In class that afternoon, my mind wanders to the night before. I took part in a reading, and afterward everyone went to a bar. I had eagerly signed up, knowing I’ve been far less focused on both writing and getting to know my cohort than I should be. So far, almost all my attention has been devoted to Matías, and to how to act around him whenever we were together in public. “Want to go for a walk first?” Matías asked. He led me away from downtown, in the direction of my apartment.

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“The Midwestern landscape is almost obscenely demure,” he said, diverting the question. “But there’s something oddly thrilling about it.” Soon we were standing in front of my building. “Why don’t we just stay in tonight?” he suggested.

I was disappointed. I wanted to go out with the others after the reading, my first in this town. But we were already back at my place. Besides, it was always awkward to be in a group setting together. I never knew how to interact with Matías around other people, how to pretend to be “just friends” without seeming unnaturally detached. “Okay,” I said.

“Great, I’m going to the hotel to pack for Chicago. I’ll be back in an hour.”

My mind now crackles with questions. What did he do in that hour he was gone last night? Why didn’t he want to go to the bar? Why hasn’t he called since leaving? Why wasn’t he on the train with everyone else?

By Saturday morning I still haven’t heard from him. I call Renata and it goes straight to her voice mail, meaning she’s either working a weekend shift or asleep. I then email Matías. “I need to talk to you. Call me as soon as you get this. I hate that you don’t have a cell phone.”

My head spins with images of him and Claire gallivanting around Chicago. Feeding each other bites off small plates in restaurants. Having hotel shower sex. Him inviting her to Buenos Aires, her tossing her head back in delight before accepting. Later they’ll laugh at the thought of me, how cute I was to believe that I was anything more than a fling.

The spinning is out of control and I know it would help to get to the nearest Twelve Step meeting—any kind. “It’s all the same,” Richard said on my first day at the Ledge, and by now I understand what he meant. But instead of looking up meetings, I scroll through my phone to find the number of a Lebanese med student I met at a a coffee shop last week. I overheard him speaking in Arabic over the phone, which led to a conversation and him giving me his number. I send him a message: Any plans tonight?

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