Chapter 2 First dinner, first lie

It all happened because I gave in to that absurd idea: the illusion that I could come and go as I pleased, that I was mature enough to sample a bit of its flavor, have fun, and emerge unscathed. How stupid of me: to think I could only play with fire as much as possible. That I could sit at the table, accept a glass of wine, swallow a well-told lie, and still emerge unscathed, as if I were immune.

That night, I swore to myself that I was in control. That there was no risk, that there was nothing more. An expensive dinner, a good conversation, a crooked smile. That was it, I repeated in my head. And all I had to do was get up from the table, thank him, call my car, and leave.

But that's not what I did. Because the problem with believing you're in control is forgetting that the other party knows how to play the game, too. And Fábio... Fábio always knew exactly how far to let me believe I was in control. If someone were to ask me today at what exact moment I should have gotten up from the table and left, I'd know: when the waiter brought the second glass of wine.

It wasn't the wine itself; I'm good with a glass, and even better with limits. The problem was the way he held my hand when he ordered another round. So gently, his finger on mine, as if sealing a tacit agreement.

As a lawyer, I should have known that that touch was a verbal contract to get into trouble. And that, unlike the contracts I scrutinize down to the last comma, I was going to sign this one with my eyes closed.

I remember the whole scene as if it were projected on a giant screen. Me, sitting in an elegant Italian restaurant in Cambuí. Fábio on my other side, his jacket thrown over the back of his chair, his white shirt with the top button undone; a simple detail that, combined with his smile, would have shattered any defense.

He started talking about work. "Tell me more about your firm, Marília. Have you always wanted to be a lawyer?" I, proud, recounting my story as a working-class girl: daughter of a professor, father of a banker, intern at a private school, who passed the bar exam on the first try, a junior partner before turning thirty. The pride of the Marques family, the one who always knew what she wanted.

He listened to everything with that look of someone who seems interested in every word. He swirled the wine in his glass, rested his chin in his hand, and smiled at the right moments. A perfect audience.

Ten minutes into the conversation, I'd already forgotten the mental warning that said, "A man who's too charming = headache."

Then came the first lie.

He said suddenly:

"Do you know what I admire most about you?" he asked, leaning forward, as if he were about to tell me a secret.

"What?"

"You don't seem like the type to waste time playing games."

I looked at him, laughing:

"Playing?" "Yes. Charming people. Who are a little clumsy. You're direct, Marília. I love it."

Aha. Of course. The king of charm complimenting me for not being charming.

I should have realized. I should have been wary of those who compliment too soon, those who seem to understand you too quickly. They're always bait.

But I was too busy smiling back. And accepting the second glass of wine.

The food arrived. Homemade ravioli that I barely touched. Between bites, he started dropping phrases that, today, would sound like fire alarms.

"I broke up a while ago."

"Now I'm focused on work."

"Relationships are complicated, right? But with you... I don't know, everything seems lighter."

Pay close attention to that last part. "Everything seems lighter." Translation: "I'm going to make you think this is special, but without promising anything."

At that moment, I just laughed, swirling my glass. Not because I believed it, but because I wanted to believe it. It's different, you know? Sometimes we don't fall for the lie, we just dive right in.

When we finished the meal, the waiter brought the bill. Fábio insisted on paying everything. I even tried to split it, like a modern, independent, self-possessed woman insists, so as not to owe any man anything.

He shook his head, opened his wallet, and swiped the metal card that shone brighter than his smile.

"Today's on me," he winked at me.

"And tomorrow?" I asked half-jokingly.

He smiled, with that corner of his mouth twisting:

"Tomorrow's yours. And the day after tomorrow, too."

Done. Contract signed in small print: I'd come back. Many times.

From the restaurant to the car, Campinas seemed to conspire in my favor. A warm night, a warm wind, those streetlights that make everything look like something out of a bad romance movie. The street was almost empty. Fábio walked beside me, one hand in his pocket and the other brushing my elbow as I stumbled on the cobblestones.

