The Ex-Perimento

CHAPTER 1

Special occasions require special dresses. And special dresses are often the ones that don't let you breathe.

I shift in my seat at the Aula Magna de la Universidad Central de Venezuela, trying not to call attention to myself. The crunch, swoosh of tulle over linen doesn't help. But the dress was a gift from my boyfriend, and even if Alejandro can't remember which fabrics give me a rash, at least he was thoughtful enough to get it for me in the first place. Plus, it's his graduation. The right thing to do was to suck it up and wear the thing. That's what love is.

To my right, an elderly woman with a soft cloud of stark-white hair gives me a sympathetic look. She pats my knee over the armrest between our seats with a wrinkled yet perfectly manicured hand. Her golden bracelets click with the movement. I attempt an apology but the warm lights of the auditorium dim, a subtle shut up to everyone present.

The auditorium is charged with an atmosphere of eager solemnity. Vibrant, billowing banners float against the white of the vaulted ceiling, a perfect contrast with the classy elegance of a theater, like a marriage between the modern and the timeless.

I can't help but grin as dancers dressed in folklore attire take the stage, the opening to the grand event. The last time I was in this room, five years ago, it was for my own graduation. I walked across that stage to receive my journalism diploma. The sense of accomplishment I felt back then, the pride at having something mine and mine only remains unmatched. There is nothing quite like crossing an item off your list of plans, knowing you're on track to building the life you want.

Tonight is no different. I'm not the one becoming a doctor, sure. But Alejandro's achievement feels as much mine as it is his. We're in this together.

After several performances and graduates being called one by one, it's Alejandro's turn. His stride is long, precise, and calculated. Just like him. Every step he takes-now and any other day-is premeditated, careful. It's why we get along so well, how we've managed to stay together four years. It's a quality that has only ever worked in our favor.

I hold my breath as the medical school faculty director slides the medal over his head. My chest swells with pride. He did it. For the last four years, I've seen how hard Ale has worked for this moment-the sleepless nights, the tears of frustration, the never-ending exhaustion and strict diet of caffeine and protein. No one deserves it more than he does.

Jumping to my feet, I join the eruption of cheers. From the stage, Alejandro seems to find me amid the crowd and everyone else in the auditorium disappears. I know it's impossible, I'm not remotely close enough, but I can still pretend it's just the two of us here. I can fantasize that the grin splitting his face, so wide he can barely keep his eyes open, is directed at me.

Alejandro swallows hard before he blinks, looking away. He marches tall and proud offstage, followed by another graduate whose name I forget as soon as it's said.

My eyes sting as I take my seat. He did it. For the past several months, ever since he told me his graduation date, I've pictured what the rest of our lives will look like. Now we're one step closer. The plans we've discussed and dreamt of while he was studying on my apartment floor late into the night are taking shape before my eyes. Him: a respectable neurosurgeon. Me? An arts journalist. International recognition, of course. A house in La Lagunita (the best neighborhood in Caracas); three kids (two boys and a girl); and a golden retriever named Scott (in honor of the toilet paper). It's all mapped out.

Not until after I graduate, though, Ale would say whenever I brought it up.

Well, he's graduated. Our future is starting here, tonight. I'm sure of it.


Alejandro holds on to my hand as we get out of the taxi to join his graduation party. He’s ditched the robe for a dashing baby-pink button-down. He’s rolled his sleeves up to his elbows and is wearing a brown tie to match the khakis he decided to wear. And I’m . . . still in this scratchy dress.

I check the time on my phone: 9:32 p.m. We're going to be here for about two and a half hours. Alejandro will want to leave at midnight, because he leaves every party at midnight. That means in approximately three hours I'll be in the comfort of my own bed, wearing pajamas, and watching an episode of New Girl to calm my mind down. I can do this.

"No phones tonight," Ale says beside me. "You promised."

"No, I know." I put my phone back in my clutch purse and smile. "It's your night."

