Read Online The Buenos Aires Broken Hearts Club by Jessica Morrison - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jessica Morrison
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man who came to my door this morning. He looks nice. Tall.
Scattered throughout are photos of Andrea. Some alone—on a beach smiling, in a kitchen laughing—some surrounded by what are clearly travelers, too tan and blond and happy to be anything but on vacation. What must it be like to have so many strangers float in and out of your life, I wonder. To never know what the next airplane will bring your way. For someone like Andrea, this must be an exciting adventure that comes right to her door. Years from now, will there be a side table in my dining room lined with photographs of people I’ve met here? That might be nice. Of course, if I never leave this house, that will mean a lot of pictures of Andrea and Jorge and the three dogs.
I can’t help but laugh at myself. I can’t really sit around in that apartment all day and night, however lovely it is—especially not if that incredibly cute, fantastically rude man is regularly wandering about. And there’s no way I am going home early. I wouldn’t dream of giving Jeff the satisfaction of hearing about that from one of our mutual friends. That leaves me and Buenos Aires and six months to fill. If Andrea’s house is any indication, maybe this place isn’t completely bad. Just a little rough around the edges, the way even Seattle might look to an outsider. Maybe I can handle another 180 days here. Maybe by the end of it I’ll be like Andrea, all smiles and laughter. I take anther bite of croissant. Maybe I don’t even need a plan.
Except that I do. Yes, definitely. I really, really do. I can feel my planlessness creeping under my skin like an itch. Denying it won’t help. It will only spread out and get stronger, maddeningly so, until I scratch it. As soon as Andrea comes back, I’ll excuse myself and set to work. I’ve got my travel guide, and Sam and Trish gave me a bunch of books on the area as a parting gift. I can start with those to figure out a list of must-see places. There is also that website with a forum that’s supposed to have a lot of great info direct from travelers. Andrea confirmed that my suite is wired for Internet, though I’ll need to buy a power converter for my laptop.
Ah, there. I’m feeling better already. Thinking about going outside is frightening, but thinking about thinking about going outside I can handle. So long as there’s a plan.
Then I notice a picture of
him
. My welcome wagon. Anger starts to rise again until it dawns on me how different he looks in the photographs. Here he’s sitting at a café with Andrea and a group of people. They look younger, in their early twenties maybe. They are all leaning in together, shoulders touching, and smiling warmly at the camera. There he’s in a crowd with Jorge on his shoulders, looking up and laughing. In another, he stands beside Andrea and the tall man I assume is her husband. He’s smiling here, too, but it’s not a happy smile. In fact, it looks a lot like the smile I’ve been putting on for the last three weeks, a smile you wear for the sake of others. It makes me want to like him.
Not everyone makes a good first impression, I suppose. Speaking of which, maybe my own wasn’t so great, either. Suddenly, I feel guilty about getting so mad. I might be paying rent, but I am still the foreigner here. But how to make a better second impression? To start, I’ve got to learn some Spanish, break open that language CD that’s buried in my suitcase. Fluency isn’t going to happen anytime soon, but surely I can manage to avoid this person until I’ve learned a few basics.
Learn Spanish. Yes. The decision makes me feel instantly better, calmer. It’s another item to add to my plan, I think happily, popping another mini-croissant into my mouth. Pleased with myself, I decide to celebrate with a bit more of Andrea’s superb coffee. As I reach for the carafe, I hear someone jiggling the handle on a door behind me. Jorge must have led Andrea on a chase through the entire house. I
Scattered throughout are photos of Andrea. Some alone—on a beach smiling, in a kitchen laughing—some surrounded by what are clearly travelers, too tan and blond and happy to be anything but on vacation. What must it be like to have so many strangers float in and out of your life, I wonder. To never know what the next airplane will bring your way. For someone like Andrea, this must be an exciting adventure that comes right to her door. Years from now, will there be a side table in my dining room lined with photographs of people I’ve met here? That might be nice. Of course, if I never leave this house, that will mean a lot of pictures of Andrea and Jorge and the three dogs.
I can’t help but laugh at myself. I can’t really sit around in that apartment all day and night, however lovely it is—especially not if that incredibly cute, fantastically rude man is regularly wandering about. And there’s no way I am going home early. I wouldn’t dream of giving Jeff the satisfaction of hearing about that from one of our mutual friends. That leaves me and Buenos Aires and six months to fill. If Andrea’s house is any indication, maybe this place isn’t completely bad. Just a little rough around the edges, the way even Seattle might look to an outsider. Maybe I can handle another 180 days here. Maybe by the end of it I’ll be like Andrea, all smiles and laughter. I take anther bite of croissant. Maybe I don’t even need a plan.
Except that I do. Yes, definitely. I really, really do. I can feel my planlessness creeping under my skin like an itch. Denying it won’t help. It will only spread out and get stronger, maddeningly so, until I scratch it. As soon as Andrea comes back, I’ll excuse myself and set to work. I’ve got my travel guide, and Sam and Trish gave me a bunch of books on the area as a parting gift. I can start with those to figure out a list of must-see places. There is also that website with a forum that’s supposed to have a lot of great info direct from travelers. Andrea confirmed that my suite is wired for Internet, though I’ll need to buy a power converter for my laptop.
Ah, there. I’m feeling better already. Thinking about going outside is frightening, but thinking about thinking about going outside I can handle. So long as there’s a plan.
Then I notice a picture of
him
. My welcome wagon. Anger starts to rise again until it dawns on me how different he looks in the photographs. Here he’s sitting at a café with Andrea and a group of people. They look younger, in their early twenties maybe. They are all leaning in together, shoulders touching, and smiling warmly at the camera. There he’s in a crowd with Jorge on his shoulders, looking up and laughing. In another, he stands beside Andrea and the tall man I assume is her husband. He’s smiling here, too, but it’s not a happy smile. In fact, it looks a lot like the smile I’ve been putting on for the last three weeks, a smile you wear for the sake of others. It makes me want to like him.
Not everyone makes a good first impression, I suppose. Speaking of which, maybe my own wasn’t so great, either. Suddenly, I feel guilty about getting so mad. I might be paying rent, but I am still the foreigner here. But how to make a better second impression? To start, I’ve got to learn some Spanish, break open that language CD that’s buried in my suitcase. Fluency isn’t going to happen anytime soon, but surely I can manage to avoid this person until I’ve learned a few basics.
Learn Spanish. Yes. The decision makes me feel instantly better, calmer. It’s another item to add to my plan, I think happily, popping another mini-croissant into my mouth. Pleased with myself, I decide to celebrate with a bit more of Andrea’s superb coffee. As I reach for the carafe, I hear someone jiggling the handle on a door behind me. Jorge must have led Andrea on a chase through the entire house. I
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