A story about a woman who, like many of us, knows how to give love to everyone but herself.
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Start at the Beginning…
Tanvi struggles to breathe, hissing and wheezing.
Who the fuck thought this was a good idea in one of the hottest and most humid climates in the world?
She takes a hit from her inhaler and jumps back into it.
Oh, she knows she’s over-exaggerating, but it’s a fucking stupid idea all the same.
She scans the room, watching beautiful people appropriate the ancient practice of her ancestors.
Sweat leaks from her forehead like it warrants a trip to the ER.
She thinks for a minute…
ER. Now that was a show.
And George Clooney? That was the kind of heat she could get behind.
Fuck you, Groupon.
Her arms and legs vibrate in place as she struggles to hold the Standing Bow Pulling Pose in a room set to 105 degrees.
Fuck you, Bikram.
Another grifter in a long line of pseudo-yogis.
Twenty-six poses of bullshit.
She loses her balance after hopping like an idiot.
She’s on number nine.
Fuck.
Around her, various levels of mastery.
And she is convinced she’s the worst.
A strange thing happens: the hotter it gets, and the more miserably Tanvi struggles, the louder the voice of her inner feminist becomes.
I mean, she is practically celebrating the work of an alleged sex offender.
That is appalling.
The teacher moves around the studio floor, gently but firmly correcting students’ form.
I’ll be damned if the one Indian is the most inept member of a fucking yoga class.
Without a word, Tanvi grabs her stuff and walks out, furious.
“This one’s for the girls…” she mutters under her breath.
She mostly means it.
***
Stephanie sits on the floor, criss-cross applesauce.
Back leaning against her father’s bed as she nurses a cup of lemongrass tea with honey.
She tries to remember to breathe as she watches him prep through the open bathroom door.
Frank Sinatra plays in the background throughout every room in the house.
At the moment, he is removing a track of shaving cream from his face with his safety razor.
“I can’t believe tonight is the night…” she says with tender excitement.
He stops and turns to her for a moment.
Processing.
“I know…”
Then turns back to the mirror, chin lifted high to get his neck.
She tries to stay positive, but she’s worried.
In fact, she never stops worrying about him.
Not since Mom died.
He was always the rock of the family, and Mom was always, well…
She always seemed innocent and hopelessly optimistic.
Stephanie smiles, thinking about her.
She was a feminist nightmare: a stay-at-home mom who planned meals for the week, shuttled the family minivan to Steph’s never-ending activities, lost her car keys on a daily basis, and was always the last one to get the joke.
She was either the luckiest woman to ever walk the planet, or she had the world’s busiest and most accomplished guardian angel, because even though disaster was always a half step behind, it never seemed to catch her.
Until the cancer.
How so much love could be wiped from the face of the planet in such a short period of time is beyond Stephanie’s comprehension.
And it isn’t until sitting in the shadow of that void that she realizes the secret to everything.
Mom was always the glue that held it all together.
Superman still had the strength, the speed, and all the capability in the world, but without his heart, he turned to the bottle.
She watches him fasten the last button of a stunning navy blue guayabera she has never seen before.
He faces her, spreading his arms wide, eyes anxious for approval.
“So what do you think?”
Sometimes, all we have left is the way we are seen through the eyes of someone we trust.
She gets to her feet and gives him a giant hug.
He smells like confidence.
“Dad, you look great!”
Steven smiles.
Exhaling for what feels like the first time all day.
That is enough for him.
***
Tatum pulls out a white wicker-back chair in the shade of a gorgeous baby blue umbrella on the Pura Vida patio.
Sophie lowers herself into the chair.
It’s eighty-three degrees, but she looks cold.
Tatum sits down across from her.
He’s wearing loose khaki-colored joggers and a white linen shirt with three buttons undone.
Enough of his chest is showing that Sophie notices, feels something she quickly suppresses, and rolls her eyes.
He studies her with concern.
She speaks first.
“Where the hell have you been, Tatum?”
He knows where this is going.
He’s lived this scene more times than Bill Murray in Groundhog Day.
“I’m sorry. I was working.”
He reads the line from a script he knows won’t end well.
Sophie is not at all impressed.
“You were working? So for three days, you can’t call, you can’t text, you can’t reply to my texts???”
She stares him down.
“Not even once? Zero free time at all?”
He studies her, desperately trying to think of a way off this ride.
He is good at so many things.
Damn near unstoppable.
Yet in these situations, he feels hopelessly incompetent.
