The Secrets Jar series #2
Photo by Mohamed Marey on Unsplash
I never considered myself a romantic, but that didn’t mean I wanted my love life to be so rough either. My mother used to say I should work harder, my friends joked about my party habits, my brother criticized my financial status, and I, encouraged by the concept of cosmic balance, compensated for all that negativity with a bunch of smiles and high doses of shopping. Looking back, it might not be the right approach, but since it brought me to this moment in time, this city and this state of mind, I know I shouldn’t complain. I could have had it worse.
I had reached my fabulous forties and was ready to commit to someone who could warm my bed more than once, when I met Luis. When his brown eyes met mine in that noisy bar, I felt the stars had aligned. Unfortunately, I now hope I’d stayed home that night. A cookies indigestion and a Netflix overdose would have been much better, but let’s not get ahead of my story.
Miguel introduced us on a Friday night. We’d finished our shift at the factory and decided to go to the bar together to forget the time we’d spent at the assembly line. A couple (or more) beers always helped us start the weekend in a better mood, and since we were the only singles on our line, most Fridays we were alone in our quest to find happiness outside work. While our colleagues spent time with their families, we changed clothes and met in a place where the waiter knew our names and addresses in case he had to call us a taxi hours later. I wore miniskirts, and Miguel chose ridiculous Hawaiian shirts that made no sense in that bar, city or country. We both had our missions, like video game characters: I was looking for love, and he wanted to have fun. For me, the miniskirt was like a fishing rod I had to use carefully to avoid both sardines and sharks—men with no heads over their shoulders and those only looking for easy prey. For my friend, his clothes were bait for a certain part of the population: gay men with no interest in fashion whatsoever. Needless to say, we were both playing a very difficult game, and most nights the only company we had was the taxi driver who took us home.
So, back to the night, the bar, and Luis. Miguel had met him weeks earlier at the gym and talked non-stop at work about the cute guy who barely managed to lift any weights; after a few attempts, my friend finally convinced that cutie pie to have a beer with us. Based on this information, I was sure both of them were gay, and I would soon be spending my Friday nights alone in the bar, but to my surprise, that wasn’t the case. We met him after dinner, and the first thing he said when Miguel introduced us was, “I already know you.” I laughed and tried to remember his face, but the more he insisted, the less I could believe him. According to him, we’d both attended the same high school (which wasn’t impossible, since that town had only two), but I told him he was confusing me with someone else. Then, he told me he knew Daniel, my brother, and I started to think that maybe we’d met somewhere in the past. In my defense, I’d met no boldish men in my teenage years, and nothing in his physique could have attracted me twenty-something years before. Of course, time changes things, and by the end of the night, I agreed to meet him again—this time without Miguel—for coffee and a conversation that didn’t include yelling or high-volume techno music.
The next day, once the hangover faded and I was a functional human again, I checked my high school yearbooks and found him. He had more hair, which was a plus back then, but he didn’t exactly rock a cool guy style. The acid jeans, white sneakers, and striped sweaters didn’t make me feel like he’d been one of the kids I’d stare at in class, but I was open to giving him a chance now that times had changed and he’d learned to pull off better outfit combinations. The following week, at work, Miguel advised me to be careful with Luis, but I thought he was jealous, so I didn’t discuss my plans with him, which was a pity because they were really great.
Luis and I exchanged messages for a few days before setting a date and place, but when we finally met, we didn’t have coffee; instead, we had dinner, as grown-ups do. He talked about his work and his priorities now that he was finally considering moving out of his parents’ house. I told him my work at the factory let me pay for my clothes and holidays, though I’d rather have a place of my own than rent my brother’s studio. He said I was inspiring. I might have commented how good it felt to be able to talk to someone. By the end of the night, after two bottles of red wine, we walked in the park, admired the stars for half a minute, and made out on a bench. It would have been awesome if we’d been sixteen, but I can’t say I feel proud when I think about it.
Three months later, I got the invitation to our school reunion. Luis and I had been seeing each other every week, as much as his work allowed. He was studying to get a better position, and he couldn’t afford to lose focus, so we usually hooked up on Friday or Saturday; when we were apart, we sexted and called each other once or twice a week. It was easy and manageable, but most of all, it was a novelty, because I hadn’t had a boyfriend like that in many years, and I was more than determined to make it work. So, as soon as I got the big yellow envelope, I texted him to ask him to go together, and two hours later he said, “ok.”
I bought a beautiful black gala dress with cleavage I knew Luis would like, a pair of shoes way too high, and gave myself the whole pampering required to look ten years younger and twenty kilos lighter—that’s what they promised in the beauty salon. I also arranged a dinner before the party at a fancy restaurant to celebrate the four months Luis and I had been together. I was ready to tell the whole world I had someone in my life, and there was no better place than where the people I grew up with would gather. Luis picked me up in his father’s car—his had been at the mechanic for a few months already because sorting out parts for “classic” models was tricky—and we ate the chef’s menu, which blew my mind and broke my wallet. I thought Luis would want to share the bill, but he didn’t even move when the waiter passed me the little silver box. It had been my idea, so I didn’t mind. After all, I looked like a movie star with a prince by my side, and that was priceless. When I entered the school’s gym with Luis by my side, I forgot about everything: how much the outfit had cost me, how difficult it was to breathe after dinner, how much my feet hurt, and how big I looked compared with many of my former classmates. I was glowing (and sweating a bit because the dress was too tight), and nothing would ruin my night.
“I’m gonna grab something to drink, okay?” said Luis, and he walked away to the bar while I sat on a bench.
I saw him talking with many people, some I remembered and others I had no idea of. Some people stopped by and asked me how things were going. I told them I was very fulfilled in both my professional and personal life, since I was a manufacturing expert and had a solid relationship. One hour later, I’d chatted with half the people in the room and lost sight of my boyfriend, so I decided to grab some canapés and talk with the waiter. The twenty-something guy told me he’d seen someone who matched Luis’s description leaving with a busty blonde, and I told him that was for sure a mistake, so I waited.
Two hours later, people were either too drunk or leaving, and I panicked. I texted and called Luis many times, but he didn’t pick up, so I finally called a taxi and cried until I fell asleep in my empty bed. Hours later, finally, I got a text that said: “Sorry babe, met an old friend and had to catch up. She was sad. Will call you tomorrow for some text action. Love you.”
I couldn’t believe it: he loved me!!!
The Secrets Jar series started at my first book event (Let’s get bookish, September 19th, 2026, Amsterdam) for my novel Unwritten (Por Escribir in its Spanish version), where I asked attendees to share a secret by writing it down and putting it in the jar on my table. I’ll be using those secrets as prompts for my next months’ short stories.
This was secret#2
