Waking Up in the Land of Glitter (4 page)

“This mural is the exact representation of us,” he said, pointing at the wall. “See these pebbles right here? I hiked to the
bottom of the Grand Canyon to get them, and had them blessed by a Havasupai elder. I make every action count, no matter what
state of mind I’m in. And look what you did to it.”

He flicked his finger at a garish orange smiley face that Star had painted over it.

“Everything to you is one big sloppy happy face, Estrella. And the fact that you did this over my artwork is symbolic.”

Tears began to stream down Star’s cheeks. He was laying it on thick but she knew she deserved it. She sniffled. “I’m sorry.”

“Sorry doesn’t cut it this time. Unlike you, Estrella,” he said, “I want foundation and labels in my life, and I want them
now. I don’t want to live wondering what is going to come my way. I want to make it happen for myself.”

Star used both hands to wipe her face and walked around to his other side. “I want that too. I just need to sort things out.
You know me. I’m unpredictable.”

Theo made a sour face, as if he didn’t buy her explanation.

“Go ahead and roll your eyes. Maybe I want to get out of here, and help make the world a better place. Make a difference in
people’s lives. Someday the right plan will hit me and I’ll be ready. So there.”

“Don’t you see?” Theo said, raising his voice. “Someday is
now
. When we first met, you bragged about becoming a famous artist, or joining the Peace Corps, and how you’d find a job in another
country. If you really wanted any of those lives, you wouldn’t be standing here. You’ve been out of college for three years
and you haven’t changed anything except your mind.”

Star put her hand on her hip and stepped back, offended. “I’ve changed lots of things!”

“Your hair and clothes don’t count.”

“Whatever. After all this time, you
really
don’t know anything about me.”

“No, mujer. For the first time, I see how you
really
are,” Theo said, shaking his head. “You have no idea what it’s like to suffer and sweat for something you’re passionate about.
To strain for a goal. You act like a free spirit, but don’t take any risks. And you know what? That makes you boring. And
predictable.”

Star hung her head low, angered by his words. Scared they were true. “What do you want me to say? Tell me how I can fix this.”

“Leave me alone for a while.”

There. He said the words he never thought would come out of his mouth. He bent down to unpack his supplies from the caddy
so she wouldn’t see his hands shake from the adrenaline. She touched his arm, and he brushed her off as if her fingertips
were toxic. An invisible thought bubble blinked over his head, filled with the image of her kissing some drunk asshole. The
passersby noticed the tension and dispersed to allow them to argue in private.

Slowly, Star leaned in to whisper in his ear. He had lied about the bad breath. She smelled delicious, as usual. He wished
they were fighting about his brand-new Latin Playboys T-shirt that she’d cut up into a halter top last week. As much as he
wanted to hate her, he ached for a kiss.

She used her index finger to tilt his face in her direction and studied his expression, just like he used to do to her. “Give
me a little credit, please? I help you with your art, I book all your shows, make all your flyers. No one believes in you
more than me. Isn’t that worth something?” Her dark eyes glistened under a set of curly black lashes.

Theo dipped his rag in the can again, contemplating his response and its consequences. This was one of those head-versus-the-heart
dilemmas. Why did she have to look so damn sexy right now? Even at nine in the morning, with mangled hair, a wrinkled tee,
a sequined skirt, and old ratty sneakers he often teased her about? He sucked his lips and shook his head.

“We’ve run our course, Estrella,” he said.

“What do you mean by that?” she asked.

“Exactly what I said. I want to go it alone for a while,” he repeated, slow and sharp, as he rubbed the rag over a splotch
of green paint on the wall.

“Okay, I understand. Can I ask how long is ‘a while’? Like, a day, a week?” she inquired in a soft voice.

He shrugged and still refused to look at her. “I don’t know. But I do know if you want to salvage the last thread of patience
I have for you, I suggest you start right now.”

Star wanted more than anything to fall into his arms and beg for forgiveness, to tell him how sorry she was and how much she
loved him. Should she tell him about the wedding brochures and why she’d freaked out? She wished she could press a rewind
button and go back to not only last night, but the last few years. Theo knew her too well. Star had no clue what her mission
in life was. There were no words that could win back his respect. Star would give him time to cool off, so she could devise
a killer plot for redemption.

