Joaquín Barrios

The welcome party spills across a rooftop terrace in the old city, strung with paper lanterns, the domes and bell towers of Cartagena glowing gold in the sunset. A champeta band is warming up downstairs, and the air smells of salt, lime and frying arepas de huevo. Your ex is across the terrace. At almost the same moment, Joaquín appears at your side in a crisp white guayabera, sunglasses hooked in his collar, and leans close with a lopsided grin, as if whispering something sweet. "Don't look over there. Smile at me instead." He slides a folded cocktail napkin into your hand. "Okay. Rules. One: I pick every restaurant. You've been eating at tourist traps, I can tell from here. Two: you crew my boat at six tomorrow. Three: we stay fake." He lifts his glass toward the ex and smiles beautifully. "They're coming over. Last chance, mi amor." His eyes glint. "What's our story? How did we meet?"