Page 18 of Mr Best Friend's Brother Grump

“Cuba, of course!”

“Ah, of course.” My mind wanders to a picture of Rosa and I walking down a street in Havana, holding hands. My overactive imagination is infuriating but the image makes me smile. “I haven’t been there yet. It’s on my list too.” I laugh at myself for having such intimate thoughts and quickly change the subject. “I can tell you love your job too… You have a wonderful rapport with the people at the center. Really... I can see you care… a lot. It’s not just a job for you, is it?” Rosa sips her coffee and smiles at me, her head to one side. I drink some water then say, “... And you’re a great dancer.”

Rosa laughs. “I’m just a beginner. Still learning. Raul is a very good teacher and always makes his partner look good… I think dancing is the most wonderful way to connect.” Her eyes gleam as she searches for the best way to express her thoughts. “With your partner. With the music. And with yourself. It’s communication on so many levels… That is the art of salsa.” We are both distracted by a couple walking by hand in hand. Rosa turns her attention back to me. “You’re right. I love the center,” she says. “And the people. It’s all about the people and community. There is always something new. A new project or class or…” Her dark intelligent eyes reflect the light from the window. “The side of the building. Where the wall is bare brick." She sits up straight, using her hands in enthusiastic explanation. "We are getting the whole wall painted with a fantastic mural. It’s going to be amazing.”

“I’ll need to come back and photograph it when it’s done,” I say leaning back in my chair and feeling a bit more relaxed.

“Yes. That would be great! I was thinking of maybe approaching a TV producer, you know, from an arts channel, to do a documentary or something. I need to research this and get a proposal together. It’s exciting… We have a team who are going to film it anyway. It would be wonderful to tell that story to a wider audience. And for the artists to get recognition for their work.”

The food arrives: an array of tasty dishes with mouthwatering aromas arrests my senses all at once. Rosa lights up as the table is covered with the various savory delights. She talks me through each one, then we help ourselves, heaping spoonfuls onto our plates. I watch the look of appreciation on Rosa’s face at the flavors of each dish. Watching Rosa enjoy food as a sensual pleasure reminds me how opposite she is to Ingrid.

I know it's not fair to compare, but when Ingrid and I used to go out for food, it was never like this. She always made a comment about how she needed to order a starter size and not a main because she needed to count her calories. She would scrape off even the smallest piece of fat from a piece of bacon and complain that she had asked, specifically, for ‘lean’ and this, she would point to her half-eaten meal, was far from ‘lean’. I get it. She’s a model. It's her job to fit the standardized measurements demanded by the fashion business. But eating out was hardly ever a relaxing, pleasurable experience. The only place she didn’t make a fuss was one of those trendy juice bars where items are weighed, put into a blender, and served with a straw. Where is the enjoyment in that? And it's not food. I don’t get it. If it can be sucked through a straw, it's a drink, surely. Of course, I didn't articulate any of these thoughts at the time. I just accepted things as they were. If your girlfriend is a model, that's how it is.

Having lunch with Rosa is a luxuriant sensory experience. She has sauce on her face and all I can think about is kissing it off. I give myself a mental kick as a reminder she is completely off-limits. Too young. And my kid sister’s best friend. Rosa is a no-go zone I won’t ever act on. But she is so much fun to watch.

Chapter 15

Rosa

I almost fell over when we were standing outside the center and Nathan asked me to have lunch with him. It was the best and the worst situation. The best, because we would get to hang out together alone and the worst because we would get to hang out together alone. I am still hungover and sore, but the idea of food revives my spirits. I duck into reception to let Inez know that I’ll be out at lunch, then working from home. But I’ll have my phone on. She narrows her eyes and says, “Ahhh si, señorita. Entiendo todo. I understand… everything.” She winks and smiles at me in a way that makes me blush. Or that could still be the effects of last night’s cocktails and shots. Yes. I had forgotten about the shots of tequila. Oof.

I suggest a restaurant close by. Cuban, of course. The food is good, and the people are friendly. We walk together, side by side, down the street. I’m trying to think of something insightful to say, but my brain is frazzled. I get the feeling Nathan is shy. We arrive at Mama Cubana and sit at my favorite table in the window. I am so hungry, I could eat the entire menu, so when Nathan suggests I order for both of us, well, that’s a dream come true. Not only is he handsome and sexy, he can also read my mind.

