UnConventional Read online

  “There’s this song, ‘Weightless,’ by the band All Time Low. They sing about getting older and feeling like you haven’t accomplished anything, and that it’s time to face your fears and finally do something with your life. They compare their life to an unread book, wanting to feel ‘weightless.’ Very carpe diem.” I wave my phone. Technically it should be off, even though we’re grounded, but I turn it on. “You could listen to it, if you want,” I say, powering it on and offering it to him, headphones and all.

  He looks at me, one eyebrow raised. “You sure you don’t mind me using your earbuds? I could have Ebola. Or bubonic plague.” He grins.

  I laugh. “I’ll take my chances. You can just hold them if it bothers you. I have some wipes in my bag I can clean them with.”

  He chuckles, wipes one on his shirt, then sticks it in his ear. His smile spreads across his face as he bobs his head to the music, listening intently.

  I’m impressed that he actually takes the time to listen to the entire thing—or nearly so; the flight attendant interrupts us.

  “Still okay over here?”

  Santiago removes the earbuds, cleaning them again before wrapping them back around my phone and handing it back to me. “Excuse me?”

  “I just wanted to make sure you were all right. I know our schedule has been interrupted—”

  “I’m fine. Thanks,” he says with a slight nod.

  God, the woman is obsessed with him. Not that I blame her, but does she really need to check on him every ten seconds? Not counting delivering drinks, she’s come over to ask if he needs anything ten times since I got on.

  “That’s a great anthem, Di,” he says sincerely. “So what are you going to try to accomplish this year?”

  “Well, my mom and I, we were really close. She passed away about ten years ago—”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Me too.” Take a breath. “She loved books… It’s silly, but…she was kind of my cheerleader. Always told me I could do anything, be anything.” I sigh. “That’s another song, by the way.”

  “Sounds like my oldest sister, Genie.” He hesitates for a moment. “She’s always been there for me. I can only imagine what losing her would feel like. I know it’s not the same, but—”

  A comfortable smile slips onto my face. “But you understand. God…she’s been gone so long, but sometimes it feels so fresh, you know?” I pull my legs up, hug my knees. “Anyway, when I turned thirty, I looked at my life and said, ‘Is this really what she’d want for me?’ And the answer was no.” I blush. “I can’t believe I’m telling you all this.”

  His grin sweetens. “I’m told I’m a good listener, although the two old-fashioneds probably helped.”

  My blush deepens. He’s had one cup of water and that’s it. Maybe he doesn’t drink? Maybe he thinks I’m a lush.

  “Deep breath, Di,” he says in response to my flustered look. I grip my knees tighter at his word choice. It’s what my mom would always tell me when I started getting worked up. His face softens. “I’m sorry. I promise I’m only an insensitive jerk on Mondays.” He grins.

  That makes me laugh. “Today’s Tuesday.”

  His face contorts comically. “Hmm. In that case, feel free to tell me to mind my own business.”

  We smile together.

  It feels good, talking to him like this, relaxing into the conversation as if we were old friends. I turn my head, leaning my temple against my knees. “I’m writing a novel. But! Before you ask, no, I don’t want to talk about it right now.”

  He chuckles. “Fair enough.”

  The captain comes on, mumbling barely intelligibly. I focus on trying to parse out what he’s saying and happen to notice Santiago shifting in his seat. He puts his hands on either side of his thighs and uses his arms to push his body back. It makes my heart beat faster, and I have to look away. It was the tiniest of movements, adjustments, but something about it…

  “Guess we’re finally going to take off, after all,” he says, drawing my attention back to him.

  I push my legs down, fold them into lotus position. Nod.

  “I think it’s admirable that you’re writing a book.”

  I laugh. “I doubt it’ll be the next classic. Besides. It’s a lot harder than I thought it would be.” I blow air through my teeth. “Sometimes it feels like I’m slowly pulling off pieces of my soul and patching it into prose.”

  “Wow, Di. That’s beautiful.”

  “What?” I flush scarlet. “Not really.”

  “Even if you never publish it, just writing it is an accomplishment. Most people get set on a fixed path, like the streetcar, and deviating from that isn’t easy. It takes effort and a lot of guts.”

