Keep This Promise

by Willow Winters

  “So, Vera Miles?” Gabby questioned, between blaring the horn. “Are you named after the actress? I’m a big Hitchcock fan.”

  I got this question all the time, usually from film buffs or old people. “No, my great-grandmother’s name was Vera. My mother said she never cared for the actress anyway, so she thought she could do better, I guess. Of course, she was totally wrong.” Even though I hadn’t been named after the fifties screen star, having her name definitely got me into a love of classic films. I even had an appreciation for the often overlooked actress, maybe because it pissed my mom off. Lord knows she probably thought I’d turn out to be a well-behaved beauty queen instead of a, well, me. Me and other Vera, we were underdogs.

  With that thought in mind, I paused at the last question I had to fill out on the form: who was my emergency contact if something should happen to me. That was a bit of a tough one. I’d put my dad over my mother, just because we got along better, but my parents divorced when I was thirteen and he was a pilot, which meant he was more in the air than he was on the ground. Both my mother and Mercy seemed too busy with their own lives to give me much thought, which left Joshua. My dear brother was the only one who truly had my back. Unfortunately, he was high all the time, which was also kind of my fault.

  I sighed and wrote down my mother’s information.

  “There’s the bus,” Gabby said.

  I looked up to see the bus pulled over to the side of the road, the engine running. We were on the outskirts of the city center where the tall business buildings started to peter out into wide boulevards framed by flowering trees.

  “Thank you so much,” I said to her as she pulled up right behind it. “I am so sorry I was late.”

  She finally smiled. It was quick but it was there. “It happens every program, don’t worry about it.”

  I opened the door and got out. As I reached into the back to retrieve my pack I asked, “Any last minute advice?”

  She raised a brow. “Try not to fall in love with anyone,” she said dryly.

  I slowly closed the door and she sped off, honking at the bus as she drove past it.

  Phfff, I thought to myself. Try not to fall in love with anyone? She obviously doesn’t know me at all.

  I shrugged on my heavy bag and hauled it over to the bus in time to see a short and rotund looking driver come hoping out of it. Though I was afraid he was going to reprimand me, his mustache and smile were miles wide.

  “So you’re Vera!” he said in a thick accent. He went for my shoulders. “I’m Manolo. Come, come, give me your bag.”

  I awkwardly spun around so he could take it off. He then said, “Go, go on board and take an empty seat.” He started to lift up the compartment at the side of the bus.

  I thanked him and shrugged, adjusted my purse on my shoulder as I walked up to the bus. I knew people were looking down at me from their window seats and already making their judgements. But fuck it.

  I took in a deep breath and climbed up the stairwell.

  Everyone was staring at me as I stood in the middle of the aisle, quickly scanning the rows for an empty seat. I thought I saw one at the back.

  Luckily, no one looked mad or upset at the interruption. Most were smiling. Some of the grey-haired folk eyed my tattoos and even my tiny nose ring stud with disdain, but that was normal.

  Well, might as well introduce myself.

  I raised my hand and waved it. “I’m Vera Miles,” I announced sheepishly. “And I’m the one who was late. Lo siento,” I added, the only Spanish I knew.

  Everyone laughed and a few people applauded.

  A cheery middle-aged man in a cowboy hat and checkered shirt nodded at me. “No more Spanish for these folks, they said it’s English only from here on in,” he said in a boisterous drawl, shooting me an apple-cheeked grin. “Didn’t you get the memo?”

  “No, I was late,” I joked just as Manolo came back on board.

  “Vera, sit please,” he said. “There’s a seat down there.” He quickly pointed down the aisle then climbed back into the driver’s seat, closing the hydraulic door.

  The bus lurched forward and I steadied myself on the backs of people’s chairs. I made my way down the aisle as he pulled out into the road, giving everyone the shy “hey, I’m sorry” smile as I walked past. There really were people from all walks of life here. Even though it was hard at first to tell who was a native English speaker and who was Spanish, I started to pick up on the fact that every English person was seated beside a Spaniard and making awkward small talk. The Texan was right—the program had already begun.