“Okay. I get the hint,” she said as she backed up and held her bag with both hands. “I’d give anything to take it all back.
And I
will
make it up to you. Someday.”

She waited a second for him to respond, but he didn’t. So she stood on one foot, kissed his cheek, turned, and left him alone,
just as he wanted.

E
verything pissed off Chloe Chavez this morning. She drove away from La Pachanga’s mural mayhem and went through her mental
checklist:

1. Working on a Sunday and not downing her triple shot of Café Bustelo yet.

2. Having her weekly craft segments moved to a prime time slot and her mother not even mentioning congratulations when she
called and told her last night.

3. The thought of Ezra, her lazy boyfriend, snoring without her in the California king bed
she
bought in the loft
she
paid for.

Oh, and number four: her brand-new tube of MAC Viva Glam lipstick that had melted on the leather seat of her BMW X3—a result
of parking in direct sunlight for the La Pachanga assignment. Chloe wondered why in the world the owners would host such an
intricate piece of art on their premises anyway, and then act surprised when it was tagged. That’s what happens when you own
a business on Grand Avenue.

“Thugs on that stretch of the city are as normal as dollar stores in South Phoenix. The Estebans should be grateful. The damage
could have been far worse than spray-painted smiley faces…,” Chloe mumbled. It steamed her that the family obviously knew
who did it, thanks to D-level acting by the owner’s weirdo daughter.

“Loser,” Chloe thought of Star. That centerpiece comment really ticked her off. Didn’t she know Chloe was an Emmy-winning
journalist and craft celebrity?

Chloe cranked up the air-conditioning and felt her left fake eyelash wilt away from her skin. She rolled her eyes in disgust.
The unforgiving August heat was no match for waterproof eyelash adhesive. Rather than remove the felon falsie, she chose to
not blink unless absolutely necessary. Her camera-ready face didn’t dare come off until the front door of her north Scottsdale
loft closed behind her. One more grievance to add to the list, she thought as she cruised down Grand Avenue, ignoring the
artful scenery on both sides of the road. Chloe didn’t understand the hype about this area. The city government, community
groups, and hundreds of local artists strived to revive the crime-ridden street by attempting to turn it into Arizona’s version
of Greenwich Village.

The first Friday evening of every month, Chloe covered this area for her job as arts reporter for KPDM’s evening news. The
streets closed for twenty blocks, from 7th Street to 17th Avenue, to make way for thousands of artsy ilk and musicians who
weaved in and about dozens of galleries and boutiques, in which La Pachanga Restaurant and Art Space served as the epicenter.
To her, the place was nothing more than a typical Mexican restaurant with a glorified art nook connected to it. She wouldn’t
buy into it and refused to eat there, much less cover any of its so-called “art openings.” To her, a serious gallery would
not be set up inside a place that served quesadilla appetizers. Chloe didn’t have a clue why people swooned over La Pachanga
or how it even won awards. What she did know was that every time she reported from Grand Ave., she craved a loofah scrub down.

At the moment, she needed a coffee fix, so she squealed the wheels of her Beemer into the parking lot of the Chi-Chi Coffee
Cabana—another one of Grand Avenue’s gimmicky avant-garde eateries. Her plan? Tuck and roll to score her liquid fix and exit
quickly.

“I’ll take a Triple Underwire Sugar-Free Vanilla Latte—or whatever you call it,” Chloe requested, tapping her French-manicured
fingers on the counter as she tried to decipher the extensive menu. “And, please, I’m in a hurry this morning,” she mentioned
to the cheerful clerk in the silver lamé apron. In reality, Chloe had all day to kill. The whole “I’m in a hurry” line was
just a habit she’d picked up to make others (and herself) see her as important and exclusive. Having completed her shift,
Chloe planned to go home, change into a soft Juicy Couture tracksuit, sit at her desk, and outline the next twelve months
of her career at KPDM.

“You got it, sugar cube!” the barista sang back. He scribbled the order on a paper cup and surveyed her attire from the shiny
black pumps, up her long legs, over her cotton micro-mini suit, and stopping at her hazel eyes.

“Here it comes,” she thought. Used to the attention, especially when it came to her meticulous taste in designer attire, she
prepared herself for answering the usual fan-friendly questions like “Can I have your autograph?” or “Where do you get your
hair done?”

