Page 117 of The Sweet Spot

“What?”

“You’re gorgeous, but stupid.”

“Are you always this verbally abusive?”

“Only with people I care about.” She cups my cheek. “What’s that saying? Stupid is as stupid does? Luca, mas tens de perceber que merdá é esta.”You’ve got to figure this shit out.

Nathalia chats about our work project on the way back to the office, but my mind is on Wren. If splitting up with her was the right thing to do, I wouldn’t feel stuck. But I am stuck, my brain circling the situation like a problem that needs solving. It’s so obvious now: if I can’t trust her just because we’re apart, then I can’t trust her at all.

But that’s the thing. I do trust her.

I pause outside our building, motioning for Nathalia to go up without me. I have a couple of calls to make.

Wren

Mexico City is first. It’s one of Arlo’s favorite places on earth because of the architecture.

He’s been here a million times, but I’ve seen nothing like it, except for maybe in movies. He brought two extra cameras from New York—one that takes real film and a DSLR for me to use. This is a big deal—besides my phone, I’ve never had a camera of my own.

It’s fun being mentored by someone as passionate as Arlo Janvier.

We start with the Zócalo—a big main square also known as the Plaza de la Constitución—and explore the Templo Mayor, a famous 13th-century Aztec temple. We take turns posing in front of Diego Rivera’s murals at the Palacio Nacional and we eat our weight in tacos sudados and tamales and chicharrónes. I develop a cavity-inducing craving for the decadently sweet frutas en tacha, sweet potatoes in a brown sugar syrup.

Amias Jon meets us on our third day. He’s handsome all right, a moodycharacter with guyliner around his dark eyes and messy black hair. He’s more sarcastic than I anticipated, and maybe a little conceited. But his respect and admiration for Arlo are obvious, and the two of them regale me with stories of past trips and photoshoots they’ve worked on over the years. I can see my dad’s proud of him. We have dinner at a posh spot in the city that night, and the next morning Arlo and I tag along while Amias works his magic at a fancy fashion photo shoot at Chapultepec Castle.

I keep thinking about how Luca was afraid I’d be seduced by this guy, and I don’t know whether I want to laugh or cry about it.

Next is San Miguel de Allende, another architectural hotspot for Arlo. It’s like stepping back in time, with its cobblestoned streets and dramatic, towering churches.

“Luca would like it here,” I muse once, listening to Arlo monologue dreamily about the particulars of Parroquia de San Miguel Arcángel, a neo-Gothic church famous for its pink towers. “He’s really into architecture, too.”

Arlo pauses, cocking his head. “Have you spoken to him lately?”

I shake my head.

“You should send him a postcard or two,” he suggests thoughtfully. “That’s your thing, isn’t it? Postcards?” He wanders off to photograph a lizard perched on a nearby wall.

I can’t believe he remembers that.

I squint at the church’s towers, bringing my camera up to snatch a couple of shots. My confusion and anger at Luca melted into something softer and sadder now. I think about him all the time, which seems ironic seeing that he wanted me to focus on my travels andnothim.

He thought about me when he was traveling a few summers ago, didn’t he? We weren’t together then, hardly even knew each other, but he’d remembered our conversation and bought me postcards.

I find a tiny souvenir shop and buy a postcard of the church for Luca.

Arlo settles beside me on a bench, resting his hands on his knees. “Are you ready to talk about it?”

“He didn’t want me to cheat on him, so he broke up with me before I could.”

He frowns. “What?”

“Luca’s been traveling to Brazil every summer for years to work at his dad’s software company.”

“Right.” Arlo nods. “I think I remember him talking about that.”

“He was with this girl for a year or two, and it turned out that she was cheating on him, especially when he left town,” I say. “With his best friend.”

“Oof. That’s nasty.”

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