Sophie continues.
“What are you, some kind of spy or something? Were you kidnapped? Were you strapped to a chair and couldn’t reach your phone?”
She waits for an answer.
He says nothing, trying to come up with something.
Anything that will prevent World War III.
She is getting impatient.
“Well…”
“That’s correct.”
Her disdain edges toward outrage.
“That you’re a spy and were strapped to a chair!?!”
Tatum catches himself and shakes his head.
“No, no. That I couldn’t call or text because I was working.”
“Are you joking right now? What kind of job doesn’t even allow five minutes for a text in three days? We’re talking bare minimum here, Tatum.”
She pauses, shaking her head.
“What do you do for work anyway?”
He has nothing.
“Hello???”
His mind goes to the one person he knows is undoubtedly capable of handling something like this.
Then he opens his mouth and lets the words fly out.
“Look, Sophie. I’m not good at stuff like this. I’m good at a lot of things, but knowing the perfect thing to say is not one of them. So I’m going to do my best here…”
He searches her face for a progress report.
She isn’t jumping into his arms, but she is listening.
“I feel terrible that you’re so upset. You have every right to be upset.”
Something about the way he speaks is incredibly simple and rudimentary, but it also feels heartfelt and genuine.
“The other night, when you asked me how someone like me was still single…this is why. Because for the people who care about me, my job absolutely sucks.”
Just then, someone delivers their smoothies and asks if they need anything else.
Tatum politely says no and thanks them.
Sophie’s eyes never leave him.
Once they’re alone again, Tatum reaches for her hand.
“Here’s the truth. I can’t tell you much about my job. Not because it’s bad or anything, but because I protect people. Sometimes very important people, and those people pay me for discretion.”
He is doing better than he expected.
“Sometimes I get certain assignments, and they require all of my focus. Because I’m overseeing an entire team of people, and there are so many details that if I allow myself to lose focus with anything else, especially something personal, and something goes wrong…I’ll never be able to live with myself.”
She moves her hand just a little in his direction.
“Sophie, I love my job, and I’m really good at it. I’m not so good at this…”
He gestures between them.
“…but I want to be good at it. I’m willing to try. If you can be patient with me, I might even succeed.”
She softens, her hand right next to his, touching but not quite connecting.
“I really care about you, and I’ll admit that I could have and should have given you a heads-up that I would be out of touch. That was shitty of me. I’m sorry for that…”
He feels like he has navigated a minefield with nothing but a prayer.
“That part will never happen again. And yeah…that’s all I got.”
He almost collapses back into his chair, exhausted.
She studies him and slowly smiles.
“So you are a spy?”
He laughs.
“No, no!”
“That’s exactly what a spy would say…”
She reaches out her hand, and he envelops it in his.
“Thank you.”
***
Sand displaces around their feet into prints.
One set petite and delicate.
The other large and deep.
Leela is wearing loose ecru capris and a burnt orange tank top.
Steven is wearing gray slacks with a crease and the stunning navy blue guayabera.
“I like your shirt…” Leela says casually.
Steven glances at her, pleased.
“You seem to have an affection for Latin culture.”
He seems surprised.
“What makes you say that?”
Leela taps her lips playfully, making a show of thinking.
“Well, you know, Steven Wexler, I’m a very observant woman.”
She winks in jest.
If he only knew.
“I could assume you’re wearing the shirt for me, perhaps to impress me. But you were also wearing a guayabera when I met you at Lucy’s…”
She walks back into her memory.
“That one was pink. Not a common color for gringos. It was also worn, which means you either bought it at a thrift store or you wear it often…”
He grins from ear to ear, and she takes that as a sign to continue.
“Your shirt fits you great. Very spacious.”
Mischief fills her eyes, as if she’s deciding whether or not to freak him out.
“But…the stitching on the fourth button was frayed and worn. Which tells me you’ve probably had some significant weight loss in the last couple of years.”
Now his eyes go big.
She brushes past it.
“You also don’t just stumble into a place like Lucy’s. It’s a hidden gem. Authentic, you know? And even though you probably didn’t know the words, your eyes lit up when you heard ‘Indestructible’…”
She hesitates, and he stops, astonished.
“You tapped the bar with your left hand to the melody of the song, but just a touch fast. As if you knew the song, enjoyed the song, but…”
“But what?”
His voice is cautious and concerned.
Also captivated.
She tilts her head softly before letting it fly.
“You’re white and don’t have proper rhythm.”
