“Nothing I ever saw written up on him ever mentioned a relationship or girlfriend. I have no idea what the tattoo means.”
“Maybe it was his dog.”
“I took him for a cat person, actually.”
We chatted for a few more minutes before I begged off with exhaustion and hopped into the shower. In spite of that, I did manage to cram in about three hours of studying, interrupted briefly by the usual bang at my door.
“Password,” I shouted from the couch. She heard me through the open window.
“I aim to misbehave,” Alex said and then opened the door and bounced across the room like the Tazmanian Devil on caffeine and landed right beside me with a plop. My old couch groaned down to its wooden frame in protest.
“Studying again?”
I held up my Gray’s Anatomy by way of answering.
She huffed. “Why don’t you just watch the TV show instead of reading that big fat book?”
I feinted throwing it at her and she lurched back, holding up her hands, laughing. “Mom wants to know if you’ll come down and eat dinner with us and I want to know who is that hot man who dropped you off this morning.”
Yep, her mother had definitely been peeking through the blinds.
“Ah, being a chismosa?” I said, teasing her with the Spanish word for a gossipmonger.
“Always. So give me the chisme,” she said, leaning forward and pinning me down with her large, dark eyes.
“He’s just some guy I know,” I said, shrugging it off and twisting to set the heavy book down on a side table made from a wooden telephone cable spool.
She looked askance. “In a town car with a driver?”
Shit. How was I going to explain that? I took a deep breath, deciding to go on the offensive. “Alejandra Carmen Arias. Are you grilling me?”
“If that’s what it takes. Are you dating him?”
I sliced a glance at her and then away, shrugging. I was keenly aware that I was the worst liar ever. But better she think we were dating than know what was really going on. Alex went to mass with her mom every week and I was pretty sure she wouldn’t approve—feminist ideals or no. “Kind of.”
“Mom said he was really good looking.”
I suppressed a grin. “I’m glad she approves.” Just how long had she been peeking at us through those blinds?
“Come on, Mia! Spill! You are killing me.”
I stood up and bushed off my jeans. “Not yet. But soon, okay? I don’t want to jinx anything.” I hoped that threw her off. Alex had a bit of a superstitious streak in her. Before she could ask me another question I went to the door and motioned her out with me. Who was I to turn down a free, guaranteed delicious dinner? “Can you do my hair for Friday night? I have a date and I want to wear it up.”
Mischief sparkled in her dark eyes. “I’ll do it if you tell me his name.”
I grabbed her hand and shook it. “Deal. Now let’s go eat. I’m starving.”
Chapter Seven
The week dragged on and I muddled through hospital shifts and blog posts and studying a little more grudgingly than I had before. The dream of Amsterdam was a distant memory, like the glitter falling off a cheap knockoff souvenir brought back as a memento of an otherworldly vacation. I’d only been out of the country for forty-eight hours, including travel—but I knew I wanted to go back, and very soon.
I continued taking the birth control pills and bought a few back copies of Cosmo to read up on their “great sex” articles, all the while realizing how ridiculous it was to use pop culture as sex education. Until the trip to Holland, I’d never been concerned with having to please a partner. But now, I was determined to make him feel as good as he had made me feel in those few moments when we had been kissing and touching.
Two days before the dinner party, a box arrived from the Netherlands. I opened it up to find all three gowns that were hanging in the wardrobe in my room in Amsterdam. I gasped. The card inside said only, Wear one of these Friday.
Since he’d already seen me in the breathtaking black, I chose the long crème-colored one. It had a halter top that looped around my neck and it, too, was backless. This dress, though long, felt like it exposed me more and I couldn’t explain why. It was an extremely feminine dress, with a full, creased skirt of gauzy material—the kind that Marilyn Monroe wore when her dress famously blew upward over the air grate in Some Like it Hot.
There were also matching shoes for this dress and the selection of lingerie. Since a bra was again not possible, I selected a tiny pair of lace white panties and left everything else in the box.
My landlady, Lupe, came up with Alex and together they tried to pry my secrets out of me while they worked my hair into an elegant updo.