Chapter 2: Setting Expectations
The hum of the embassy felt different the next morning. It wasn’t just the ambient noise of printers and hushed phone calls; it was the memory of a like on a screen, a digital nod that had turned the vast, impersonal building into a space containing a specific, shared secret. Matthew arrived early, aiming to reclaim some professional footing before Arturo appeared.
He was neck-deep in a primer on the Mexican Senate’s committee structures when a familiar tap sounded at his open door.
“You’re here early. Admirable, or tragic. I haven’t decided.” Arturo stood in the doorway, holding two coffees again. He was wearing a navy suit today, a faint pinstripe running through it. He looked refreshed, sharp, his smile less mischievous and more genuinely pleased. “I brought fuel. You’ll need it.”
“Thanks,” Matthew said, accepting the cup. No brush of fingers this time. Arturo’s precision felt intentional. He set his own coffee down and pulled a chair closer to Matthew’s desk, bypassing the visitor seats, establishing a collaborative intimacy. He smelled like the same sandalwood and clean cotton.
“So. The deep end.” Arturo opened a sleek leather portfolio, extracting several pages of annotated schedules. “Your inaugural six weeks. We need to get you in front of the key players at SRE before they form an opinion without you. First impressions are everything, and here, they fossilize instantly.”
For the next hour, Arturo was a masterclass in efficient insight. He navigated the labyrinth of the Secretaría de Relaciones Exteriores with the ease of someone reading a favorite novel. This undersecretary was brilliant but perpetually overbooked; be concise. That director general was a stickler for protocol and would test Matthew’s Spanish; a few practiced formal phrases would earn respect. Another was a gossip with a fondness for American baseball; mentioning the Nationals’ latest loss would open doors.
“And then there’s Rodrigo Espina,” Arturo said, his tone shifting slightly. He tapped a name on the list. “Head of the North America unit. Young, ambitious, politically connected. He’ll be your most frequent counterpart. He’s also…”
“Also what?”
“A performance. He enjoys the theater of diplomacy. Loves to be seen as indispensable. Your predecessor fell into the trap of relying on him for everything, which gave him too much leverage. You need to listen to him, but cross-check everything. I can help with that.” Arturo looked up from his notes, his dark eyes meeting Matthew’s. “That’s my real job, you know. Not just scheduling. Translating the subtext.”
Matthew held his gaze. “I’m starting to understand that.”
A comfortable silence settled, filled only with the distant sound of a phone ringing down the hall. Arturo took a sip of his coffee, glancing out the window. “You looked at my Instagram.”
The statement was so casual, so devoid of accusation, that it took Matthew a second to process. He felt a flush of heat at the base of his neck. “I… yes. You followed me. It seemed polite.”
Arturo’s lips quirked. “Polite. Sure.” He leaned back in his chair. “The mango photo is a favorite of mine. Sometimes the simplest things are the most revolutionary in a city this complicated.” He paused, as if weighing his next words. “Speaking of things that aren’t complicated… a friend of mine, Javier, is opening a group exhibition in Roma Norte on Friday. Mixed media. Some of it is quite good. It’s a scene. You should come.”
“An art opening?” Matthew ventured, cautious.
“Yes. But also, a good place to… meet people. Outside the embassy bubble.” Arturo’s gaze was direct, utterly neutral. “It can be isolating here, especially if you’re new and… looking to build a social circle. Javier’s crowd is interesting. Artists, writers, a few academics. Many of whom are gay. It’s a good, low-pressure environment.”
The implication hung in the air, clear as the morning light now streaming across the desk. A good chance for you to meet local gay men. It was offered as a professional courtesy, a thoughtful integration activity. But it was also an arrow shot directly into the heart of Matthew’s solitude, his late-night scrolling, his silent apartment.
“That sounds… really nice, actually,” Matthew heard himself say. The words were out before the risk assessment could fully form in his frontal lobe. “I’d like that.”
Arturo’s smile was a quick, bright thing. “Good. I’ll text you the address. It starts at eight. Casual, but you know, Roma casual. A step above embassy casual.”
“Noted.”
Arturo stood, gathering his portfolio. “We’ll pick up with the legislative liaison notes after lunch. Try not to get lost in the committee charts.” He gave a slight, parting nod and was gone, leaving the scent of sandalwood and the profound echo of the invitation in his wake.
Matthew sat very still. He looked at the dense schedule of diplomatic meetings, the names of officials, the maps on his wall. A structured, official path to integration. Then he looked at his phone, where Arturo’s text notification would soon appear with an address in Roma Norte. An unofficial, deeply personal, and wildly inappropriate alternate route.
He had just agreed to socialize with his subordinate. Not just socialize—to enter his world, his friend group, his culture, under the transparent pretext of “meeting people.” The professional boundary, which he’d pictured as a solid, painted line, now seemed like a rope fraying in his hands. He’d accepted so easily. The part of him that was lonely, that ached from Conrad’s effortless moving-on, that had thrilled at a simple Instagram like, had leaped at the chance.