She stiffened her back, proud and ready to field his burning query.

“Hmmm,” he said, tapping his chin. “I think you’re a push-up kind of girl. Sure you don’t want to upgrade to a quad? It’s
only a quarter more.”

Obviously the minimum-wage minion didn’t tune in to the Valley’s favorite news station. Regardless, Chloe would have accepted
his recommendation but became sidetracked when a muscular dreadlocked man in a crisp red tee and dark slacks stepped in her
path. “May I have a small cup of hot tea with honey? According to your menu, I guess that’d be… a
handful
?”

If it weren’t for his charming Jamaican accent, smooth café-con-leche skin, and emerald eyes, Chloe would have lectured the
gentleman on coffeehouse-line etiquette. He lucked out. The comforting aroma of the freshly brewed coffee temporarily diverted
her attention. She approved the Push-up and scooted away so Mr. Cool Runnings could have his tea and honey. She picked up
a “Work for us” postcard from the countertop and pretended to read the fine print. As if she would really represent a business
that named drinks after boobs.

“You just cut this lovely lady off, Rasta-head! This is the Chi-Chi Coffee Cabana! Chi-chis come first!” snapped the server,
gesturing his lanky, blotchy arm toward Chloe. The man, embarrassed by his social crime, offered to spring for Chloe’s latte
when another barista slid it down the counter to her.

“I didn’t mean to cut you off, miss,” he apologized. “I take it you’re a regular here—Miss Underwire Push-up?”

“Excuse me?” she said, offended.

He pointed down to her hand and winked. “Your drink.”

Chloe remembered the gist of the joint. “Oh yeah. No. First time.” She lifted her cup and sipped. It had a hard bite, just
what she needed. She and the dread-locked gentleman reciprocated flirtatious blinks and a cool breeze brushed over her body.
She’d never believed in actually
feeling
someone’s energy—until now. His presence was strong, regal, kinetic. Warm and soothing, practically glowing. For the first
time since she could remember, the normally uptight Chloe relaxed.

He extended his hand for an introduction. “I’m Gustavo Olivera,” he said, his gaze connecting with hers. There could have
been a massive explosion behind her and she wouldn’t have even blinked. She took his hand while her mind surveyed her internal
file system of flirty comebacks. There weren’t any relating to handsome Caribbean strangers.

“I’m Chloe. Chloe Chavez. I’m a broad.”

“Oh really. I’ve never met one of those before,” he kidded.

Chloe felt her cheeks warm up about a thousand degrees. “I’ve had a rough morning. Let me try that again—I’m a broad
cast
journalist. I’m kind of a celebrity around here,” she said right before she winked at the barista. He confirmed her proclamation
with an exaggerated hand wave, and handed Gustavo his tea.

“Pleasure to meet you, Chloe,” Gustavo said.

She adored the way her name rolled off his full lips, and imagined him repeating it while they rolled around naked, in one-thousand-thread-count
Egyptian-cotton sheets. Lust and love—two indulgences her life lacked. At least she had her Underwire Push-up, which she took
a big swig of.

Gustavo motioned for them to step away from the Chi-Chi pick-up counter. He pulled something out of his red, yellow, and green
striped messenger bag and handed it to her. Chloe’s heart quickened at the mystery gift. She may as well have been a giddy
sixteen-year-old accepting a class ring from a varsity quarterback, as opposed to a twenty-eight-year-old professional woman.

“What’s this?” Chloe said, not even looking at it. She couldn’t remove her focus from Gustavo’s island-kissed facial features.

“It’s for my band, Reggae Sol.”

“Local?” Chloe hoped for an affirmative.

“No, Puerto Rico. We’re on tour right now. We’re here in Phoenix for a couple of gigs.”

“Really? Puerto Rico? I’ve always wanted to visit, but the opportunity has never presented itself. I’m half. My dad was born
there.”

He smiled, revealing a set of shiny white teeth that would make four out of five dentists applaud. “Same here, we have something
in common, then.”

“I guess we do. My mom is third-generation Italian. What’s your other half? I hear some kind of Caribbean accent in there.”

He leaned against the wall and sipped from his cup. “Dad is a full-blooded borincano, Mom is Jamaican. She raised me until
I graduated; then I joined my father in PR for culinary school. I ended up as lead singer of a reggae band instead.”