She froze. Doña Elvira also approached, trying to smooth things over with platitudes about “misunderstandings” and “the nerves of the moment,” but Andrés had already asked for the bill for our table—only ours—and was helping me put on my coat.
We left the restaurant together. It was cool outside, and the streetlights looked more honest than all the crystal chandeliers in that place. Andrés took me to eat empanadas at a simple place, one of those where you sit on plastic stools and no one looks at your dress. There, between bites, he told me that he’d been noticing things for weeks: Camila’s comments about the way I spoke, about my clothes, about “when I was going to learn how to navigate different social circles.” He said he’d turned a blind eye because he wanted to believe it was just a phase, but that night had been the last straw.
Continued on the next page
