until the entrees arrived.
George must have been thinking the same thing. “Janice? Are you all right?”
Janice leaned forward onto the table, crossed her arms, and rested her head on them. “Mmm-hmmm,” she mumbled.
George rubbed her back, “Hey, Janice? Why don’t I take you back to your room?”
Take an over-worked lawyer, fly her to Mexico, mix in a few exotic drinks, and voila, you have one wasted girl.
If it weren’t George, I might have stood up and insisted I help him. But George? The sweet-as-pie river rafting fool from West Virginia? She couldn’t have been safer than if her mother were taking her back up to the suite. He had been treating her like a glass ornament all night long. Besides, I needed a free moment to talk to Joaquin, and sitting in a busy, crowded restaurant was just the place to do it.
Janice mumbled a sleepy assent and threw her arms around George’s thick neck. Built like a squished Mac truck, I had no doubts George could carry my skinny little friend if he had to. He pushed her out of the booth, tightly wrapping one arm around her waist, so she didn’t slip.
Joaquin told George not to worry about the bill, he would take care of it. We watched as they made their way to the restaurant entrance and out into the lobby. Then, he turned to me. I should have taken the opportunity to slide into George’s empty spot on the other side of the table.
He sat so close to me my heart skipped a couple of beats. He made me nervous and self-conscious and horridly aware of the small amount of cleavage peeking out from my v-neck top.
“So, here I am at dinner,” he began. “What now?”
I slid one centimeter at a time away from Joaquin and toward the empty bench next to me. I hoped he wouldn’t notice.
“We need to talk,” I said.
“Yes, we do.”
I cleared my throat. “I want a divorce.”
His hazel eyes hardened. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Excuse me?” I grabbed for the glass of ice water in front of me, in desperate need of a drink. My throat felt parched.
“I said no.”
Before I could express my outrage, a waiter appeared with a tray laden with food. More food than two people could possibly consume in one sitting. Tacos, flatuas, ollas of beans, fajitas, stacks of corn tortillas filled half a dozen plates. The smell of freshly made tortillas and cilantro made my mouth water. Another waiter came in behind the first with a smaller tray bearing a bottle of wine and four wine glasses.
Joaquin directed them to set everything down at our table, snapped his fingers, and then turned to me, “Let’s eat.”
“Eat? You want me to eat after what you just told me?”
He picked up the opened bottle of wine and poured each of us a glass. “Here, try this. It’s from Baja.” He nudged the glass my way.
“Give me a divorce, Joaquin.” I pushed the glass to the center of the table, and the burgundy wine sloshed out onto the pristine tablecloth.
“I told you, no.” He drank deeply of his wine and then set the glass down. He stared at it for a moment, then he turned his attention on me. “You were the one that left me, querida .”
I shivered at the endearment. In those few words I could hear his humiliation, his anger. I had a hard time thinking about what it must have been like for him after I left. His mother had been completely against our dating. Joaquin knew she would never accept the fact we were in love, that we were serious about one another. Getting married had been the only way to show her.
We both had our reasons for that marriage.
His voice grew louder, “You were my wife, and you left me. And you think I will grant you a divorce with no questions?”
“No,” I began in a lowered voice, hoping he would follow suit, “that had never been my intention—to sail in here out of the blue. But I’m only here for a few more days. I don’t know when I’ll get back to Mexico again. We need to take care of this now.”
“What if I don’t want a
George must have been thinking the same thing. “Janice? Are you all right?”
Janice leaned forward onto the table, crossed her arms, and rested her head on them. “Mmm-hmmm,” she mumbled.
George rubbed her back, “Hey, Janice? Why don’t I take you back to your room?”
Take an over-worked lawyer, fly her to Mexico, mix in a few exotic drinks, and voila, you have one wasted girl.
If it weren’t George, I might have stood up and insisted I help him. But George? The sweet-as-pie river rafting fool from West Virginia? She couldn’t have been safer than if her mother were taking her back up to the suite. He had been treating her like a glass ornament all night long. Besides, I needed a free moment to talk to Joaquin, and sitting in a busy, crowded restaurant was just the place to do it.
Janice mumbled a sleepy assent and threw her arms around George’s thick neck. Built like a squished Mac truck, I had no doubts George could carry my skinny little friend if he had to. He pushed her out of the booth, tightly wrapping one arm around her waist, so she didn’t slip.
Joaquin told George not to worry about the bill, he would take care of it. We watched as they made their way to the restaurant entrance and out into the lobby. Then, he turned to me. I should have taken the opportunity to slide into George’s empty spot on the other side of the table.
He sat so close to me my heart skipped a couple of beats. He made me nervous and self-conscious and horridly aware of the small amount of cleavage peeking out from my v-neck top.
“So, here I am at dinner,” he began. “What now?”
I slid one centimeter at a time away from Joaquin and toward the empty bench next to me. I hoped he wouldn’t notice.
“We need to talk,” I said.
“Yes, we do.”
I cleared my throat. “I want a divorce.”
His hazel eyes hardened. “No, I don’t think so.”
“Excuse me?” I grabbed for the glass of ice water in front of me, in desperate need of a drink. My throat felt parched.
“I said no.”
Before I could express my outrage, a waiter appeared with a tray laden with food. More food than two people could possibly consume in one sitting. Tacos, flatuas, ollas of beans, fajitas, stacks of corn tortillas filled half a dozen plates. The smell of freshly made tortillas and cilantro made my mouth water. Another waiter came in behind the first with a smaller tray bearing a bottle of wine and four wine glasses.
Joaquin directed them to set everything down at our table, snapped his fingers, and then turned to me, “Let’s eat.”
“Eat? You want me to eat after what you just told me?”
He picked up the opened bottle of wine and poured each of us a glass. “Here, try this. It’s from Baja.” He nudged the glass my way.
“Give me a divorce, Joaquin.” I pushed the glass to the center of the table, and the burgundy wine sloshed out onto the pristine tablecloth.
“I told you, no.” He drank deeply of his wine and then set the glass down. He stared at it for a moment, then he turned his attention on me. “You were the one that left me, querida .”
I shivered at the endearment. In those few words I could hear his humiliation, his anger. I had a hard time thinking about what it must have been like for him after I left. His mother had been completely against our dating. Joaquin knew she would never accept the fact we were in love, that we were serious about one another. Getting married had been the only way to show her.
We both had our reasons for that marriage.
His voice grew louder, “You were my wife, and you left me. And you think I will grant you a divorce with no questions?”
“No,” I began in a lowered voice, hoping he would follow suit, “that had never been my intention—to sail in here out of the blue. But I’m only here for a few more days. I don’t know when I’ll get back to Mexico again. We need to take care of this now.”
“What if I don’t want a
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