He took a long drink of the now-lukewarm coffee. Arturo had remembered how he took it. It was a small, devastating kindness. Matthew closed his eyes, the city’s sprawling energy pressing against the embassy glass. He was here to do a job, to be a diplomat. But another, more urgent mission was taking shape, one full of beautiful, dangerous complications. And he had just RSVP’d ‘yes.’
And he had just RSVP’d ‘yes.’ The word seemed to vibrate in the sterile office air, a commitment he couldn’t take back. He spent the rest of the day in a distracted haze, his focus skating over briefing papers while imagining the blurred faces in Arturo’s Instagram photos. Every time Arturo buzzed him with a question or dropped off a file, the potential of Friday night pulsed between them, unmentioned but palpable. Matthew’s professionalism felt like a thin veneer, cracking under the weight of his own curiosity.
By five, a dull headache pressed behind his eyes. He was shrugging on his jacket when Laura materialized in his doorway, her own bag slung over her shoulder. “New arrival mixer in the ambassador’s conference room. Free bad wine and stale crackers. You’re mandatory.” She didn’t wait for an answer. “Come on, it’s painless. We’ll suffer together.”
The mixer was exactly as advertised. A long table held plastic cups and several bottles of indifferent Chilean cabernet. A scattered cluster of mostly junior officers and a few weary-looking spouses stood in awkward pods, making strained conversation under the harsh fluorescent lights. The room smelled of carpet cleaner and cheap merlot.
Matthew grabbed a cup of red wine and immediately regretted it. “This tastes like fermented raisins,” he muttered to Laura.
“That’s the top shelf stuff. Diplomatic corps special.” She clinked her plastic cup against his. “Look alive. The DCM is watching to see who’s a team player.”
Matthew mostly just talked to Laura, his back to the room. They dissected the Senate committee charts, a safe, bureaucratic topic. He was hesitant to mingle, the social energy required feeling immense. He kept seeing Arturo’s amused smile, and the thought of making small talk with a stranger about their last post felt impossible.
Then a shift in the air, a solid presence entering his peripheral vision. Brandon Weber was standing there, holding a cup of seltzer with a lime wedge. He looked even more out of place than Matthew felt, his muscular frame seeming to contain a different, heavier gravity than the loose chatter around them.
“Hayes,” Brandon said, his voice that low, graveled baritone. He gave a curt nod to Laura. “Bell.”
“Weber. Slumming it with the newbies?” Laura asked, her tone light.
“Mandatory fun,” Brandon said, the words flat. His slate-colored eyes settled on Matthew. “First week. How’s the political landscape?”
“Complex,” Matthew answered, scrambling for coherent thought. “Arturo—my local assistant—is a good guide. He’s making sure I don’t insult anyone important immediately.”
A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched Brandon’s lips. “Ramirez is sharp. Knows which way the wind blows.” He took a sip of his seltzer. “It’s a city of layers. The official version, and the one underneath.”
The conversation could have died there. Matthew was ready to return to the safety of Laura. But Brandon didn’t move. “Laura says you were in London before this,” Brandon stated.
“I was. For three years.”
“I did a liaison stint there with the NCA. Found the best escape was the cinema. The Prince Charles in Leicester Square. The secret late-night screenings.” Brandon’s gaze was intent, focused. “You a film person?”
The question surprised him. “Yeah, actually. I am. More of a home video nerd, though. I have a Criterion Collection habit that’s financially irresponsible.”
Brandon’s posture shifted almost minutely, a subtle unlocking of the shoulders. “They’re showing a restored print of ‘Touch of Evil’ at the Cineteca Nacional next Thursday. Welles’s border town nightmare. It’s… fitting, given our current address.”
Matthew blinked. “That’s a deep cut. The opening tracking shot is a masterpiece.”
“It’s all downhill from there, but what a hill.” Brandon looked into his cup, then back up. The noise of the mixer seemed to fade around them. “I’ve got… a lot of free time on my hands these days. Home is pretty quiet.” He said it flatly, a simple statement, but the reference to his recent divorce hung in the air, a dark, shared understanding. “If you’re not buried in briefing books, it could be a good primer on Mexican-American relations. The cynical version.”
The invitation was so blunt, so devoid of social grace, it bypassed Matthew’s usual parsing. It wasn’t flirtatious like Arturo’s. It was pragmatic, almost grim. A shared interest, a specific time and place. A man with free time offering it.
“Yeah,” Matthew found himself saying. “Yeah, that sounds great. I’d like that.”
“Good.” Brandon gave a single, firm nod. “I’ll text you the details.” He didn’t smile, but the intense scrutiny in his eyes softened a fraction. He glanced at Laura, then back to Matthew. “Enjoy the wine.” Then he turned and walked away, melting back into the sparse crowd with a quiet efficiency.
Matthew stood frozen, holding his terrible plastic cup. He watched Brandon’s broad back disappear through the door.