  I kept going until the second to last row where I had seen an empty seat. Actually, it was the only empty seat on the bus.

  It was beside a man who was staring out the window, chin resting thoughtfully on his fist. I only had a good moment to take him in unabashedly before I had to sit down. After that, staring at him would become really awkward.

  And for some reason, I wanted to stare at him.

  Okay, maybe it wasn’t some reason. He was handsome. Like, wow, that’s a handsome guy, and then you nudge your friend and get her to take a look as well. That kind of handsome. Though I couldn’t see him straight on, he had a nice, strong face, broad nose with a bump on the bridge, and just the right amount of stubble on his cheeks and jaw. His deep-set eyes looked rich brown, his longish, thick hair a shade darker than that and his brows even more so. I couldn’t tell how tall he was, he was at least a few inches taller than I was, but his body was fit and lean. His stomach looked washboard flat under his white dress shirt and his forearms that peeked out from the rolled up sleeves were muscular, the same color as wet sand, a beach in the afternoon light.

  He was the stereotype of what I thought a Spanish man would look like, all dark looks and mysterious ways, and judging by his neatly pressed dark grey pants and the size of his Rolex on his wrist, he was a successful one at that.

  Handsome business men were so not my type—I liked them roughed up and edgy and fun—but there was something about him that got me a little hot under the collar. I sat down as close to him as possible and, once again, hoped I didn’t stink.

  He turned to look at me and offered me a smile that made me glad I was already sitting down, my joints feeling weak. It was stunning, genuine and charming all at once.

  “Hello,” he said, in beautifully accented English. “I’m Mateo.”

  He offered me his hand and that’s when I saw the wedding ring on his left hand, glinting from the sun that snuck in through the tinted window.

  Married? Okay, definitely not my type.

  Chapter 2

  I shook Mateo’s hand, surprised at his warm, firm grip. “I’m Vera, nice to meet you,” I said before I ever so subtly adjusted myself so that I there was a good amount of space between us. It was just as well that he was a married businessman. I hadn’t come here to sleep with the first Spanish man I’d met. Otherwise I’d end up in bed with the man I was miming to on the street.

  “Vera,” Mateo repeated, his voice smooth and polished as glass. “You have just arrived and already you have made me feel better about myself.”

  I frowned at him, curious and finding his carefully pronounced English adorable. “How so?”

  “I was late also. I thought I would spend the whole ride alone.” He smiled warmly. “So. Tell me about yourself.”

  I flipped my hair over my shoulder and grinned. “Oh, okay. How long is the bus ride?”

  “Three hours, he said.” He nodded up the aisle at Manolo. “We’re supposed to talk the whole ride.” He gave me a one-shouldered shrug. “More or less.”

  He was right. Everyone on the bus was murmuring to each other in a forced and kind of awkward way, a range of accents and tones filling the space.

  “All right,” I said, feeling immediately comfortable around him. Then again, it was often that way when you were with married men. There were no expectations or misunderstandings—you could just relax and be yourself. “How about we as
k each other questions? Take turns. You know, I go first and you go second.” I hadn’t meant to be patronizing but his English was so good that I’d forgotten why he was here.

  “I know what taking turns means,” he said good-naturedly.

  “Well then that brings me to my first question,” I said. Normally I would have slapped his leg in flirty good fun but I decided against it. Okay, so maybe I couldn’t be exactly like myself. “Why are you here? You speak really good English.”

  “My company,” he said. “My English is good, yes, but not so when compared to you. In an international market, those who are fluent in English remain at the top. If you don’t speak so well,” he waved his hand back and forth and winced, “eh, then you are looked at as being dumb.”

  “You’re definitely not dumb,” I told him.

  He smiled faintly. He had nice lips. “You don’t know me after some beer.”

  “A lightweight, I see.”

  He frowned. “Light…weight?”

