The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club (13 page)

My mom has always said it’s best to expect the worst. That way you’re rarely disappointed and often pleasantly surprised. “Better that than vice versa,” I can still hear her saying to me through my bedroom door two days before junior prom. My first high school boyfriend, Tommy Hayes, had just unceremoniously dumped me by proxy. His buddy Cam called me, said, “Tommy doesn’t want to go to the prom with you anymore. Sorry,” and hung up. Determined not to miss my prom—I had spent three weeks looking for a dress in the exact soft pink to complement the beginnings of a spring tan—I third-wheeled it with my best friend, Monica, and her date. Then I spent the whole night sitting at a table, trying to pretend that I wasn’t crying, while I watched Tommy ram his tongue down Angela Patterson’s throat. Truthfully, I didn’t much care whose throat Tommy rammed his tongue down (he was a sloppy kisser). It wasn’t the loss of a boyfriend that bothered me, either—I had begun to realize that the conversational expertise of high school boys was limited to NBA scores and how much they could bench-press. It was the loss of the perfect junior prom night I’d been imagining since the eighth grade that had me in tears.

By the time Monica’s dad dropped me back home, I was a mess of mascara. “What did I tell you?” my mom started in again with a misguided attempt to console me. “Expect the worst, and you’ll rarely be disappointed.” I looked up at her through my tears and, for the first time, saw her for the unhappy woman she was. She complained constantly, rarely smiled without the aid of a glass of wine. Had she always been this way? I had memories of her laughing, but they were few and far between. I promised myself right then and there that I would never be like her. If I couldn’t expect the best from other people, I would manage my own actions, keep my own feelings in tight check, carefully control the few things I could. The Plan was not the only wall I built to protect myself from future disappointment, but it was a formidable one. Until Jeff came along with his Trojan horse of empty promises. And then Lauren with her wrecking ball hidden inside a cello case.

Still, I refuse to expect the worst. I won’t become a miserable woman who forgets how to smile. No, this way is better. Not low expectations, but no expectations at all. Tear down the walls, put down the drawbridge, open the doors. Whatever happens, happens. This will be my new mantra.

When I open my eyes, Andrea’s gone, and the garden is in shade. I dig my watch from my pocket. Eight o’clock! All that careful preparation, and now I’m going to be rushing to get ready.

I zip upstairs, jump in the shower—no time for my usual predate bubble bath—and forgo curling my hair in favor of a quick updo. All the rushing has my hand shaking while I put on eyeliner. A few sips of wine later, I’m feeling much calmer. It’s almost nine. I slip into my new red dress and strappy black shoes and take a turn in the full-length mirror to make sure everything’s in the right place. It’s a bit cool outside, but I don’t want to ruin the look with a jacket. Stud earrings and silver bracelet, and I’m as ready as ready gets.

By 9:10, my updo is starting to wilt. I fortify it with a couple more bobby pins and another sweep of hair spray. I fortify myself with more wine. By 9:20, I’m beginning to worry. Did he forget where I live? He’s been here only once. Did he knock at the front door and get no answer? I could wait downstairs, but I don’t want to look too eager. If I had his phone number . . . How is it that I don’t have his phone number? Oh, God, I don’t even know Antonio’s last name. What in the world am I doing? In Seattle, I wouldn’t have given a guy a second thought before I’d committed his entire résumé to memory. What happens, happens? Have I completely lost my mind?

I am saved from myself by a knock on my door. “Coming,” I call out, taking one last look in the mirror. I have to admit, I look spectacular. The wine has clearly not hurt my self-confidence.

“Antonio!” I open the door, trying to pout adorably but unable to stop a wide, toothy smile from spreading across my face.

“Uh, hi.” Not Antonio. Mateo. The timing couldn’t be worse. He looks me up and down quickly. I can only imagine what judgment he’s passing on this silly American woman now. My smile deflates instantly into a flat line, my confidence flying out the window. I sense the imminent return of the mumbling mess who answered this door on that first day in airplane clothes, smudged makeup, and bedhead. But before I can say a single inarticulate word, Mateo beats me to it.

“I, sorry, I just, well, Andrea, she wanted me to, she said there’s something wrong with the uh . . .” He takes a step back and stares at his toolbox, shuffles his feet like a little boy. Once again I’m reminded of how charming and solicitous he was the day he met Zoey; with me, it’s always awkward silences and avoiding eyes.

