Their chance

CHAPTER ONE

Sofia

I sit on the toilet seat, scrolling through my phone as I wait for Carlos's call, away from the blare of the reggae music from my flat mate's phone. For a device that small, its audio quality rivals the output from many heavy-duty speakers.

As I mindlessly skim the images on my Instagram feed, I pause when I see a picture of a former colleague, Dolores. I feel the familiar jaws of envy clench my chest as I look at her smiling back at the camera, her killer body in full-on assasin mode in a tiny pink bikini, the backdrop of a brilliant blue ocean and clear blue skies the give away that she's holidaying in yet another exotic location. I roll my eyes at the #PlayHard0 caption of the picture and let out a long hiss as I scroll past it.

The privacy of my rest room is the only place I can express this unjustified jealousy, unjustified because not only is she one of the nicest people I have ever met, she's also one of the most brilliant and hard working. Two years after we were both hired by Santander bank she got a scholarship to an American Ivy League University and was promptly hired by an investment bank on Wall Street subsequently after. Now, five years later, she is a Senior Vice President and living the high life... while I have only been able to move one step higher in my bank's Pecking Order.

I scroll back to her picture to scrutinize it, squinting to see if her tiny waist and rounded hips are the result of hard work... or hard cash. But what I see instead is a new comment from the very person whose call I'm waiting for. Carlos.

Looking smoking hot is his comment, accompanied by five exploding bomb emojis. I know, because I count them all.

Here I am, waiting for his call, while he's busy commenting on social media. Letting out yet another hiss, I dial his number instead, ignoring the fact that it will cost me a fortune. The sketchy Internet service in my area is only tolerable for a few epileptic moments online, so video or voice calls on WhatsApp are almost an impossibility, something Carlos and I had to find out the hard way.

"I see you've been busy on Instagram," I retort, when the line connects. "Didn't you say you were going to call me at 11?"

"Mamacita, I've had a long day. This nagging is the very last thing I need now," is his equally terse answer. "It's only ten minutes past. Besides, now that you called, have you lost your limbs?"

"You know this call is very expensive for me."

"But it's not expensive for me?"

"I thought you said international calls are cheaper with your new line," I counter. There is silence and I wonder if the line has disconnected. "Hello?"

"That echo, Sofia, are you calling me from the rest room again?" he asks, his voice elevated in what I can now tell is the beginning of an explosive fit."How many times have I told you not to call me while you're taking a shit?"

"I'm not taking a shit, Carlos," I protest. "I came here because the blare from Isabella's reggae songs was loud."

"Talking to your boyfriend from the restroom is just downright disrespectful. Let us do this later.!"

And the line disconnects.

I stare at my phone for several minutes, a thick lump forming in my throat. In the year it has been since he left for London, our relationship has deteriorated a little more every day. We have been together since meeting at Santander bank seven years ago. I was assigned to his team and he took an instant liking to me. Only a rank higher than I was as an Executive Trainee, he still fancied himself my mentor, even though I soon became more knowledgeable of the job than he was. Muscled and standing over six feet tall, he was neither conventionally handsome nor the smartest pea in the pod, but it didn't take long for me to lose my head to him.

We soon became inseparable. Last year, the opportunity arose for a scholarship abroad. Going away wasn't on my radar and when he insisted on taking the exam, I hadn't been too worried because, I'm now sorry to admit, I thought there was no way he would pass the exam. And I was right.

He hadn't passed, but rather than shrug it off and move on with his life, it just made him even more determined to leave the country somehow. So, he'd gotten himself a tourist visa, sold his belongings, quit his job, and left for London, where he has been trying to get himself reasonable employment ever since.

Rising from my sitting position, I tell myself he is only taking out the frustration of his predicament on me. I need to be more patient with him. I shouldn't have called him from the restroom, knowing fully well it irritates him when I do.

I open the door and see Isabella now on her feet, twirling. Our eyes meet and I can see the disapproval in hers, not only because I'm not into her kind of music but because I keep putting myself in uncomfortable positions for Carlos since he left. Well, to each their own, I guess. I avert my eyes and walk quickly across the room, letting myself out and shutting the door behind me.

A distant relative, she'd been the only one I could think of when I found the self-contained room in Cancun. I couldn't afford the rent on my own and, as she too had just started working in the area, I had asked her. Big mistake. I'm not sure if the proximity to work is enough to justify the constant verbal and non-verbal harassment I get from her, not to mention that she is, without a doubt, the sloppiest person I have ever met in my life.

It has been seven years, but I am yet to get accustomed to her habit of wearing one shirt for weeks and walking around with a crazy odour, the unwashed plates and cutlery stacked under her bed, or the odour that follows her even after just having a shower. But hopefully, I won't have to deal with any of that for much longer.

Leaning on a neighbour's car, I dial Carlos's digits again.

"Mi vida, I'm sorry about calling you from the toilet," I apologise. "I'm outside now."

"At this time of night?" he grunts.

"I told you Isabella and her songs are at it again. Coming outside was the next best thing."

"This long distance thing is beginning to get old, Sofia," he sighs. "Like, really old. I don't know how much longer I can go on like this. It's bad enough I can't see you, but even talking to you is now an issue. This is starting to feel like a write off."

Shit!

I feel the all-too familiar panic engulf me. It is not the first time he has made this complaint and the thought of losing him makes me feel physically ill. It is one of the reasons I recently sat for the same Skyline exam he took last year, hoping I will be more successful than he was and be awarded a scholarship, so I can join him there in England.

"Mi vida, don't speak like that," I plead. "Let's be hopeful and pray that I pass the scholarship exam. If I do, I'll be with you in a matter of months."

"That shitty exam! That Skyline program is a waste of time. Only people that have connections get their scholarships, so you better not waste any time banking on it. Or have you forgotten what happened to me?"

It is on the tip of my tongue to tell him he didn't pass because he neither had the aptitude nor prepared enough for it, but I know this will worsen an already bad situation.

"I'll talk to you tomorrow," he says, sounding just as weary as I feel. "Later."

My heart is heavy as the line disconnects for the second time that night. I can't afford to lose him. At the age of 30, starting over is not an option for me. Carlos is insanely attractive and can get any woman he wants. As for me, I'm not exactly a head turner. The odds of finding another guy like him are slim to none.

I cast a furtive glance up to the heavens, tempted to run back into the house and start my rosary, to beg God to grant me this one thing, this one thing I desire with every inch of my heart.