Chapter 4: FAILED DATE
1242 Words
The chandeliers of Le Pavillon dripped light onto the white linen tablecloths, casting a golden haze over the crystal wine glasses and the untouched plate of seared scallops in front of Pedro Valdez. Across from him, Camila Reyes—heiress to a telecom fortune and Vogue México’s latest “It Girl”—leaned forward, her scarlet-tipped fingers tracing the rim of her champagne flute. Her laughter rang like a wind chime in a hurricane, sharp and out of place.
“So I told the designer, ‘If the dress doesn’t have pockets, ¿para qué sirve?' (What is it used for?)” She giggled, tossing her honey-blonde waves over one shoulder. “Right, Pedro?”
Pedro forced a nod, his thumb brushing the stem of his water glass. Her Spanish was textbook-perfect, polished at some Swiss boarding school, devoid of the grit he’d grown up with in Barcelona. "Como un loro entrenado", he thought. A trained parrot.
“Fascinating,” he said, though the word tasted stale.
Camila beamed, mistaking his boredom for intrigue. “Ay, you should’ve seen the after-party! Shakira was there—well, not 'the' Shakira, but the DJ? She’s Colombian too, so…”
Pedro’s phone buzzed in his pocket. A notification from his assistant: “FYI—Morales Matches invoice paid. Flowers delivered as requested.” He grimaced. The lilies. A misstep. Izzy would’ve tossed them immediately, just as she’d tossed his attempts to unsettle her.
“Oye, are you even listening?” Camila pouted, her glossed lips catching the light.
“Of course.” He flagged a waiter. “Another vino tinto, please.”
The silence that followed was thick, broken only by the muffled clatter of the kitchen doors swinging open. Camila shifted, her strapless gold gown slipping. Pedro averted his eyes, studying the oil painting behind her—a stormy seascape, all churning grays and desperate blues. It reminded him of Izzy’s office, of the way she’d dissected him with nothing but a question: “Tell me something true.”
Camila sighed, twirling a breadstick. “You’re not much of a talker, are you?”
“I prefer listening.”
“Lucky me.” She rolled her eyes, but her smile stayed glued in place. “So. Why’d you hire a matchmaker? Scared of las golddiggers?”
Pedro’s jaw tightened. “I don’t get scared easily.”
“Claro que no (Of course not).” She tilted her head, appraising him, “But you’re… difícil, no? All work, no play. Bet you haven’t taken a vacation in years.”
“I’m in Ibiza twice a year.”
“For meetings.”
“Yes.”
She laughed, this time lower, throatier. “Dios mío, you’re like a robot. A guapo robot, but still.”
The waiter returned with the wine. Pedro drained half his glass in one swallow.
---
Three hours earlier....
Izzy Morales stabbed a fork into her salad, glaring at the bouquet of calla lilies now rotting in her office trash can. Bastard. Sending flowers after reducing her to a trembling mess in front of her own daughter. As if I’d fall for that.
Her phone buzzed. Sofia: “Can I stay at Gabi’s tonight? Her mom’s making tamales.”
Izzy hesitated. Gabi’s family were good people—warm, loud, everything Carlos hadn’t been. Still, letting Sofia out of her sight felt risky lately, like releasing a bird into a sky full of hawks.
“Fine,” she typed. “Home by 10.”
The intercom crackled. “Ms. Morales? Mr. Valdez’s assistant confirmed the payment. They’ve also requested a follow-up session tomorrow at 8 a.m.”
Izzy’s fork clattered onto the plate. 8 a.m.? Does he ever sleep? “Tell them I’m booked.”
“They’ve already… uh, triple the rate.”
Of course they did. She pictured Pedro in his penthouse, smugly dictating terms. He thinks money can bulldoze every wall. “Fine. But if he’s late, I’m charging him for every minute,” She said out loudly as Lila took notes.
---
Back at Le Pavillon, Camila was now mid-story about a yacht party in Monaco, her hands sculpting the air. “—and then el príncipe accidentally set his hair on fire with a sparkler! Qué locura (What madness), right?”
Pedro’s phone buzzed again. A calendar alert: “Lesson 2 - 8 a.m. Morales Matches.” His chest tightened. Izzy agreed. He hadn’t expected that.
“Oye, seriously?” Camila snapped her fingers. “Earth to Pedro?”
He stood abruptly, tossing his napkin onto the table, “My apologies. An emergency.”
Her smile faltered. “En serio? We haven’t even had dessert!”
“The kitchen will pack it.” He nodded to the waiter, “The check, please.”
Camila crossed her arms, her cheeks flushing. “You’re despistado, you know that? Rude and distracted.”
“My apologies,” he repeated, already pulling out his wallet.
She watched him sign the receipt, her glare softening. “You’re seeing someone else, aren’t you?”
Pedro stilled. “No.”
“Liar.” She stood, her perfume—sickly sweet, like overripe mangoes—swarming him. “It’s written all over you. Amor de lejos… felices los cuatro.”
He frowned. “What does that mean?”
“Long-distance love makes four people happy.” She smirked, adjusting her clutch. “Whoever she is? Buena suerte (Good luck). You’ll need it.”
It was midnight in Tribeca. Pedro’s penthouse was a monument to minimalism—concrete floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, a single black leather sofa facing the skyline. He poured himself a whiskey, the ice cracking like bones.
Camila’s words needled him. Liar. He wasn’t lying. Izzy wasn’t his. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
His phone glowed on the coffee table. He scrolled to Izzy’s number, thumb hovering. The last text—“Teach me more.”—still hung unanswered, a grenade with the pin half-pulled.
He typed: “You win. I’m not here for a performance.” He deleted.
“What does it cost to be understood?” He deleted.
“Tell me how to fix this.” He deleted.
Finally, he settled on two words: “Teach me.” He clicked 'Send'.
Izzy stared at the text, the blue light of her phone searing her retinas. Outside, a siren wailed, slicing through the Brooklyn night.
"Teach me." She could almost hear his voice—rough, impatient, daring her to refuse. Her thumb trembled over the keyboard.
“8 a.m. Don’t be late.”
She hit send, then flung her phone across the bed. Idiota. This was how fires started. With a spark, a breath, a moment of weakness.
Downstairs, the front door creaked open. Sofia’s voice floated up: “Gracias, Gabi. Buenas noches.”
Izzy froze. She’s home early.
Footsteps climbed the stairs. Sofia paused in the doorway, her sketchbook tucked under one arm. “Hey. You’re still awake?”
Izzy shoved her phone under a pillow. “Work stuff. How were the tamales?”
“Good. Gabi’s mom says hi.” Sofia hovered, her gaze drifting to the lilies now stuffed in a grocery bag by the door. “You okay?”
“Fine. Just tired.”
Sofia nodded, retreating. “Buenas noches, mamá.”
The door closed. Izzy dug out her phone, Pedro’s text still glowing.
"Teach me."
She turned off the lights, letting the darkness swallow her whole.
- Writer
