Telltale Tango | Complete

One - Giselle

Casa Rosada is packed to the brim with cologne and skinny jeans. A bastard mix of salsa, bachata, and house music bounces out the door to greet me in the street. The cold air stings a warning across my cheeks, but I'm determined to make this work.

As my best friend Priya would say, 'it's time for you to get back on the horse.' I hate the term, but I have to admit she's right. Almost five years is a long time and people survive first dates all the time.

I think.

The bright screen of my phone illuminates the darkness around me. Wyatt, 32. Tall, dark and handsome in all the best ways. I'd spent the first months of our discussions forgetting what he looked like, but when I agreed to meet him in person, I committed his looks to memory. The phone was just a backup. A crutch to which I was willingly clinging to avoid taking the three steps that would carry me inside the bar.

The cold is the deciding factor, finally forcing me inside the warm embrace of the bar and away from the frostbite inducing wind.

"Hello, and welcome to Casa Rosada. For how many?" A young man looks up from behind the bar, apron covering his white shirt and black pants.

"Oh. I'm supposed to be meeting someone but"—I look around—"I don't see him anywhere."

"Maybe he's just late. Do you have a reservation?"

This doesn't look like the kind of place that offers reservations, honestly.

"I'm just messing with you. You see an empty table, you can sit down and wait for your friend. Otherwise I've got some space at the bar."

The room is packed. Absolutely bursting at the seams with lively conversation. Groups of five are sitting at tables meant for two. There are no empty tables and he knows it.

A man in the corner catches my attention. Young, blond, and sitting alone in a booth meant for five people at least. But he looks nothing like Wyatt. So I accept the bartender's offer and hop up onto the nearest stool at the bar, busying myself with the bowl of pretzels in front of me while I wait.

I can only watch the bartender make drinks for so long before I slip my phone back out of my pocket and open Wyatt's messages. A simple I'm here blares out of my screen. But I don't see anyone here who wasn't around when I arrived.

The man in the corner draws my attention again, and a stone sinks in my gut. What if?

My fingers send the text before my brain catches up to me, eyes glued to the freckled blond man in the corner. I can't hear his phone notification arrive, but I see him pull it out and reply. Before he even puts it away, my own phone lights up with a reply.

No. It can't be.

It has to be a coincidence, so I try again. Yeah. Maybe I'm at a different bar because I don't see anyone here who looks like your picture.

Send.

The man takes out his phone again and I can see the bead of sweat roll down his face from here, his eyes scanning the room.

Spinning back toward the bar, I flip my hood up over my head and shrink down into the counter, hands shaking as I try to center myself. This cannot be happening to me.

The last part must have slipped out of my mouth because the same bartender from before—his name tag says Feliciano—gently rests his hand on my elbow. "Are you all right? You look like you might need some water."

Right on cue, my stomach betrays me, rolling with hunger pangs that can be heard over the loud music of the restaurant. "I'm a little hungry."

"Your friend never showed up?"