“Yes. And I know I should probably have some dramatic explanation, like my grandmother died, or my mother was taken ill, God forbid. But those aren’t the reasons.”
Her expression softens. “I’m glad they’re okay. They are okay, right?”
I nod. “Yes, everyone is fine and good and ridiculously healthy. My sister is married and has twin boys. My brother is engaged. And my mother is retired from teaching now.”
“Because of you?” she asks, tilting up her chin.
“Yes. Because of me. I take care of them now. But the point is,” I say, pausing to take a breath, “I wanted to see you again more than nearly anything. I had the job in New York working at a restaurant. My cousin in Miami had connected me with the restaurant—it was run by his friend. And the morning you left, I found out my work visa was denied.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh no.”
I close my eyes briefly and pinch the bridge of my nose, recalling my frustration as I’d stared at the official government letter denying my application. Hot anger had seared my blood that morning a decade ago.
When I open my eyes, I tell her what I learned when I went to the mailbox in the building where I sublet my room. “You’d gotten on your plane, and I finally checked the mail. I don’t think I checked it once when you were with me. I was…” My lips twitch, then I add, “otherwise occupied.”
A smile tugs at her lips, too, and I continue.
“I opened the mailbox, and there was my beautiful letter from the government. I was sure it would be my visa. My permission to go to the States and work there. I even kissed the stupid envelope, thinking it contained all the good news in the world. I’d wanted the job badly. For the money and the opportunity, and then to see you. It seemed like a done deal,” I say, desperation coloring my tone, just remembering that tense anticipation. “The people who ran the restaurant had assured me the visa would work out. They’d requested others for chefs that had gone through successfully, and they were sure they’d get one for me. I had the job, and they’d gotten plenty of other work visas approved without a problem. And at last, mine had arrived.”
Her eyes cloud with sadness, and I reach for her hand again. This time, we link fingers, and it feels like magic and desire all at once. But there’s so much more to say, so I keep going. “I rushed back up the steps to my crummy little studio, which was hardly crummy anymore because it was where I’d spent those nights with you, and I slid my finger under the seal and opened the letter.” My shoulders sag. “Denied. Work visa denied. I was so fucking mad. And then I tried to call you.”
She tilts her head, her eyebrows rising in question. “You did?”
“Of course,” I say, confidently. “I called you before I called my cousin.”
“I must have been on the plane,” she says, her voice soft, as if she’s tripping back in time, too. Then a new realization seems to hit her. “Oh God. Even if you left a message I would never have gotten it. All I had was that little temporary flip phone for traveling. And it stopped working as soon as I left the country.”
“Exactly. Because everything was different ten years ago.”
“We didn’t have smart phones.” It’s as if we’re both reminding each other of the different time in which we met. “You couldn’t just live in New York and call a friend in Paris. Skype wasn’t a thing we used regularly.”
Penelope and I had exchanged cell numbers when we’d met so we could be in touch for those few days when she was in Spain. But her phone had been a temporary one, set up on a European carrier for local calls and emergencies.
“There was no way for me to call you once you left Spain,” I say, but we weren’t stupid. We’d planned for this when we’d exchanged emails and then picked a time and place in New York to meet. “You didn’t have your new cell yet. You were going to buy one when you returned to the States. We’d talked about how by the time you were set back up in the U.S., I’d be there. Seeing you again.” I choke out a bitter laugh at the sheer irony.
“I thought that, too,” she says, looking at me from under her lashes. Her wide eyes are earnest now, and the anger that whipped through her minutes ago seems to have faded into the night. “But what about email? Why didn’t you email me and tell me what happened with the job? I’d have understood.”
“This is the part of the story that is funny, but only in retrospect,” I say, taking a deep breath. “When I reached your voicemail, and it was just a recording saying this number is no longer a working number, or whatever it said, that only intensified my frustration. I didn’t have the job. I wasn’t going to the U.S. And I couldn’t reach you to tell you, so I threw my phone against the wall.”
She blinks and furrows her brow. “That’s an intense reaction.”
“I’m not a guy with a temper, Penelope. You have to know that, but I wanted to see you again so badly, and when I couldn’t reach you I threw the phone.”
“I’ve been known to toss a hairbrush at the wall myself. But does that mean you punished your phone since it couldn’t reach my phone?” she asks, a note of playfulness returning to her voice.
“Yes. But I actually punished myself.” I gulp and spit out the full magnitude of my stupid mistake. “Because your email was stored in the contacts in my phone.”