She laughs and starts walking again.
He remembers himself and rushes to catch up.
“Is that it? Or is there more?”
She slows just enough for him to reach her.
“Your order at the cafecito.”
“What about my order?”
He almost doesn’t want to ask.
“You could have ordered a latte, or a cappuccino, or even a cortadito, but you didn’t. At 5 p.m., you ordered the most traditional thing on the menu.”
She lets it hang.
“A Café Cubano. And the way the espuma spread across your lips when you smiled…”
She studies him.
“You looked very at home.”
He stops again.
Taking her in like she is from another world.
“You paid a lot of money to spend a week with me, Steven. I could have worn anything. I could have taken you anywhere. I could have done my hair and my makeup and looked like I was coming fresh off the runway. I could have been sexy as hell, or cute as hell, or mysterious as hell.”
She smiles like someone who knows her power.
“Do you know why I didn’t? Do you know why I chose to look like a simple, ordinary woman?”
He shakes his head, speechless.
“Because you, Steven Wexler, are the kind of guy who appreciates the real thing.”
He can’t help it anymore.
He grabs her shoulders and kisses her.
Just like in one of those old movies.
Leela didn’t think anyone actually kissed like that in real life.
And she has had her share of kisses.
But there on that beach, he does something wonderful for her.
He surprises her.
And somehow manages to take her breath away.
When the kiss breaks, she puts her hand firmly on his chest and searches his eyes, his face, his shoulders.
“You know what this outfit is begging us for?”
He can only shake his head as she brushes both of his shoulders affectionately.
“Un sombrero de paja!”
He grins, shrugging his shoulders.
“A proper hat! Let’s go get you one.”
She turns and walks away.
“Wait, where are we going?”
She waves him off playfully.
“To Little Havana!”
***
Leela looks like she is on a mission as they pass a giant mural of Celia Cruz on Calle Ocho.
She glows.
She glides.
Infinitely at home in a foreign world.
Steven watches her like she’s sweeping him away.
The way she holds his hand isn’t awkward or forced.
It feels warm and familiar.
A store catches Leela’s eye as they pass.
Four mannequins stand in the window, dressed in traditional Cuban apparel.
She leads him inside.
He takes in the smell of cigar tobacco and the assortment of clothes, hats, and Cuban-centric knickknacks.
Her hand pulls him toward the hats.
“My Abuelo died when I was very young. But when I was little, he told me every sombrero de paja was unique to the man who wore it, and very magical.”
Steven wonders if he has ever seen anyone more alive.
The treasure hunt begins.
She scans the various hats scattered around before choosing one and putting it on his head.
He sticks out his chest like a peacock.
She laughs, positioning him in front of the mirror so he can see how ridiculous he looks.
“In our family, every young hombre, on his thirteenth birthday, goes on a búsqueda.”
She chooses a new hat.
“That’s a sacred quest. He goes with his father, his uncles, his brothers, and even his best friend.”
“What do you think?” he asks.
Leela shakes her head, unsatisfied.
She replaces it yet again.
“They search high and low throughout the entire neighborhood. Throughout the whole city, if necessary.”
He shows off a pair of sunglasses, and she laughs at him.
“In fact, some búsquedas have been said to take them all the way back to Cuba, with one special little boy finding his perfect match in none other than the house of Castro himself.”
She glances around dramatically, then whispers.
“But we try not to mention that name around here.”
He studies her, puzzled.
“Castro?”
“Shhhhhh!!!”
She glances around again.
Leela opens her eyes wide and waits with arms crossed.
Her head nods.
Daring him to believe her.
He doesn’t.
Then she tops it with a cherry, lowering her voice like they are suddenly sitting around a campfire.
“Because, Steven Wexler, the boy doesn’t choose the sombrero. The sombrero chooses the boy!”
Steven dares to laugh.
“Why does this story sound suspiciously similar to Harry Potter?”
She seems caught with her hands in the cookie jar.
But only for the briefest of moments.
Before he has a chance to make his arrest, she unexpectedly coronates him.
“This is the one!”
He sees himself in the mirror and smiles widely, like he’s wearing a crown.
“The hat has chosen you.”
Leela lights up with satisfaction.
“You are Steven no more. From now on, you are Esteban.”
She pokes him in the chest with each word she says next.
“And Esteban has rhythm. Esteban…can…dance!”
***
Tanvi is sitting on the couch watching a BBC show called The Traitors.
