“Yeah, and there you go, ruining the curve for everybody else.”
“And everyone hates me.”
“I wish you could see it from the outside.”
“See what?”
Bowe looks me in the eye and is quiet for a moment. And then he says, “Eres perfecta, incluso en tu imperfección.”
I sit up, unsure I heard him right. But of course I did. His accent is terrible, but it has knocked the wind out of me just the same.
You are perfect, even in your imperfection.
“How did you put that together?”
“I mean, that’s kind of embarrassing to answer.”
“Still.”
“I found a woman in the lobby of my hotel who spoke Spanish, and I asked her how to help me translate a few things.”
“A few things? What else did she translate for you?”
“Well, no,” Bowe says. “I can’t tell you that.”
“Why?”
“Because I just wanted to have a few options in case any of it was relevant.”
I stand up and walk over to him. “What were the other options? Did you memorize them all?”
“No,” he says. “I tried, but I kept getting them wrong.”
“So you wrote them down.”
He’s still seated, and I’m standing over him. Bowe looks up at me.
“You wrote them down, and they are in your pocket,” I say.
“Please don’t try to get into my pockets––it’s gonna kill my ribs. Seriously, I’m begging you.”
There is a past version of me that would have dug into his pockets anyway—that would tell him to deal with the pain. I cringe to remember some of the things I’ve said to myself—and even to other people—back when I was in my prime. Man up and play through! Stop being a baby and dominate!
But I don’t want to say any of those things now. I just want to make sure he’s not hurting…and to see what he’s written down.
“Please,” I say, my voice low. “Show me.”
He frowns and then lifts himself off the chair ever so slightly. He takes a piece of hotel stationery out of his pocket.
“Please don’t laugh at me,” he says.
I take the paper and open it. There are three Spanish phrases, all written out in his messy handwriting.
You are perfect, even in your imperfection.
You are completely insufferable, and I can’t stop thinking about you.
I want the real thing this time.
“You wrote these down? So you could say them to me?”
“Yes.”
“If I kiss you, will it hurt?” I ask, moving closer to him.
“What?”
“Your ribs. If I kiss you, will I hurt you?”
“No,” he says. “I don’t think so.”
I put both of my hands on his face and kiss him. He reaches his good arm across my lower back and pulls me toward him.
I’ve kissed him before, years ago. But this feels both familiar and brand-new, like a good stretch, like a deep breath.
“I don’t know what this is,” I say. “I don’t know if it’s the real thing or not.”
“I don’t care,” he says, kissing me again. He grabs at the hem of my T-shirt and the buttons on my jeans.
“I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I don’t care about that either,” he says, kissing me again.
“You have to be careful,” I say. “Of your ribs.”
“Carrie, please,” he says, kissing my neck. “Stop worrying.”
And so I do.
* * *
—
Later, as the sunlight begins to filter through the window of my hotel room in the early hours of the morning, I wake up to see Bowe asleep next to me.
His hair is sticking up straight in the back, a cowlick let loose at some point in the night. His face, up close, is weathered. There are fine wrinkles around his eyes. I turn away and look out the window, overcome with this awful, sinking feeling. As happy as you are when it starts, you always end up that same amount of sad when it’s over.
He begins to stir, his eyes opening slowly and reluctantly. He looks at me and smiles.
He says, “Should we order breakfast?”
“You’re going to stay?” I ask.
He sits up, fully awake all of a sudden. “You want me to go?”
“Do you want to go? You can go if you want.”
“I don’t want to go. I told you that last night. In Spanish.”
“Okay,” I say.
“So I’m staying?” he says.