Ale squeezes my hand in response. I squeeze back, inching closer to wrap my free hand around his elbow. My job is probably our only sensitive subject. As the metaphorical face of Ellas magazine, one of Latin America's biggest online platforms, I need to be on my phone all the time. Not to mention I also give relationship advice, which means getting a little personal about my own relationship. But I don't expect to be a reluctant influencer/love guru forever. This job is leading somewhere; I've been working my way toward a promotion. It's just a matter of time.

Ahead of us, the venue waits in all its romantic, rococo, French glory. Tall ceilings, white walls, and Ionian pillars face us head-on. Gold filigree shimmers where it's hit by headlights from oncoming cars. Booking Casa Versalles for tonight was nearly impossible. I had to promise them a feature in any of our future "best spots to . . ." lists, but it was worth it. Finding the perfect venue for Alejandro's graduation party was the only thing his parents asked me to do. I had to do it right.

Music engulfs every inch of the premises. Below our feet, the bass shakes the ground with the beat of an old reguetón song that I haven't heard in like five years. It's 100 percent ruining the vibe. Imagine stepping into Pemberley and Georgiana Darcy is playing Bad Bunny.

We zigzag, dodging furniture as Ale stops every five seconds to greet someone.

"This place is a damn laberinto," he yells over the too-loud music. "Who picked it?"

I trip over my shoes. "You don't like it?"

"No, I-hey!" Ale interrupts himself when he spots his parents across the hallway.

Their faces immediately brighten at the sight of their son, ditching the scowls that will latch on to my memory forever. His mother, Bárbara, opens both arms to him, pulling him down for a hug that yanks his hand from mine.

As Ale's mother turns to face me, her ruby-red lips curl downward and her eyebrows knit together in a disapproving frown. She lets out a sigh before speaking. "Maria Antonieta."

I try not to flinch at the use of my full name. Before I can say a word, she turns to her husband and whispers something I can't catch due to the damn music, but I know it's about me.

Suddenly, the dress I'm wearing feels too . . . everything. Too short, too tight, too wrong, too much. I should have worn something else, something classier. Never mind that I didn't even pick out the dress.

The shade of lipstick I chose is probably wrong too. It's too dark. She probably thinks it's wrong for my olive skin tone (it isn't) and that I should have picked something more along the lines of her lipstick, but she's always right and I'm always wrong. And who wears purple on their lips anyway? Also, it's not matte, it's bound to smudge. I'll be forced to drink champagne, the lipstick will stain the glass, and they'll all say I'm trash.

I run my sweaty hands down my dress. My second mistake.

Alejandro's mother follows the trajectory of the movement with her eyes, fixing her attention on my godforsaken outfit. Her gaze moves slowly back up until our eyes lock. I attempt a smile. She does the same. We both fail.

Anxiety flares in my chest. Squirming under scrutiny is not how I pictured tonight going.

"Mauricio is here?" Ale asks, making me jump. "Give me a second, I'm gonna-" I grab his forearm, keeping him in place. He turns to me with an amused smirk. "It'll be two minutes. Mi mamá doesn't bite."

"She hates me," I whisper. In case the last four years haven't been indication enough.

His eyes soften as he inches closer, grazing his fingers along my chin, a ghost of a touch because his parents are right there. "She doesn't hate you. No one could hate you."

I huff, thinking of my boss, half of my teachers, and my ninety-year-old neighbor from across the hall.

Shaking his head as if he could read my mind, he smiles and takes one step back. "Dos minutos. You'll be fine."

Before I can beg him to stay again, he's gone.

It's his night, I remind myself. He can talk to anyone he wants to. And I'm used to being alone at events. It's part of being a journalist.

I turn back to his parents. "So, how-"

Aaaand I'm talking to no one. They're gone. Perfect.

Choking back my own words, I make my way to the garden. I actually like the mazelike distribution of the house. I like the stone floor and the tall trees with fairy lights hanging from the branches. Surrounded by Alejandro's friends and family, I can't help but think of the future. Again. My friends and family aren't many. A future event here would mean adding maybe thirty extra guests, paying a little more for food, and of course, creating a classier ambience than a graduation party needs. There was one particular spot that made me fall in love with the venue. The gazebo. As I make my way toward it, my heart mimics the boom, boom, boom coming from the speakers. Purple strobe lights reflect across the grass; I watch squealing children chase the little dancing dots in overflowing delight.

