Page 16 of First Impressions of You

Only when I move away from her and stand in front of the white chest of drawers next to my window that she speaks again. “I’m sorry,” she says weakly. I stop immediately. I don’t think I’ve ever heard these words come out of Olivia’s mouth before. “I didn’t mean to call you a bitch.”

The earring I picked up suddenly feels heavier in my hand. It takes me double the time to lift to my ear and even longer to latch the back.

I’m about to apologize in turn, but then my phone starts vibrating on the bed, rescuing me from a conversation I’m not sure I want to have. Olivia hands me the phone, a clear defeat on her face signaling she doesn’t share my relief. I pick it up, but before sliding me finger on the screen to accept Cece’s call, I look at her. “Talk later?”

She nods and leave my room, and I feel even more of a bitch for it.

Cece and I went to the same school in the middle of nowhere, Missouri. We were the only Brazilians in the whole student body, and it took us exactly forty-eight minutes from the start of Freshman Week to find each other.

The dean had given a forty-five-minute speech to start off the international students’ orientation, and then they’d sent us on a break. They’d prepared a coffee break for us, with the same oatmeal cookies and sandwiches I’d become sick of eating less than a year later, orange juice, and coffee I almost spat out because it tasted like shit.

Julia had texted me nonstop that morning, but I kept my phone on silent and didn’t check it once, even though all I wanted was a distraction from the boring speech the dean was giving. As soon as she dismissed us, I called my sister.

I was in the middle of telling her how bored I was when someone tapped my shoulder.

“Brasileira?”

I don’t know who got more excited with the encounter. Me, Cece, or my sister on the phone. I told Julia I’d call her later and turned to the girl.

“Yes,” I answered in Portuguese. It felt so good using my native language with someone in person, it was almost like coming up for air after a long, exhausting swim. “I’m Luiza.”

“Cecilia,” she offered back. We hugged and became inseparable right there. Well, only truly inseparable a semester later, when we became roommates. But I’d very much like to forget that first semester and the terrible roommate I had.

When both of us decided to move to LA, we considered sharing an apartment. But then Julia told me she was coming for her specialization, and we made the decision to cut the umbilical cord, with a promise that we’d see each other all the time.

We don’t.

In the first months, we managed to meet at least once every two weeks, but these meetings became few and far between. I can’t remember exactly the last time we met, but it’s been well over a month.

As expected, Cece looks completely differently. A month is enough for her to have changed everything from the way she wears her nails to the color of her hair. As I approach the table she always manages to snatch for us at the busiest bakery in Burbank, her hair seems to be in its natural dark shade of brown, but once she turns to wave at me, I see the right side is dipped in a pastel shade of blue. And her locks are straight now, as opposed to their natural tight curls, cut sharply right above her shoulder.

I bet there’s at least two new tattoos on her arm since the last time I saw her.

“The pumpkin spice latte,” I say, holding her arm up by her wrist. “And…”

“Ouch,” she cries when I twist her arm too far to try to look for any other new pieces. “That’s the only one.”

“Bummer.” I flop on the seat across from her. “I expected more of you, Cece.”

As soon as we met, I told Cecilia I was fascinated by her tattoos. It was something I’d always wanted but never had the courage to do. I already have enough obstacles to overcome when it comes to being cast; I don’t need to add any more. But Cece never hesitated in getting new designs on her light brown skin. They became a part of her just as much as her septum piercing.

I eye the cup in front of me. “Milk and sugar?”

She rolls her eyes at my question, but I give her a shrug in response. I know I don’t really have to ask, but it does no harm confirming it. Cece learned very quickly that I can’t stand black coffee. She has a coffee-stained white T-shirt from our first Starbucks trip years ago to remind her of that.

Porto’s is her favorite bakery in the LA area, not only because it’s where we can find food that is the closest to what we get back home in Brazil, but also because she feels freer to speak Portuguese here without getting glared at. The bakery is filled with the musical sounds of different languages, and Portuguese floats by as just another note completing the music.

“How’s the job?” I ask her, taking a bite of the sandwich a waitress just delivered to our table. Cece ordered my favorite because she just knows me that well.

She lets out a long breath, and in that exhale, I read everything she’s not saying. Frustration, disappointment, exhaustion. I recognize it so easily because I feel the same way.

“I talked to my boss last week,” she tells me.

“And?” I ask carefully. The fact that she didn’t volunteer more information tells me all I need to know. I still hang on to a tiny fraction of hope.

“He told me what I already knew. He appreciates my work. I’m a great employee. I added so much to the team.” She lists off all the praise as if they were death sentences. “Unfortunately, he can’t afford to sponsor my visa at this time.”

I’m more pissed than sad for her. Even though we knew this was coming, he had told her the chances were good when he first hired her. He knew back then. He was aware that she needed this, and he still promised her something he knew he wouldn’t be able to deliver.

---