she says. "So you pushed me aside for someone who would do it, someone younger, trashier. You thought it would be fun to get with some diseased whore. Let's really stick it to Isabel."