  “And what are you, some kind of life coach who proofreads on the side?”

  He chuckles, shakes his head, as if trying to find his voice again, smiling broadly. “Hardly. Let’s just say I know what it’s like to feel ‘stuck,’ as your anthem says. Trust me.”

  * * * *

  The rest of our delay and the flight fly by in more ways than one. Not only is Santiago nice to look at, he makes great conversation, and unlike Stephen, he’s knowledgeable on a wide range of topics and actually seems interested in what I have to say. Before I know it, the plane is taxiing, but all I want is to spend a few more minutes with him, lulled by the richness of his voice.

  “Where are you staying?” he asks as I fumble for my phone.

  “At the hotel holding the conference. Riverside.”

  “Me too.”

  I’ve been focused on my phone, head bent, but when I hear those words, my head snaps up, my heart beating a little faster, butterflies floating in my stomach. “Oh, great,” I say, trying to sound disaffected but not sure I pull it off.

  “Do you want to share a cab? It’d be cheap—”

  My phone buzzes in my hand, cutting him off. “It’s my boss,” I say, looking at the incoming text messages. I sigh, exasperated, typing my response quickly.

  “Everything all right?”

  I look up; his eyes are filled with genuine concern, particularly surprising since he’s only known me a few hours. “Yeah. I had a meeting with my boss tomorrow afternoon, but she’s moved it up a day, and with our delay, it means I have to race off the plane and make the land-speed record from Kenner to the French Quarter.”

  He laughs, but it’s a softer, more muted laugh than his others. A disappointed laugh, perhaps. “I’ll see you later, then? I like to be one of the last off the plane.”

  My eyebrows furrow, and I cock my head, confused. “Even when you’re in first class?”

  He shrugs, flashes that disarming smile of his. He rubs his hands on his pants nervously. “Old habits die hard, right?”

  The plane pulls into the gate, and passengers start standing around us, reaching for items in overhead bins, shouldering bags.

  He grins, his eyes smiling along with his mouth. “I’ll see you soon, Di,” he says, offering a hand to help me stand.

  “I hope so,” I say, the words a whisper off my lips.

  Chapter Two

  When I’m getting my bags, in the taxi on the way to the hotel, when I check into my room, all throughout my meeting with my boss, I keep thinking about Santiago: picturing his smile, hearing his laugh, imagining what it would feel like to comb my fingers through his hair. Even when I speak to Stephen to tell him I’ve arrived safely, I imagine Santiago’s voice instead.

  I’m a terrible person.

  I need to unwind. Get my mind off a man I shouldn’t be thinking about in passing, let alone obsessing over. So I find myself in the hotel bar, determined to find solace in hard liquor. This hotel hosts a lot of conventions, so its bar is sophisticated, classy, even romantic—if you have someone with you. Stephen never comes with me to ECAC. It bothered me when we first married, but now I see it as a break from him. I know that’s a horrible thing to say, but it’s the truth. I find myself actually looking forward to a big hotel room all to myself and so
me girl time with my convention buddy, Melanie.

  This year, with the convention in New Orleans—where Stephen and I met—I’m extra glad he stayed in Houston. It was hard enough to return to the city I once called home, which I never thought I’d leave, and which I’ve stayed away from for over ten years. If Stephen were here, it’d be too much.

  The bar is roughly square, with a circle cut in its center. Around the perimeter of the square, fed by a few steps, are the counter-high tables and chairs where Melanie and I sit. Nestling the square and rounding into the circle is the bar itself, gleaming with lights and glass and metal—very modern. Scattered around the floor within this circle, in front of the bar, are lower chairs and tables, draped in heavy tablecloths whose slight shimmer catches the dim light. A piano sits off to one corner. Directly opposite the bar, on the same level as the circle, is the entrance, the door propped open to entice new customers. No one sits at the piano, but a light jazz plays low over the stereo from hidden surround-sound speakers in the ceiling and walls.