  Well he certainly wasn’t dumb but I could see he didn’t know everything. Time to try out my non-existing teaching skills. Lord knew that’s all I’d be doing for the next month. I could only hope that it would feel as easy as it did with Mateo—a stranger up until a few minutes ago—but I knew I wouldn’t be that lucky.

  I sat back in my seat. “Yeah, lightweight. It means that you can’t handle your liquor very well. One drink gets you buzzed, the next gets you drunk.”

  “Buzzed?” he asked. “Like a bee? I do not understand.” His brows furrowed, his expression endearing. He had really striking eyebrows.

  I had to stop thinking like that.

  “Kinda,” I said. Actually no, it was better not to confuse him. “Okay, buzzed is like when you’re feeling good. Loosey goosesy,” I waved my arms up and down like a spaced-out hippie. “Tipsy. Almost drunk. You know, you’re like…”

  “Happy,” he filled in.

  “Yes,” I said. Well, unless you were drinking and in a shitty mood, then that first drink just makes the tears fall. But that was neither here nor there.

  “Do you get…happy, Vera?” he asked. His voice was lower and leaned into me ever so slightly. I caught a whiff of fresh-smelling cologne, something expensive that probably came in a turquoise bottle. The cologne made me happy.

  I gave him a small smile, suddenly self-conscious. I had expected his eyes to be resting on my cleavage, this damn black tank top kept falling down so low, but he was staring forward at the seat in front of us, waiting patiently for my answer.

  “Um,” I said rather eloquently. “I’ve been known to get happy.”

  He nodded as if he were pleased with that answer and relaxed back in his seat, the space between us widening again. “In Spanish there are many words I could use, but Manolo said there would be, how you say, consequences if we not speaking English. I admit, I did not realize that we won’t be able to speak a word of Spanish. I can’t imagine I will survive three weeks.”

  I felt a strange pang of disappointment. “Only three weeks?” I asked. “I’m here for four.”

  “I bet you’re going to get tired of talking,” he smirked. “And I will get tired of having to think. Perhaps I shall end up dumb in the end.”

  “Ah, but if you have enough beer, you can be dumb and happy.”

  “Buzzed,” he corrected, grinning impetuously. He brought his phone out from his pant pocket. “I must write that down. Buzzed.” He made the z vibrate as he said the word and I couldn’t help but smile. When he was done he put the phone away and steadied his gaze at me.

  “Now,” he said slowly, “it is my turn to ask you.”

  “Wait, I was going to ask you where you worked.”

  He cocked his head to the side, his smirk deepening. “Those aren’t the rules. Next turn. Now, Vera, tell me what you want to…achieve…when you leave Spain?”

  I pursed my lips. “I’m not sure I understand.”

  He ran his hand through his hair as he tried to gather his thoughts. It really was thick and shiny and artfully messy, the color of this dark brown desk that was always in the display at my favorite antique shop. Coffee with threads of gold. A few grey hairs teased his temples and for the first time I started wondering how old he was. Not that it mattered, but he had such an easy, jovial way about him that it never occurred to me that he’d be much older than his early thirties.

  He cleared his throat. “Sorry, my English…okay.” He waved his hand at me. “Why did you sign up for this? We all have because of our jobs or our companies. But why did you? What do you hope to gain?”

  I blinked a few times at his question. “Wow,” I remarked. “That’s pretty deep. What happened to where are you from? Or what do you do for a living?”

  Mateo wasn’t fazed. “I can tell you are either Canadian or American, yes? Where you are from is not important. What you do is not important. Why you are here? Yes, that is important.”

  To tell you the truth, I was the one feeling a bit dumb. I wasn’t sure what to say except what I always said.

  “I wanted to meet new people, have new experiences.”

  He watched me closely, his eyes burning with an intensity that wasn’t there a few moments before. It’s like he was searching for the truth, like he knew I was lying. It made my skin prickle, electric and alive.

  Still, he didn’t say anything. He just studied me. Even though he hadn’t moved, he felt closer.

