Miranda looked across at her partner in the driver’s seat beside her. Max was concentrating on the road, his wavy hair being ruffled by the breeze as he drove them from the Hotel Regalia, where they had just interviewed a murder suspect. They were heading now to a small pig farm to talk to the next person of interest on their list, an artisan sobrasada producer. Max would either be in his element or he’d be completely put off eating those weird spreadable sausages. She hoped for her own sake it would be the latter; one fewer sausage for him to eat in the car and turn her stomach with.
While I’m thinking of Max making my stomach flip, I’m not imaging it, am I? Miranda wondered. There was definitely a... “moment” between us on the hotel terrace earlier, right? After he shared his dream of retiring to a vineyard in Binissalem, he said why would he go back to Germany when everything he needs is right here... And he looked at me. That seemed like a significant look. Ok, he broke it off after a few seconds and said he meant the climate, the cuisine and Carmen, but it was as if he was covering up having revealed too much. It seemed like I was the unspoken first on his list.
Argh, Miranda, think about Carmen in all this! She’s your friend now. Interesting that she was last in his list though, like an afterthought: “oh yeah, and I suppose my girlfriend is important to me too...”. Girlfriend and not fiancée, notably; she turned him down. I remember very well that crushing feeling when he said he’d asked her to marry him. Having to be happy and hopeful for him was so hard, while inside I was heartbroken. It was even worse when he said she wanted to wait; he tried not to let it show, but he must have felt pretty upset about it. Poor Max. I wanted to say something then, to comfort or cheer him up, but I didn’t know what, especially with the brave front he was putting on. They should probably have ended things then, rather than extending and delaying the pain.
I can’t interfere in his relationship though, and I absolutely mustn’t give away how I feel; if there’s any chance at all that Max has feelings for me (is there?), then it’s not fair for me to say anything. Although... from what Carmen told me in his kitchen the other week - about having to think about the proposal - maybe they won’t be together much longer? Not that I should be hoping for two of my friends to split up, but...
Oh god, this isn’t me! I don’t do pining after people or getting involved with colleagues! I don’t know what’s happened to me since I got to Mallorca. Far too often I find myself replaying things in my head, over and over: the looks he gives me, when he teases me, when he makes me laugh, when he says something nice about the way I look, him in his suit, all the times we touch, him holding my hand on the train to Sóller, the paso doble in Cazador... Does he think of me as more than a friend and professional partner? I’m not the best at reading these situations, but I think maybe he does, even if it’s just a little bit? Oh, I just don’t know! This is infuriating! I’m spending way too much time trying to figure out how he feels about me. Get a grip, Miranda! Back to the murder ca-
“You’re very quiet,” Max observed, interrupting her reverie. “You ok, compañera?” He glanced quickly to the passenger side of the BMW to check on her.
“Oh, yes, fine... just... thinking,” she replied, smiling at his concern for her.
Thinking about you.