  From our perch, we can observe nearly the entire room. Melanie sips her martini—the only thing she ever drinks—scoping the crowd. She and I aren’t friends in the traditional sense, considering we live in totally different parts of the country (I in Houston and she in Chicago) and don’t really keep in touch, seeing each other at each annual ECAC. It’s kind of like that movie, Cedar Rapids, where the insurance salespeople all hook up at the conference. We get our nails done at the spa, hang out for a few drinks (usually leaning against each other as we stumble back up to our rooms), sit together at a seminar or two, then each go back to our respective lives. I like Melanie, but she’s the type of person who probably has dozens of friends back home, and with four kids and a husband, not to mention a career. It’s not like she has time for me.

  Melanie is only on her second martini, but I’m pushing past my third cocktail. Neither of us have said much to each other, simply drinking and staring out at the room, observing the few other souls huddled over their drinks. The convention doesn’t start officially until tomorrow, so the crowd is a little thinner than normal.

  Finally, Melanie leans back in her seat, drink in her hand, and looks at me. “Did you and Stephen finally call it quits?”

  “What?” I ask, wondering if I’m already drunk, though I’m not. Although I’m petite, I’ve never been a lightweight.

  She points to my left hand, which holds my drink. Some combination of bourbon and ginger beer and lime. “No ring?”

  I glance down at my hand. Shift my drink to my right to get a better look, even though I know what she means and don’t need to. “My diamond was loose, so the jeweler suggested I have it fixed right away or I risked losing the stone.”

  “Uh-huh,” Melanie says, eyeing me suspiciously, waving her martini glass. “And what’s the excuse for the band?”

  “Oh,” I say, stroking my left ring finger. “Honestly, it’s a little snug in the summer, so I’m having it resized while they fix the other ring.”

  Melanie laughs. She has kind of an annoying laugh, like a songbird with a bad cough. “Sure. Convention hookup strategy number one: ditch the ring. So, which guy in here you taking up to your room tonight?”

  “Shut up!” I say, slapping her playfully on the arm. “I couldn’t do that to Stephen.”

  Melanie scrunches up her face and finishes off her martini. “If he loves you so much, why doesn’t he ever come with you?”

  We’ve been through this before, and she knows it annoys me, talking about him. In fact, one of the rules we established early on was to keep talk of family to a minimum. ECAC is about girl time, not the dreariness of our everyday lives. Besides, it isn’t like she’s ever brought her husband with her, either.

  She realizes I’m not going to answer and points into the crowd. “Oooh. What about him!”

  I follow Melanie’s finger. At one of the low tables toward the center of the circle, three guys sit, two of them drinking beer, the other some kind of deep-brown liquor, perhaps a cocktail or dark rum. Santiago.

  “Oh my God,” I say, forcing myself to look away, hoping he hasn’t seen us pointing and staring.

  “What?” Melanie says, joking, attempting to drink from her glass and realizing it’s empty. “I’m right? You were totally checking them out!”

  “No,” I say, pulling her closer so I can whisper in her ear even though no one is remotely nearby to overhear us. “That’s the guy I texted you about earlier. From the plane!”

  “Which one? The one in the middle?”

  “Yeah.”

  Melanie starts giggling. “You totally need to go over there, then!”

  “What? No! Are you crazy?”

  Melanie pushes herself up. She can’t hold her liquor nearly as well as I can, so she’s already a little wobbly. I grab her arm, partially to support her, partially to stop her. “Well, if you’re not going to talk to him, then I am.”

  “No. Wait. You can’t.”

  Melanie is apparently making enough commotion to draw the attention of the three men at the table. Santiago notices me and smiles. Crap. I offer a tense smile in reply, then turn to Melanie, trying to help her back into her seat.

  I sigh. “Okay. If I promise to go over there and talk to him, will you behave yourself?”

  “I can try,” she says, blinking at me and giggling.

  I roll my eyes, down the last of my drink, straighten my shirt, and head toward the guys’ table. I feel like I’m in high school all over again: the nerd approaching the jocks’ table on a dare. Once I’m a few steps away, Santiago’s friends seem to get the hint and disperse, so when I sink into the seat across from him, we’re alone.

  “I wondered how long it’d take you to come over here and talk to me,” he says flirtatiously.

  “I thought the guy was supposed to approach the girl.”