“Bathroom sink?”

He looks up at me again, his eyes huge green saucers, then looks away. Is it possible that I’m making him nervous?

“Right, bathroom sink.”

“Well, it’s dripping a bit, but it’s no big deal.”

“Oh.” He looks at his toolbox again. We stand there not speaking, too long for comfort.

“But thanks,” I add. “If you have time to fix it, I’d really appreciate it.”

He looks at me again, this time with a small smile. “I don’t want to interrupt you.” His English is indeed flawless: only the slightest accent, just enough of the exotic to disarm a gal if she weren’t being careful.

“You’re not,” I say as breezily as possible. “I’m on my way out.” I hope, I pray. Please let me be on my way out.

“Oh. Sure. Of course you are.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” My dress is beginning to feel too red, my heels too high. I cross my arms over my chest.

“Just that you look very . . . nice.” This time when he looks at me, he smiles widely, that smile he gave Zoey. The smooth skin around his eyes crinkles softly when he smiles like this, I notice.

“Oh.”

He picks up the toolbox, his arm flexing in a not unpleasing way, and I step aside to let him enter. He turns his body to pass, and for half a second, we are inches apart. I fix my gaze safely on his suntanned neck as he moves in front of me. His scent, spicy aftershave and soap and fresh sweat, trails behind him. Wasn’t I waiting for someone?

After an extensive examination of my dripping pipes, Mateo spreads his tools on the bathroom floor and sets to work. I sit on the edge of my bed and pretend to read a magazine that I’ve read a dozen times. I’ve never dated anyone blue-collar—didn’t exactly fit into the plan. Studying Mateo’s hands wrench, twist, pull, and push the various parts in and out of place, I realize I may have been too hasty.

“How long have you been doing this?” I ask. He looks startled by my voice. “Fixing things, I mean.”

“I don’t, really. But I told Martin that I’d watch out for Andrea when he’s not here. So . . .”

“Oh. Sorry. I just assumed you did this kind of thing for a living.”

“You do a lot of assuming.” A stab at me for assuming he didn’t speak English. Somewhat earned, I suppose. But then he smiles—that devilish smile again—and all is forgiven.

“So what do you do? For a living.”

Mateo looks down, shifts from one knee to another, twiddles with a short tool with multiple handles.

“I’m sorry. Is that too personal? The guidebooks say that Buenos Airians like to talk about themselves, so I didn’t think—”

“
Porteños.
”

“Poor what?”

“
Porteños.
That’s what people from Buenos Aires are called.”

“Port town. I get it.”

“That’s right.” Mateo smiles again warmly before turning to slot a new bit of pipe in place. He tightens it, runs the water, and checks for leaks. “Well, that should do it.”

“Oh.” Suddenly, I don’t want him to go. Is it possible we’re becoming friends? Or something? “Great. Thanks.”

He packs up his tools and walks to the door. He looks me up and down again. “I hope I haven’t kept you too long.”

“No, not at all.”

“It must be a fancy place.”

“Where?”

“Wherever you’re going in that dress.” I look down at myself. Antonio. I’d forgotten all about him. But then he seems to have forgotten all about me, too. I open the door for Mateo. “I’m not sure I’m going anywhere.”

“Oh?” Mateo’s eyes go wide, his brows lift. He leans in toward me, one hand against the door frame. “Because if you’re looking for something to do tonight—” He’s cut off by loud knocking from below.

“Cassandra?
Hola,
Cassandra. This is Antonio.”

“Antonio,” I call down. “Just one minute. I’m sorry, what were you saying?” I need Mateo to finish that sentence.

“Not important. Have a nice night.” Before I can say a word, Mateo squeezes past me and disappears down the stairs. I can hear the gate unlocking, muffled voices, and my heart pounding in my ears. What was he going to say? If I was looking for something to do tonight,
what
? And why does he care? Am I kidding myself? He was just being nice, right? He probably felt sorry for me. Poor clueless American, all dressed up and no place to go. Ugh. Please don’t let it be that. Anything but that. I will die right now if he feels sorry for me.

“
Hola,
Cassandra. Where is my beautiful Cassandra?”