He pulled up next to his car, a black SUV that must have been worth more than my rented apartment. He opened the passenger door like someone opening a car door.

I should have said, "Thanks for dinner, it was great, good night."

I should have gotten into my Uber, gone back to my comforter, my Cabernet, my safe world as a woman who doesn't get into trouble.

But I stayed there, leaning against the cool side of the car, feeling the pads of his fingers brush my arm.

And he, of course, noticed. The man has a good nose for doubt.

"Everything okay?" he asked quietly.

"Yes," I lied.

"Do you want a ride home?" "Another bait."

"No need, I'll get a car," I tried, faint as a breath.

He laughed. A short, soft laugh, one I knew by heart.

"Then get in. I'll drop you off at the door. I promise to behave."

I laughed back, like someone who believes him.

"You? Are you behaving?"

"I always behave," he gave me that look that debunks any argument.

I got in.

Inside the car, his scent permeated everything: leather, perfume, the low stereo: a generic playlist of modern jazz, which I bet he doesn't even listen to when he's alone. But it worked. It still works today.

He drove slowly, one hand on the wheel and the other near the gear shift. Too close to my leg. I could feel the warmth of his fingers without them touching me. And I wished he would.

Halfway there, he asked me my address, as if I wouldn't memorize it later.

"Really, Cambuí?" he confirmed.

"Really, Cambuí. Close to everything, far from trouble," I said, as if it were a private irony. Far from trouble, imagine.

He gave a short laugh, turned a corner, stopped at a stoplight. And there, at the red light, he looked at me. A second that lasted an eternity.

"Can I tell you something?" he asked.

"Yes." "I haven't wanted to be around someone like that in a long time."

If I'd been smart, I would have answered with a joke.

If I'd been strong, I would have said, "You never get used to it."

But I simply took a deep breath. And he leaned in. He kissed my chin, then my mouth. Slowly, almost asking for permission.

And I let him.

That kiss lasted longer than the red light. The car stopped, the engine running, my consciousness shut off. The next thing I knew, the honk of another car woke me up. He laughed against my mouth. I laughed too.

Two grown adults, laughing at a joke we knew exactly where it was going.

We arrived at my building. He pulled up in front, in no hurry to turn off the car. His hand was on the doorknob, all rational, all "woman who knows when to stop."

He grabbed my wrist.

"Can I come up?" he asked brazenly. I should have said no.

I should have said "Not today."

But my defenses were on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette, laughing in my face.

"You can," he escaped my mouth before I could swallow.

We got on. The elevator was silent. His breath was behind me, hot on the back of my neck. He wasn't even looking at the elevator camera: a lawyer's paranoia. If someone reviewed those images... well, that was it.

Inside my apartment, he complimented me on my wine rack, my jazz playlist, the same one I listened to alone while working late into the night.

He opened a bottle without asking. He poured two glasses. He toasted me as if the evening were casual, light, with no secrets.

From there to bed, three steps without resistance.

He was everything he'd promised: gentle, precise, attentive. Every caress, every kiss, every whispered phrase felt like a promise of eternity.

And I... I convinced myself nothing was wrong. "Separated." That's what he said. "It's been a while." That's what I thought.

When I woke up, it was almost morning. He was still there, sleeping next to me, his arm around my waist.

I looked into his face. I thought, "Is this real? Is this really it? Am I fooling myself?"

He opened his eyes, smiled that crooked smile, kissed my forehead, and whispered,

"I'll figure this out, okay? I promise."

He did.

I believed him.

And that's how it all began: an expensive dinner, a well-told lie, an invisible contract signed with a kiss, and Marília Marques, quite rightly, became the other.

First lie swallowed. First of many.

Deep down, I knew it.

But between knowing it and doing something about it... there's a warm bed, a crooked smile, a man who says "I want you" without giving anything up.

And me, stupid, saying yes.