The black dome of the gazebo rests on six Ionian pillars adorned with delicate carvings at the top. I'm captivated by the way their intricate flower design resembles lace. I run a hand over the white iron railing as I walk up the concrete steps, and cold seeps through my skin. Moving to stand at the center, I imagine myself as a bride. I imagine my mother wiping her tears with a dramatic flourish of a vintage handkerchief. My current stepfather will probably give me away, since there is nobody else, while the setting sun hits the golden details on the ceiling at exactly the right angle. It'll look like gold is raining on us. Then, Ale and I will share our first kiss as husband and wife. I imagine my mother clapping. I imagine his mother forgetting she hates me for all of one minute.

Sure, timing your wedding to the last second is not something many people do, but this is us we're talking about. Ale and I time everything to the last second. Why should our wedding be any different?

Not that he's asked me to marry him. Not yet, at least. But how could I not indulge, being here? Alejandro said the building feels like a maze, but maybe if he stood here with me, allowed me to guide him through my vision, he would change his mind about the venue.

My phone vibrates in my purse, an imperceptible sound to anyone else, but I'm so in tune with it, it's like I can sense it on a molecular level.

I sit with my back to the party. Please, God, don't let my dress rip open. Or let Ale find me on my phone.

It's just a text from my mother. A photo of a bright orange suitcase on a bed. Her not-so-subtle way of reminding me she's arriving in a couple of days.

Yo: all set?

Mamá: Sí. Are you still picking me up from the airport?

I roll my eyes at that. Like I have an option. She would never let me live it down if I, her only daughter, didn't bother to pick her up at the airport. This is the same thought process that made me offer her my guest room for twelve weeks while she's in the city hosting a children's singing competition. Considering she's a national treasure (Miss Venezuela, then Miss Universe, model, actress, daytime TV host, radio host, author, and I think she even tried to become a singer at one point) and has a dazzling career stretching longer than three decades, I think she could be working at an international network if she wanted, but no. Instead, she's coming back to Venezuela to host this talent show-supposedly the saving grace of a local network that's bound to die anyway. But I work as a fabricated online persona for a living, so who am I to judge?

Yo: of course I'll pick you up

Mamá: thank you, mamita

I sigh, dropping my phone back into my purse, and stand. I turn and push forward over the gazebo railing, scanning the sea of faces for the one most familiar to me. People stand in tight circles across the garden. Some are laughing while others dance to the quick rhythm of tamboras and trumpets as the DJ plays a merengue mix. I catch a whiff of cigarette smoke as a group of guests walks by. Waiters dressed in white are spread out, all of them carrying trays of either alcohol or far-too-fancy hors d'oeuvres.

Finally, I spot Alejandro talking to his mother under a large mango tree illuminated by delicate torches and fairy lights. Ale's mother tells him something that makes him throw his head back and laugh, drawing a smile out of me. He blooms when he laughs, like a flower growing out of a crack on the sidewalk. It's a glimpse of his true self breaking out of his signature stony exterior. A wave of affection for him hits me square in the chest. After four years, the butterflies are quieter than they used to be, replaced by a lazy house cat that lounges in the living room day upon day. Sure, it doesn't move a lot, but you know it's there-breathing, eating, messing up your rugs. You can count on it. And then, once in a while, something takes the little monster by surprise and it startles. Like right now.

My smile freezes when Ale's mother pulls a little box out of her purse and hands it to him. Velvet? Leather? I can't tell from this far, but when Ale sees the box, his expression shifts to something between a frown and a smile. He opens the box. His eyes snap up to meet his mother's so fast it makes me let out a silent gasp. He's speaking, but I can't read his lips. His mother shrugs. It takes him a full two seconds, but he grins, wrapping her in the biggest hug I've ever seen him give anyone. Including me.