“Miss, are you okay?”

“I’m so, so very sorry,” I answer, still in shock, staring at the vacant spot where our rental car had been parked seconds ago. I look at my hands, and I realize I’m trembling.

The manager kneels in front of me and takes my hands in his.

“Take a deep breath. Or three,” he says with a small, sympathetic smile.

His skin is warm, and I do as he says, hypnotized by his startling bright eyes. He makes me inhale and exhale deeply for a solid minute and I stop shaking.

Brad’s final words to me echo in my head, and I realize what just happened. I wait for the dread or despair to hit me, but somehow, there’s only an overwhelming sense of relief washing over me.

Brad is gone. Will he come back? I wonder if the manager of the place might call the police if he does, since he destroyed restaurant property when he walked out of here.

Why couldn’t we talk it out? Why couldn’t he listen to me for once?

All I asked for was a little time.

I know I should feel sad, but there’s a voice in my head that keeps saying, this is your chance to start over. Take it, Ines. Don’t be a fool.

“Is there anything I can do for you?” the manager asks as he stands up, placing his large hands on the table. I see from the corner of my eye he’s wearing black jeans and black boots. He has a black leather wristband around his left wrist.  My eyes travel up his strong arms, and then I finally take a good look at his face.

I could barely look at him earlier or even a minute ago, when he was telling me to breathe.

I was too afraid, too ashamed.

Fucking Brad. Fuck him for making me feel ashamed when he’s the biggest tool in the box of asshole tools.

The man frowns, worry deepening his bright gaze. I catch a glimpse of his green eyes so beautiful against his dark skin tone, but then they cloud over. He breaks eye contact and calls for one of the waiters who’s cleaning up the mess left by my husband.

“I’m so sorry,” I mutter again, but I’m afraid he doesn’t hear me. Everyone went back to their meals or resumed their duties after my husband’s dramatic exit, and the restaurant is once again alive with chatter and kitchen noises.

I’m glad everyone’s attention is no longer focused on me, but I sense some of the people staring. Or maybe it’s my subconscious telling me so. I’m so deeply embarrassed.

I don’t even register the manager telling one of the waiters to collect my things, I only realize that once I see a couple of them collecting my luggage and everything that Brad threw onto the sidewalk.

One of the waiters collects the scattered pieces of my vase and places it in the plastic bag it came from. Part of me wants to stand up and relieve them from doing something I should be doing, but I can’t move.

“I think I’m in shock,” I say mostly to myself.

“Here, you should drink some water,” the manager says, sliding a glass of water closer to me.

I bark out a laugh. “I’m afraid I need something stronger.”

“What would you like?”

“Bourbon?” I ask, lifting my eyes to look at him again.

His lips curl into a small smile, and I’m surprised I even notice the gleam in his eyes. I want to think he’s trying to cheer me up, but the propensity to flirt seems to be a local trait. As a matter of fact, the friendliness and the flirty attitude of Albuquerque’s male population was one of the things that piled on the list of doubts I had about my husband. It was impossible not to draw a comparison. Every man I’ve interacted with in the last few days has been nothing but a gentleman, while my husband kept acting like an ass.

“Brand?”

“I’m not picky,” I say with a shrug. “Again, I’m so very sorry about…everything,” I tell him, gazing into his eyes.

He smiles, unfazed, and little by little I take in the other details of his face. He has longish, straight black hair pulled away from his face, a wide forehead, slightly pointy nose, and high cheekbones. His lips are full and wide, and a barely there scruff covers his strong jaw. His colors are stunning—pitch-black hair with dark caramel skin and green eyes that are as bright as jade. His features are beyond distinguished and handsome.

He even smells good, like citrus and vanilla. The man is so unbelievably gorgeous and just as I think that, he smiles at me.

Did he catch me staring? Can he read my mind? Did I say it out loud? I wouldn’t be surprised if the answer was yes to either one of the last two options. After all, New Mexico is known as the land of enchantment. They even put the slogan on their tags. I wouldn’t be surprised if a few locals had one or two magic tricks up their sleeve.

“Coming right up,” he says with a delightful smirk just as two waiters return with my things. One of them rolls my carry-on luggage closer to me, while the other hands me the bag with the shattered vase, a bottle of water, my phone charger, and a pair of sandals.

I fish in my wallet for a few dollars and I hand them to the two of them.

“Thank you,” I mutter, trying to hide my embarrassment.

“No worries, ma’am,” says one of the waiters. They both nod politely and thank me as they walk away.

I stare at my cold burger to avoid looking around me to avoid any attention from the other patrons. I take my phone out of my bag to see if Brad has called or sent his first apology text—something he’s done many times in the past.