  He shrugs. “I’m progressive.” Grins. “What’re you drinking?”

  I nod toward the glass in front of him. “Whatever you are.”

  He winks. “That’s my girl.” Signals for the waitress.

  I shiver when he calls me “his girl,” but immediately feel ridiculous. I’m a married woman and not even the most attractive female in the bar. Melanie, for example, is far more beautiful than me: tall, with long legs and gorgeous, straight, silky auburn hair I’m insanely jealous of. My hair is the blandest shade imaginable, murky like the Mississippi, and can never decide if it wants to be wavy or straight, forcing me to fight with it every morning just to make it halfway presentable.

  “Two more Cuba Libres,” Santiago says as soon as the waitress draws near. She nods and scoots off. So he’s not a teetotaler. Good to know.

  “A Cuban, drinking rum and Coke. Really?” I say with a playful grin in spite of myself.

  He shrugs. “It’s hard to beat Coke and good, dark rum with a twist of lime.”

  As we wait for the waitress to bring our drinks, I lean back in my seat, looking at him. God, he’s something. It’s hard to tell how tall he is, not that it really matters, since nearly everyone is taller than me. Remembering his legs from the plane, I estimate he has to be well under six feet—probably between five-eight and five-ten—certainly shorter than Stephen. Which means kissing might not be nearly as awkward, especially when I’m wearing heels. Fuck. I’m thinking of kissing him. I can’t be thinking of kissing him.

  I’m trying so hard to remove the image of our lips pressing together, of his arms wrapping around me, that I shut my eyes tightly and find I’m unable to speak.

  “You okay?” he asks with genuine sincerity.

  I pinch the bridge of my nose and open one eye at a time, spying the waitress approaching with our drinks. “Just thirsty.”

  Santiago finishes his drink and trades it for a fresh one. I watch as the waitress sets mine in front of me and disappears again.

  “Well, there you go. Problem solved,” he says with the subtlest of winks.

  I nod, still unable to speak, pulling the
tumbler toward me, leaning forward, and taking a tentative sip. “Oooh, that’s good,” I say, finding my voice. This is top-shelf stuff.

  He smiles. “What can I say? I’m a rum man.”

  I want to turn and see what Melanie is up to, but there’s no way for me to glance back without being rude. And the last thing I want is to make Santiago think I’m not interested. I down half my drink in one gulp, hoping to loosen my tongue. I wouldn’t consider myself outgoing, but I’m not super shy either. Yet, somehow, sitting in this bar with Santiago, the burn of rum hovering in the back of my throat, I’m suddenly hesitant. Especially since he’s leaned back in his chair, drink cradled in one hand, looking at me. No, not looking. Admiring.

  I feel the heat rising in my cheeks; it could be the alcohol, but I know better. I glance at the door, as if subconsciously looking for an escape, and notice a group of women enter. The convention sluts, it looks like, all dressed in clothes far too tight and revealing to mean anything other than an open invitation. Santiago notices I’m distracted and turns his head to follow my gaze. I watch, in my peripheral vision, to see how long his eyes rest on the long legs and firm breasts of the entering women before returning to my drink, swallowing the rest quickly.

  “You know, it’s better if you savor it.” He raises his eyebrows, a faint smile slipping across his face.

  My cheeks are definitely flushed now, my head buzzing. I nudge my chin in the general direction of the bar, where the women have gathered, leaned over, asses in the air, like bitches in heat.

  “Why me?” I ask, the alcohol pushing me to blurt out what I intended to only think.

  He looks at me with one brow raised, sipping his drink and studying me, clearly amused.

  If I didn’t have the alcohol dampening my brain, I probably wouldn’t say what I say next, gesturing a bit too wildly with my glass, ice tinkling. “I think we both know you could have any woman here if you wanted her.”

  He leans back, grinning at me. “There’s only one woman in this bar I want.”

  Now I’m definitely blushing, and not just a faint flush from the liquor, either; I’m talking crimson from clavicle to eyebrow. The initial alcoholic euphoria, enough to lubricate my mouth clears, and I push myself up. “Santiago, thank you for the drink, but…” I offer what I hope is a smile. “I have to go.”