“Coming, Antonio,” I call down the stairwell. I shake my head and smile to myself. Why am I wasting my energy on Mateo? Mateo who runs hot and cold. I have gorgeous, sweet Antonio waiting for me. So what if Romeo is a little late? Tonight I am Juliet.

CHAPTER EIGHT

People, it’s like the whole world is spinning out of control— and I love it! In Seattle, a wild night on the town meant warm-up cocktails at home, dancing at a club, and maybe a late-night snack before heading home around two
A.M.
Here, they don’t even go out until well past midnight. Last night A met me and Zoey at the club with a couple of friends, and we all danced for hours, stopping only to get a drink or bottle of water. After, A walked me home, and along the way we found a park bench and started making out like teenagers. (Before you judge me, you should know that we weren’t alone—in the early hours, the streets of Buenos Aires fill up with young couples who, as A explained, generally live with their parents until they’re married, so they have nowhere else to go.) Anyway, I was so tired by the time we reached the yellow house, I insisted he go home. He gave me an adorable disappointed puppy-dog look and left me at the door. I slipped inside quietly, but there was Andrea already up and about, with Jorge under one arm and a squirming dog under the other. M was right behind them, carrying his ubiquitous tool belt. (Is it wrong that for a brief moment I wondered how exactly one gets a thing like that off?)

My lips were still stung raw from kissing, my shirt unbuttoned a bit more than it had been when I’d left the house. I flushed with embarrassment, like a schoolgirl. I thought Andrea would get all maternal and disapproving on me. Instead it was M who mumbled something about it being dangerous to walk around alone at night. I wasn’t alone, I told him. Not that it was any of his business, and why would he care, anyway? He shook his head and started to say something, but Andrea just laughed and shooed him out the door. Then, in typical Andrea fashion, she made me breakfast and kept me up for another hour talking about her old clubbing days in Brazil.

The whole time I sat there thinking, How did I get here? Who is this unknown woman who dances in a club until five in the morning and then makes out in the street until seven with a man who barely speaks English? Why, it’s me!

Some days I don’t recognize myself. Sam says I’m probably just going through a phase, responding to a bad situation or whatever. Trish says that new life experiences change a person, that we evolve through difficulty and pain. But I don’t feel any pain anymore, and I don’t think this is a phase that I’ll pass through. At least I hope it’s not. Maybe, when faced with crisis, most people either move forward or stand still. I like to think that I am shedding someone I never really was. Let M shake his head at me. For the first time in my life, I’m breathing.

Y
ou go, girl!” The comment from elaine226@ myspot.uk seems to sum up the bulk of responses to my blog thus far. Not only has the daily visitor toll risen to over two hundred (notably, the numbers shot up right around the time I started writing about Antonio), but about thirty women and a dozen or so men from twelve different countries across the globe took the time to tell me that they fully support my Argentine fling. Which is nice, because while I’m in the process of being, um, flung, I’m not always clear on exactly what I’m doing or why or to what end (mostly, the doubt sets in when Antonio tries to explain something that is clearly important and I haven’t got a clue what he’s saying). Should I fear I’m sinking too far beyond reach, these encouraging words from faceless strangers buoy me up. There are, as is to be expected, a few naysayers who warn that I’m just rebounding. Of course I’m rebounding, I reply. And I am determined to relish every single bounce.

Not that it’s all about Antonio. Far from it. I am squeezing as much fun as possible into my time here—these days, six months seems very, very short—doing things I never would have dreamed about back home: going to see local bands, strolling through tiny art galleries, walking everywhere during the day, dancing all night. I’m exhausted in the most fabulous way.

With so much going on, keeping up with my blogging isn’t as easy as I thought it would be, but watching my readership grow has inspired me to make it a priority, particularly since so many of them are going through breakups of their own. For those just embarking on the seemingly endless journey to recovery, my silly adventures seem to give them hope that things will get better. Those ahead on the healing scale, like [email protected], do the same for me. It’s like I have this tiny community of fragile souls living inside my laptop. When we huddle close together, you don’t notice the cracks and fissures quite so much.