We didn’t fight that often, but when we did, it was always blowouts of epic proportions. Of course, it usually happened away from unassuming strangers, not like this. I look at the time and realize I still have time to call a car, go to the airport, and board the plane home, but I don’t want to. I have no desire to go back to him.

The attractive manager returns, placing a glass of bourbon on the table.

“Thank you,” I breathe out, as if he’s just handed me the Holy Grail chalice. I take a swig of my drink and I almost choke on it when I see he’s still here, looking at me with a bemused look on his face. I manage not to cough, covering my lips with my fingers, and then tilt my head in question.

“I was wondering…would you like another one?” he asks, pointing at the burger that’s been sitting in front of me for over thirty minutes. “On the house, of course.”

“Oh, no. That’s not necessary. It’s really nice of you, but I’m afraid I can’t eat right now. Thank you again, and sorry for inconveniencing you so much this evening. I’m sure it’s the last thing you need during dinner rush.”

A flash of white teeth takes me by surprise and he breathes out a laugh. The sound is so light and cheerful, it instantly makes me smile. I find reassurance in this stranger’s laugh and it shocks me.

I should be sad, terrified, worried I have done the wrong thing, a horrible thing.

Instead, the more time passes, the more I know deep in my bones that the implosion of my marriage was a long time coming, and I’m not sorry in the slightest. It’s strange to feel so relieved. It feels like I have just escaped the monster I foolishly let lock me up in an ivory tower.

“It was no problem at all. But I don’t want you drinking on an empty stomach,” he says after what seems like forever, eyes locked on mine. I blush, and I feel a tiny bit guilty for ogling him the way I am.

He’s perfect. How he stood up to my husband replays in my mind over and over.

Fucking Brad. How fucking sad that a complete stranger had to defend me. I will never, ever forgive him for this.

“I’ve been known to hold my alcohol but thank you. I appreciate it.”

“I have to go back to work. If there’s anything you need, please let me know,” he tells me in a low voice and gives me an adorable, shy smile.

I think he’s about to leave, but then he stretches a hand toward me.

“I’m Esteban.”

“Ines,” I say, and he shivers as my hand squeezes his. His eyes widen and his bottom lip trembles. What’s wrong? Am I suddenly scary to look at? I could have sworn he was checking me out a while ago.

He notices my frown and straightens up, and the panicked look in his eyes vanishes, replaced by a smile that illuminates his entire face.

“Nice to meet you, Ines. Let me know if you need any help.”

“Will do. Thank you.”

Esteban walks away, and for some reason I can’t peel my eyes away from him, so much so that for the next few minutes I observe his interactions with both the wait and kitchen staff. He catches me looking at him from time to time, when he looks up from the restaurant seating chart in front of him. I can only assume that’s what he’s looking at, having worked in a restaurant back in my college years, and knowing all too well that seating in a restaurant requires precision and strategy if you don’t want to put your wait staff through hell. Strangely enough, when he catches me looking at him, I don’t feel the impulse to look away. He’s the one who averts his gaze, eventually. This happens at least three different times before I tell myself that this is not the time to ogle strangers and I need to focus. It looks like I’m going to live out of a carry-on luggage for the time being, and realization hits me. I need to find a place to stay.

Right now, I’m thankful that my husband and I don’t share bank accounts, and the only thing we’ll have to fight over is the house…and whatever else we’ve purchased together through the years. I keep searching inside of me for something that tells me I’m doing the wrong thing, and I just can’t find any reason to pick up the phone and tell him that I made a mistake, and I’ll see him at home.

I’m done.

A waiter comes over to my table. I end up ordering fries smothered with cheese and green chile because I feel bad for occupying the table for so long.

I go over and over the list of things I need to be doing in my head, but I can’t bring myself to move or do anything. I stare at the New Mexico sky as it turns from bright blue to a darker shade tinged with purple tones. Only then do I realize how late it’s getting. I glance at the time on my phone.

My flight is about to leave without me. Have I really been sitting here for an hour and a half?

The sudden buzz of my phone makes me jump, and Brad’s text pops up on the home screen.

 

Brad: I meant what I said. I’m done with you.

 

Me: Okay.

 

Brad: Fuck you. Seven years of marriage and that’s all you have to say?

 

Keep your cool, I tell myself, but the blood in my veins is already boiling. What does he think this is going to solve? Cussing, calling me names? Does he think that’s the right way to make me hurry back home?

 

Me: I don’t know what else to say. I don’t want to do this anymore.

 

Brad: I’ll fucking divorce you and leave you with nothing.

 

---

Not so fast, buddy. I put my share of money into the house.

Me: Okay. Should I wait for you to draft the papers, then?

 

Brad: Yeah. I’m done with you, bitch. You can go fuck off.

 

I refrain from replying to his last text. Anything I’d say would just egg him on.

I knew my words were going to piss him off. He could never deal with me whenever I kept my cool.