Carmela + Amos

Chapter 2 - Carmela

Dear diary,

           The first time I realized my marriage was going downhill was when I stood in the shower, touching myself and thinking of someone else. I know. It was wrong, but if you married Rodrigo, you would’ve done the same.

However, if I’m honest with myself, things went to shit even before that. The problem is, I have a bad habit of keeping everything bottled up—never wanting my emotions to burden anyone else, which is why a journal is so perfect. You can release everything onto sheets of paper, get it out, feel relief, tuck it away, and let the diary carry the weight of your thoughts.

So, I’ll start at the beginning—the night that shifted my life into chaos.

I remember the dark, small venue full of cigarette smoke. The scent of sweat, the jab of elbows, the sticky floor, the cry of someone shredding a guitar into submission, and the crowd parting just in time to see him swaying. Rodrigo was gorgeous, but not like most men. There he was, with long waves of ebony clinging to his skin as beads of moisture wicked away from his body. Blades of strobe light carved his chiseled cheekbones, highlighting lean muscles as his scrawny arms rocked to the beat.

I couldn’t take my eyes off him, and he reminded me of a Virginia Woolf quote I once read that says, I am in the mood to dissolve in the sky.

He looked higher than a satellite, and I wanted to be right up there with him if it meant being part of his orbit.

Still, I was too timid to walk over, so I leaned against the damp bar, the rough wood grain digging into my back, and observed him. As the song went on, I ordered a drink with my fake ID but couldn’t think of anything cool, so I went with a cocktail I once heard my mother order at a restaurant. The Apple Martini tasted like a lollipop drenched in rubbing alcohol, but it had booze, and that’s all that mattered. Liquid courage always worked at high school parties when I was too shy to talk to guys, so I hoped it would do the trick.

Except Rodrigo wasn’t a boy—he was a grown man, and I was about to learn the difference between teenage boys and men in their twenties.

“I’m disappointed,” I heard someone say, and when I glanced to my left, I had to crane my neck back to look at the beautiful face smiling down at me. “Everyone always goes for Rodrigo, although I have no fucking idea why. I was hoping you were different.”

“I... Um, uh.”

He smiled at my attempt to form a sentence, revealing a perfect set of teeth, shaming my crooked ones. “I’m Ben.”

“What?” I shouted over the music.

“Ben,” he pronounced into my ear, brushing my dark curls aside. “And you?”

“Carmela.”

“Well, Carmela, mind if I buy you a drink?”

“Uh, yeah, sure.” I shrugged like a silly nineteen-year-old pretending to be older.

I tried keeping it cool as his arm brushed mine, but the way my name rolled off his tongue like honey drizzling into tea had me dizzy. Swirls of ink climbed up his arms, disappearing into his shirt sleeves, and I wanted to push the material—take a peek, but his green eyes shifted and caught me staring. Heat bloomed across my cheeks, and he smiled before returning to the bartender to order two whiskeys. I tried not to gag. Whiskey has never been my favorite.

We clinked glasses, and its contents flew down the hatch, coating my throat in a hot strangle.

Ben sipped his drink.

“It’s not a shot,” he said. “Let’s get you another, but I need you to take your time with it.”

“But that defeats the purpose of getting shit-faced.”