I check myself. Giving my imagination a hefty kick as a reminder that this gorgeous man, sitting opposite me in my favorite restaurant, is completely off-limits. Nathan is Kendra’s brother and we have already had the conversation about how awkward it would be for one of her friends to be romantically entangled with him. It would be too weird, wouldn’t it? And, even if he was the least bit interested in me, I remind myself, there’s also the Ingrid issue.

She clearly wants him back. And, just look at her. She’s a model with legs up to her armpits and all that hair. Kendra’s right. They are beautiful people. Their photos are in Vogue and Hello magazine and Elle, and I’ve seen some in Cosmo too, looking so cute together. Not that I have a scrapbook or anything. But like Ingrid kept telling me last night, they are meant to be. It’s written in the stars. A vague recollection of the previous night wafts through my mind, of Ingrid showing me a YouTube clip of her interviewing a man in a turban. “He’s never wrong,” Ingrid mouths at me because the techno music is too loud to hear what she is saying. Was that before or after the tequila shots? I don’t know. But I do know that Ingrid is the opposite of me.

I realize that I am staring at Nathan, so I turn to look out of the window at a couple walking hand in hand, which doesn’t help. I’m suddenly sad but try not to show it. Why am I sad about something so obviously out of my reach? He is not for you, is my mantra. I will endeavor to practice saying this out loud every morning. What is wrong with me? I smile and we talk about work. Safe unemotional subjects. I tell him about the center and the mural that is going to be painted on the outside wall. It’s going to be amazing.

Nathan does this all the time, I expect. Lunch with a client, or subject, after a shoot. It’s usual for professional people to interact socially with other sorts of normal people. Me, for instance. He is just being nice, inviting me out to lunch. I feel special, singled out, but I bet tomorrow, he will have lunch with someone else who he has been photographing. Perhaps it will be Ingrid. I hope not. Or another stunning model. Depression creeps in, but I fight it.

The food arrives which lifts my mood. It is all delicious, tangy and tasty, and I try not to shovel it, aware of Nathan and his smooth sophistication. His designer shirt and stylish leather jacket.

There’s probably sauce around my mouth. I check that I haven’t spilled any on my T-shirt. Thankfully not.

I should feel uncomfortable having lunch with my best friend’s unattainable, attractive older brother, but I don’t. He is lovely. And charming. And polite. I love his hair and the way he combs his fingers through it. And his hands are so beautiful. Perfectly manicured. And tanned. Workers hands. Muscular man’s hands. And I physically shake off the idea of those hands caressing my body, starting at my toes and working their way up… I swallow hard. He is not for you. I repeat. Not. For. You. Rosa Martinez.

After lunch, Nathan pays at the counter. We walk out to the street together.

“I had a great time,” I say, a sad admission of its end. I look up at Nathan’s handsome face.

“Me too…” Nathan says softly. Then, as if he has remembered something important, he says, abruptly, “I, um, I’d better get back.” He turns to leave.

I say goodbye and begin to walk away when Nathan calls after me, “I’m getting a cab. I could drop you off somewhere… your apartment? If you want?”

I could walk back to my apartment. It's only a couple of blocks away. The exercise would probably do me good. But the thought of a few more minutes with Nathan sways my decision. A taxi for hire approaches, stops and we both get into the back seat. Nathan turns to me, and I tell the driver my address. The taxi drives slowly along the narrow streets in between the parked cars on either side. When we get to the corner we should turn down, emergency service vehicles block the way. The road is closed.

The driver pulls over and I get out to face a barrage of noise and commotion.

“We’ll wait here…” says Nathan, “… while you find out what’s going on.”

Up the street, I can see two fire trucks and police cars. There’s an ambulance and uniformed personnel who are putting up more barriers to stop people going through. I shout to be heard, above the wailing sirens, to a police officer who is placing out road cones.

“I live here… What’s happening?”

“Sorry Miss, it’s too dangerous. We can’t let anyone through. The street is being evacuated,” says the officer, who stops his activity to come over and talk to me.

“Why? What’s going on?” I feel like a little kid in need of reassurance.

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