Fiona and Jane(32)

“Ona,” her mother’s voice rasped. “Call me, okay, honey?” A pause. “Don’t forget, tonight is the deadline.” Another pause. “This is Mommy.”

Fiona stuffed the phone back into her purse and made her way down the block. She saw him first, before he noticed her approaching. Gabriel leaned against the wall next to the restaurant’s entrance. He had on the same newsboy hat. There was a slight chill in the air, but it wasn’t cold enough for a proper coat—he wore a black puffy vest over a long-sleeve button-down. They hugged, and Fiona smelled something woodsy and citrus on his neck. Gabriel was taller than she remembered, or maybe the heels she wore on Saturday had cut their height difference.

“Glasses,” she said. “Are those for real?” She lifted her hand to his eyes, index finger extended, as if she meant to tap on the lenses.

“I’m blind as a motherfucker,” he said. “Astigmatism and everything.”

“Reading by candlelight?”

“Damn, how old you think I am?” he said, laughing. “Watching TV like this.” He held up his palms an inch in front of his nose. “Only reason I’m not a NASA astronaut, you know. Otherwise I’d be up there, discovering aliens and whatnot.”

“I thought maybe you wouldn’t recognize me . . .”

“You look nice. Did I say that already?”

She smiled. “We were a little bit not sober the other night.”

“I don’t black out when I drink,” he said. “I always remember everything.” The way he said it made her blush.

They went in and followed the hostess to the middle of the dining room. The walls in the restaurant were painted dark red, and votives on the tables cast dots of light through the room, little fires reflected in the mirrors that hung on the walls. They sat down with the menus.

“My kids are reading Love in the Time of Cholera right now,” he said after a moment. “You know the part when he begs the restaurant owner to sell him the mirror?”

Fiona looked up and shook her head.

“Oh, never mind.”

“Tell me,” she said. “Please.”

“I can see the side of your face in there,” he said. Fiona turned to the beam next to the table, where an oval hand mirror with an ivory handle hung from a nail. “So brother is mad in love with this woman, Fermina. She’s married to a rich doctor, he’s doing his thing with other girls, whatever. But he spots her at a restaurant and after she leaves, get this.” He paused for effect. There was that gap in his smile. “He buys the mirror off the wall because her reflection was in it.”

“Can I ask you something?” said Fiona.

“Don’t say you thought that story was corny.”

“What’s your last name?”

“Rivera,” he said. “What’s yours?”

“That story wasn’t corny,” she said. “It’s romantic.”

“Colombianos, man.” He struck his chest with a fist, as if stabbing a knife into his heart.

The waitress came by, and they ordered. Fiona asked him if he was from New York, and Gabriel told her his parents still lived in the Bronx, same apartment where he grew up. “Same old sofa, too. Cushions smashed, but Mami would kill you if you try to take the plastic covers off.”

Fiona smiled, thinking of her own mother, how she used to shrink-wrap everything, too. The TV remote, the cream-colored lampshade that hung in the living room, the dining room chair cushions. Every time you sat down to eat you risked plastic burn. One time Mom had tried to wrap up the Nintendo controllers, but Conrad protested, and for once, she’d relented, let him mash away on the buttons with his greasy thumbs.

“You been out here long?” Gabriel asked.

She told him she was thinking of moving back to LA, even though it wasn’t true. Not really.

“For what?” he said. “Earthquakes to split your building in half. Sitting in traffic for hours?”

“Don’t you ever get tired of New York?” she said. “It’s so humid in the summer, and in the winter you’re walking around wearing a sleeping bag. For months, just miserable.”

“I like the seasons,” he said. “We need markers, you know? But worse, no Boricua out there.”

“What about—what’s his name?—on the Dodgers?”

“That don’t count. I’m talking regular folks,” Gabriel said. “Plus I heard people fake as hell in LA.”

“Oh, right. Like there’s no one fake in New York.”

Gabriel forked a slice of plantain from his plate into his mouth and chewed. “True, true,” he said after a moment. “But, girl, you can’t leave now. You just met me!”

Fiona shook her head.

“Why you laughing?” He feigned a hurt expression.

“My mom wants to go into business with me,” she said. “But it sounds like a total scam.”

“What is it?” he asked. “Nigerian prince with a frozen bank account hit her up?”

“Chinese people,” she said vehemently, “are way more shady than any Nigerians.”

“Word?” Gabriel raised his eyebrows. “You’re Chinese? Do I need to watch my wallet?”

“My ex,” she started to say, but her phone interrupted, bleating its robotic jingle. “Sorry,” she said, unzipping her clutch to reach inside. “Thought I had it on vibrate— Oh, actually—” Fiona pressed a button to silence the ringing. “I’m sorry, it’s my mom. I actually do need to talk to her, for just a minute.”