Here in Buenos Aires, another tiny community seems to be growing. Our nights at El Taller have expanded in membership, thanks to Zoey’s irrepressible hospitality. “I found her crying outside the Teatro Colón,” she explains as Julie from Toronto sits down at our regular table—near the windows, for an unobstructed view of the always fascinating plaza life. “I just keep meeting all these poor dears wandering the streets with broken hearts,” Zoey says in her own defense when Maria, a pleasantly plump and pretty girl with long black hair and more metal poked into her face than I dare count, walks in the door and, seeing Zoey, gives an excited wave.

“Do you think we all give off some kind of odor, detectable only to our injured sisters?” I ask. “Like a sort of pheromone?”

“God, that’s a depressing thought,” says Julie. Everything is depressing to Julie, thin, pale, sad Julie, who left her husband because she’d woken up one morning and realized that they hadn’t had sex in eleven months and neither of them had seemed to notice. Even when she’s laughing at something, Julie’s eyes don’t seem to buy what her mouth is doing. But Canadians, she tells me, are in general a bleak and pessimistic people. Must be all the cold.

“I think it’s a seventh sense,” says Zoey as she stands up to give Maria a big hug. “Like gaydar but not.”

Maria jumps right into the conversation: “What are we talking about?” The opposite of Julie, Maria is unfailingly upbeat. Her positive, don’t-let-the-world-get-you-down attitude would be annoying if not for the fact that she is also undeniably funny. Her humor is mostly of the self-deprecating kind. Back home in Chicago, her three-year live-in boyfriend came out of the closet. (“It wouldn’t have been so traumatic if he hadn’t been wearing my best La Perla bra.”) Two hours later, she has all of us—even Julie—doing café con leche spit takes as she recounts her attempts to get frisked at customs. “I must have had twenty keys in five different pockets, but I didn’t get so much as a pat-down. What does it take for a girl to get a little heavy petting in an airport these days?” She fits in immediately, as though we were saving that fourth seat for her all along.

It’s a good group, this foursome. After a few evenings together, it feels like we’ve known one another forever. Traveling is funny that way, I’ve come to realize. In the absence of a support group, you create one from readily available materials. You make best friends of virtual strangers, even if you know almost nothing about their life back home. You invest all your energy in getting to know them fast, because, like Julie, who’s here for only a month, many will be gone from your life as soon as they’ve entered it. You don’t think about details like past and future, only today. Today these three women make me feel rich with friendship.

Generally, being around them makes me miss Sam and Trish less. Sometimes it makes me miss my two best friends even more—I can’t help but imagine how much fun it would be if they were here, too. I tell Sam and Trish this constantly, in part to prevent any feelings of jealousy but also to implant the idea of their coming to visit me here. They’d love to, they say, but they’re pitching a new project at work, and things are crazy. So for now I make do with my Buenos Aires girls—not a bad deal at all. If I’ve found solace in a community of online friends, this is the live act. Between morning blog sessions, evenings at El Taller, all-night clubbing with the girls, and all-night loving with Antonio, life is full and sweet and wide open.

Maria stands up and raises a glass. “You are the most best people ever,” she slurs. It’s the end of the night, and there are six empty wine bottles for the four of us. “Here’s to the ones we love. Here’s to the ones who love us. Here’s to the ones we love who don’t love us. Hell, screw them all, here’s to us!” She slugs back the remainder of her drink.

“Hear, hear!” we shout. Glasses clink, and wine is swallowed. The bill is paid. We peel ourselves from the table and venture out into the cool air. Anything is possible. For the first time in a long time, I feel like the luckiest girl in the world. I’m feeling so blessed, in fact, that when I get back to my apartment I issue an invite on my blog to the heartbroken masses in Buenos Aires. Why keep all the fun to ourselves?

Calling all the brokenhearted in Buenos Aires. We meet once a week for an absurd amount of eating, drinking, laughing, and generally pretending life doesn’t really suck all that bad. Bring your sob stories, bring your tantalizing tales, bring some money for beer! Come anytime after seven
P.M.
on Thursday. Look for the loud group near the window—you can’t miss us.

Only after I post the entry do I stop to consider the odds that someone is getting over a relationship and traveling in Argentina and reading my blog and wants to meet a bunch of people he or she may never see again.