  I took in a short breath and looked away. “I know it’s not important, but I’m an astronomy student. I study the stars. I study light that died billions of years ago, planets and stars in other galaxies, millions of miles away. All that time and space. And I hadn’t even fucking been to Europe. I was beginning to feel like a chump.”

  There was slough of silence between us. I eyed him gingerly.

  His lips twitched into a smile and with that I felt like I could breathe again.

  “A chump?” he said. “This is a bad thing?”

  “Yes,” I said, my heart beat slowing down. “It’s a bad thing. I felt like I had no business studying the universe if I couldn’t even go overseas and study people there. And yes, I do actually want to meet new people and have new experiences, too, as cliché as that sounds.”

  “So you want to study me?” he asked. His tone was innocent but the sparkle in his eye said otherwise. Thank goodness he kept putting out this jokey vibe—most of the time, anyway—or things would get…inappropriate.

  “Yes,” I said. “I want to study all the Spaniards and find out their deepest, darkest secrets. Starting with you.” I wagged my eyebrows at him in an exaggerated motion to let him know I wasn’t serious.

  “But you never answered what you hoped to gain from all of this.”

  I wasn’t done yet? I sighed. “A better understanding of the universe?”

  He tapped my arm briefly and I swallowed hard at his warm fingertips on my skin. He smiled. “You know what Vera, I believe you. But I believe that after spending a month with a bunch of Spaniards in the country, you’re going to understand the universe even less.”

  I had a feeling he was right.

  The bus ride flew right by as Mateo and I got to know each other.

  He learned, as unimportant as it was, about my interest in astronomy and where I lived and whether I preferred white wine or red wine (I told him I wasn’t much of a wine drinker but he only laughed in response, as if I had just said the most ridiculous thing he’d ever heard).

  He turned out to be a lot more interesting than I had originally suspected. He had a five-year daughter named Chloe Ann. You could tell he adored her from the way his eyes sparkled when he mentioned her name. He showed me her picture from his wallet—she was a pretty little thing with light brown hair and cupid bow lips—but made no mention of his wife. I found that odd and started entertaining the idea that maybe he was separated before I stopped myself. I couldn’t go down that path either.

  As for his line of work, it was kind of impressive. He co-owned
several restaurants in Madrid, Barcelona and Seville and was hoping to expand to the UK or the US at some point, hence why his business partner thought he should brush up on his skills with the program. He mentioned that he was sent because he was the one who was always dealing with the media because of “you know.” Of course, I didn’t know but by the time I had the chance to ask, the people sitting in front of us turned around in their seats and invited us to chat with them.

  I really didn’t want to—I felt like Mateo and I were having our own private thing. Plus, the English speaker of the two was a girl who usually hated girls like me. I could just tell, call it gut instinct. She was rather small, brunette, hair swept back into a ponytail, wearing glitter-framed glasses and a t-shirt that said Espańa on it that was a size too large for her. She had this expression in her eyes that was both judgmental and calculating, like she was already plotting my demise, which, on her make-up free and child-like face, made her look like a female version of Damien from The Omen.

  Luckily, the Spanish girl she was sitting with looked a lot more amiable. She had big brown eyes, a friendly smile and a round face with a bit too much blush on her cheeks. She was probably mid-twenties or older and from the slightly desperate sheen to her eyes, I could tell she really wanted to talk to us. It took me half a second to realize it was because of her bespeckled seatmate.

  In the Cliffnotes version of our conversation, the Spanish girl ended up being Claudia, who worked in advertising in Madrid, was jonesing for the bus to stop so she could have a cigarette, loved Jared Leto and Thirty Seconds to Mars, was single but had a cat called Rocco, and laughed a lot.

  In contrast, her seatmate was named Lauren, who was studying to be a film critic at NYU’s film program, wrote for the university paper picking apart what was wrong with today’s films, lived with her roommate in the Village, was an only child and a vegan. She was also against American Apparel. I learned this because at one point during our conversation she was eyeing my shirt (I kept pulling it up to make sure I wasn’t flashing too much boob) and asked me point blank what I was wearing.