“Because his parents just asked when he’s finally going to tell you about his first wife who is still living in his apartment in Madrid.“
My blood ran cold. I stared across the table at Carlos, who was currently laughing at something his father had said, completely unaware that his secret was out. He looked so innocent, pouring wine for his mother with a steady hand.
“His… what?” I choked out, the room suddenly feeling like it was spinning.
Patricia leaned in closer, her voice shaking. “They aren’t divorced, honey. His mom just asked if he is going to tell you before she flies here next month to ‘visit,’ or if they have to keep pretending she’s his cousin.”
The clinking of silverware seemed deafening. I stood up abruptly, my chair scraping loudly against the hardwood floor. The table went silent. Carlos looked up, his smile fading into confusion.
“Mi amor? Is everything okay?” he asked.
I looked at him, then at his parents, who were exchanging nervous, guilty glances.
“I don’t know, Carlos,” I said, my voice trembling. “Why don’t you ask your cousin Maria?”
The color drained from his face so fast he looked like a ghost. His mother gasped and covered her mouth. I didn’t need to speak Spanish to understand the look of absolute panic in his eyes. I grabbed my purse and looked at Patricia. “Let’s go.”