The British just do trashy game shows so much better, she thinks as she shoves a spoonful of cereal into her mouth.
Per usual, she is doing three things at once, and her laptop is open beside her.
“That bitch!” she says loudly.
She is all alone.
Finishing her day off the way she finishes every day off: feeling worthless and wishing she hadn’t had the day off.
One of those stupid streaming commercials comes on, and she glances down at her laptop.
She has succeeded in counterattacking and uploading viruses to every last bot originating the attack on their network.
In all likelihood, this means she has probably infected something like thirteen thousand Android devices in a warehouse somewhere, but that isn’t the wonder of her attack.
The wonder of her attack is that it installs a modified custom version of Stuxnet that she wrote herself, which means it will sit invisible and undetected on each of those zombie devices.
Slithering from one to the next until it ultimately finds its way back to the source and waits for Tanvi’s instructions.
Tanvi takes another bite of cereal.
It is only a matter of time.
The show comes back on, and she settles in with anticipation.
Absentmindedly, she opens Leela’s GPS, waiting for her red dot to appear on the screen.
Nothing.
She puts her bowl of cereal on the TV tray and moves her laptop to her lap for a closer look.
Nothing.
That’s surprising.
It is a day off, but Leela rarely turns off her tracker, and when she does, she usually tells someone about it.
She knows they worry.
She grabs her phone and sends off a text to Tatum.
Tanvi: Did Leela tell you she was turning her tracker off?
Tatum responds almost instantly.
Tatum: Negative. Is everything okay?
Tanvi pauses, thinking to herself.
Is something wrong, or are you just having withdrawals from work, Tanvi?
She decides to blame the hot yoga.
Tanvi: Yeah, I’m sure it’s fine.
Tanvi: She just turned off her tracker, which is a little weird, but I’m sure it’s fine.
Tanvi: I’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early.
Tatum: Can’t wait.
***
Sophie glances over at Tatum as they sit together on the deck of his boat.
Something about him seems troubled.
“Everything okay?” she asks.
His attention moves from his phone to the stars, then finally down to her, snuggled into the crease of his arm.
“More than okay,” he says.
He kisses the top of her head.
***
Steven and Leela walk out of Ball & Chain looking like they’ve been through a war together.
Leela studies Steven’s hat, bewildered.
“Esteban…” she says. “I was wrong.”
Her affection gives her away.
“You definitely can’t dance.”
They climb into Steven’s truck together, and he starts the engine.
“I know I should be embarrassed, but…”
He turns to her for a moment, almost forgetting what he’s going to say.
“…I can’t remember the last time I had this much fun.”
She smiles and squeezes his hand.
“I’m glad you had fun. I was mostly embarrassed.”
She pretends to be sad.
Really icing on the drama.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to show my face in there again.”
He laughs, and she leans her head on his shoulder for just a second as they share the moment.
Then he turns to her suddenly, like he’s had a thought.
“Hey, I know it’s late, but I’d like to share something with you.”
She eyes him warily, but she can’t hide her intrigue.
“What do you have in mind?”
“Have you ever gone alligator spotting?”
It’s his turn to study her.
“At night…”
She doesn’t flinch.
“In the swamp?”
She stares at him, more than willing to play his little game of chicken.
“What does this caimán spotting entail?” she asks, hesitant despite herself.
“We drive out into the middle of nowhere, take a boat out on the water…”
His timing as a storyteller is certainly better than his timing as a dancer.
“Shining a flashlight onto the water and looking for the glowing red of their eyes reflecting back at you.”
She stares at him.
Her brain runs calculations unseen.
This is new data.
“Why would you do something like this, Estebanito?”
“To feel alive,” he says.
Leela turns toward the window for a moment.
A dangerous thrill twirls in her gut.
Then she turns back to him, leaning in close.
Flashing the side of herself we’ve only seen for the briefest of moments, back when he grabbed her arm at the Tavern.
“Let’s do it, Dexter Morgan.”
Neither of them laughs.
Maybe he doesn’t get the joke.
He just puts the car in drive and pulls into the street.
She could have turned on her tracker in that moment.
Or at any time along the way.
But she didn’t.
And they drive into the night.
(The End)
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New written episodes drop every Saturday at 10 AM EST on Substack.
With episodes going Audible the following Wednesday.
LEELA follows a brilliant high-end escort in Miami who treats intimacy like art, therapy, and a little bit of trouble. It’s erotic, funny, emotional, dangerous, and not the story you think it is.
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