He turned slowly to Laura, her eyebrows already arched nearly to her hairline. “What,” he whispered, his voice tight with disbelief, “was that?”
“That,” Laura said, sipping her wine with deliberate slowness, “was Brandon Weber using approximately eighty percent of his monthly allotted words.”
“He asked me to a movie. At a film archive.”
“He did.”
“He mentioned his quiet house. His divorce.”
“He did.”
Matthew’s mind was a collision of signals—Arturo’s art opening, Brandon’s grim cinema invitation, the geometry of two entirely different absences. He looked at Laura, completely lost. “Did I just get asked out on a date?”
Laura finished her wine and crushed the cup in her hand. “With Brandon? Honey, that wasn’t a date. That was a tactical reconnaissance mission.” She tossed the cup towards a trash can, missing. “But yes. Probably.”
The silence of his apartment felt heavier than usual, a dense blanket absorbing the day’s chaotic signals. Matthew tossed his keys onto the kitchen counter, the clatter too loud in the stillness. He poured a bourbon, not even bothering with a glass, and took a long pull straight from the bottle. The cheap mixer wine still coated his tongue, a sour reminder of Brandon’s abrupt invitation, Arturo’s knowing smile, Laura’s arched eyebrows.
He sank onto the sofa, the city’s lights a dizzying grid beyond the glass. His phone felt like a live wire in his hand. He opened Instagram, but his thumb hovered, then swiped to the search bar. He typed: Brandon Weber.
The profile was sparse, locked down. A handful of posts, all years old. Matthew scrolled, his breath tight in his chest. Here was a birthday party: a younger Brandon, smiling stiffly in a paper crown, a blonde woman leaning into his shoulder, two grinning gap-toothed kids on his lap. The caption: “My whole world.” The sunlight was harsh, Arizona-bright. Brandon looked like a man playing a role, his eyes not quite connecting with the camera.
Another post: a hiking photo, Brandon with a toddler strapped to his back, pointing at a distant peak. Then, a generic shot of a DEA badge on a desk, captioned simply “Another day.” The most recent post was three years old. A desert sunset. No people. Just vast, empty color.
Matthew zoomed in on the family photo. He studied Brandon’s face, searching for the man he’d met—the haunted eyes, the grim set of the jaw. It was all there, but buried under a layer of dutiful contentment. The performance of a life. Where did it go wrong? Was it a slow realization, a pressure building until the facade cracked? Or was it a secret known for decades, a shadow self meticulously compartmentalized, only to be weaponized in a divorce court? The wife’s vicious accusation, as Laura had called it. Had she discovered something, or had she simply sensed a fundamental distance and guessed at its shape?
He put the phone down, the ghost of that smiling family man haunting the sterile room. He thought of Brandon’s quiet, tactical invitation to the cinema. I’ve got a lot of free time on my hands. The understatement felt cavernous, a void filled with lost weekends and silent rooms.
A notification popped up, shattering his thoughts. A direct message on Instagram.
arturomrz: So. You survived the mandatory fun. I saw you talking to the DEA mountain. Intense.
Matthew’s pulse skipped. He typed back, aiming for casual.
matthayes: He’s… a lot. You have eyes everywhere.
arturomrz: Only in interesting places. Don’t forget about Friday. The gallery. I promise it’s more stimulating than embassy cabernet.
matthayes: I’m holding you to that. What’s the dress code? “Roma casual” is still confusing.
arturomrz: Think ‘I tried, but not for you.’ A nice shirt. No tie. Definitely no embassy lanyard.
arturomrz: Javier is excited to meet you. I may have oversold your knowledge of pre-Columbian art.
matthayes: You definitely did. I’m going to embarrass us both.
arturomrz: Perfect. I enjoy being embarrassed. It’s humanizing. See you at 8. Don’t be late, the good wine goes fast.
Matthew stared at the exchange, a smile tugging at his lips. The banter was effortless, a playful volley that felt like a lifeline thrown into his quiet, overthinking solitude. It was just messaging. Harmless. Then his eyes drifted to the top of the screen, to Arturo’s name and his job title in his own bio: Political Analyst, U.S. Embassy Mexico City.
The smile faded. This was his subordinate. The man whose performance reviews he would write, whose leave requests he would approve, whose career he could inadvertently damage. He was engaging in flirtatious banter about wardrobe and wine, making plans to enter his personal world. He thought of the HR modules he’d clicked through just that afternoon, the stern warnings about power dynamics and perceived favoritism.
He placed the phone face down on the cushion, as if it were emitting radiation. The bourbon churned in his stomach. The two faces floated in his mind: Brandon’ stoic, guarded intensity, a puzzle wrapped in old pain. Arturo’s luminous, intelligent charm, an open door with a sheer drop on the other side.
He had lost his mind. He was courting professional and personal ruin for the simple, terrifying thrill of feeling seen by either of them. The city outside his window seemed to pulse, a vast organism offering both poison and antidote in the same breath. He had no idea which was which.