Apparently, the odds are good. On the following Thursday, not one new person shows up. Seven do. There are so many of us, we have to push two tables together. Four people squeeze onto a bench made for three. We borrow chairs from other tables. Amid the commotion, I catch what I could swear is a reflection of Mateo, his mass of dark curls appearing in the window behind Maria. Adrenaline buzzes annoyingly, hopefully, in my blood. But when I turn, I see only disinterested waitstaff. I’ve barely spoken to Mateo since he came to fix the sink, since he left so abruptly at the sound of Antonio’s voice at the front gate. I swallow hard and try to think of something else.

“So exactly how many people have read this blog of yours?” asks Zoey.

I’m grateful for the new subject matter. “As of this morning, about three hundred and fifty a day,” I say, barely believing it. When I saw those first few comments on my blog page, I couldn’t fathom how total strangers in other countries could have any interest in my life; even less, why they kept coming back. Then readers started to tell friends about it, some posted links to my blog on their own sites, and it sort of snowballed. This morning I rechecked my stats page over and over again, but the numbers didn’t change.

“Wow, three hundred and fifty. So basically, everyone here.” She smiles at the chaos before us.

Throughout the night, three more people come, and we make room for them. I can’t keep track of all the names, but it doesn’t matter. I may never see any of them again, but that doesn’t matter, either. On this night we swap sad stories, share too many bottles of cheap red wine, and celebrate that we have hearts to break.

There are six of us left at the end of the night, including the original group, a two-time divorcée named Sharon, and Dan. Dan came late, said little, and had half the women at the table smitten. I didn’t notice him much during the evening, sitting way over on the far side of the table, but Julie and Maria began whispering conspiratorially when he got up to use the washroom. There was simply too much going on down at my end to pay much mind to the object of their attention. But now that the place has cleared out, I get it.

Dan is good-looking but not too good-looking. His teeth are white and braces-straight, his cheeks have that Ivy League flush. His jaw is strong but not chiseled. His mouth is not too small, his nose not too long. He doesn’t have a hairstyle to speak of— his sandy-blond hair is just sort of there. He isn’t overly built, but his shoulders are broad, and there appear to be nicely shaped pecs under his T-shirt. His khakis are lightly seamed, his suede loafers an inoffensive brown. On their own, these qualities don’t scream “look at me,” but together they are undeniably pleasing to the female eye. It’s a biological alchemy we have little say over. In short, he has the look of a husband. He smiles in my direction. I smile back.

Dan returns the following Thursday, along with Sharon and her new German friend James. This time Dan and I speak to each other. He says, “So, how’s the pizza here?” And I say, “You’d have to ask Julie. It’s all she eats.” Most of the time he is locked in deep conversation with Zoey.

“What’s the deal with this Dan guy?” I ask later while I walk with Zoey to the bus stop near my place.

“Why? Don’t you have your hands full with your Latin lover?” She draws it out for full effect. Latiiiin loveeeer. “Don’t want to be greedy now.”

“I’m not interested, just curious. Wondering what all the fuss is about.”

“Besides the fact that he’s adorable, let’s see. He runs a hedge fund in Boston, but he hates his job. He saved tons of cash so he could hang out here for about three months and reassess his life. He’s sweet, smart, rich . . . Yeah, you’re right, can’t see what all the fuss is about.”

“Right.”

“Mind you, he is as beige as his pants. I mean, he dumped his girlfriend because she wasn’t ready to get married. Apparently, they ‘didn’t want the same things out of life.’” Zoey does air quotes to fully demonstrate her distaste for all things domestic. “Hearing that almost put me to sleep.”

“Was that before or after you hand-fed him your french fries?”

“Fair enough. But in my defense, it’s been days since I’ve had a really good flirt.” We get to the bus stop, and Zoey rummages in her bag for change. “Besides, we spent half the night talking about you.”

“You did not.”

“Seriously. He asked me a zillion questions. What’s her situation, where’s she from, how long is she here, where’s she staying, blah blah blah. Aha!” Finding the right coins, Zoey thrusts her fist into the air triumphantly. I’ve been here for almost two months, and I’m still too chicken to take the bus. There are a thousand different zigzagging routes, and deciphering the chaos of colored lines on my transit map is on par with cracking Cold War Russian spy code. Zoey doesn’t even have a transit map, she just asks the driver in broken Spanish if his bus will take her wherever it is she wants to go. Sometimes, she tells me, she waits at a random stop and takes whatever bus comes along. Just to see where she’ll end up.