Especially when I noticed someone standing in the corner of the room, someone I’d only briefly gazed over early. He was an Anglo, it seemed, it was hard to hear his voice from where I was, and judging on looks alone he was, well, right up my alley. Whereas Mateo was fit, muscular and athletic, sporting a body he carried around with ease, this guy was thin and wiry. Lean but sexy in that rocker heroin chic kind of way. He had black hair that spiked up around his forehead, a hoop nose ring and a lip ring. Pale as an albino ghost, wearing tight black jeans, mean boots, and a black thermal shirt from an ISIS concert, the print so faded I could barely read it.
The guy looked over, scanning the room, perhaps to escape from conversation from the overly-tanned, blonde woman he was with and I smiled at him, hoping to catch his attention. I knew to a man like him, I was totally attractive.
His eyes lit up and he gave me the cool nod of acknowledgement that guys like him were so good at. Perfect. Someone to already distract me from Mateo. I hoped he wasn’t married, either, or I was going to have to give up on men this trip. Perhaps this could be my twelve-step, no sex program. At least I had remembered to pack one of my vibrators.
“I knew it!” a thickly accented voice said at my ear.
I turned in surprise, expecting to see someone talking to me. Instead it was the short man who was in line earlier, the one who kept giving Mateo the eye. Up close his eyes were bulging, like a cartoon frog and he had the goofiest smile on his face. He pointed at Mateo’s face, then down at his crotch. Well, at his name tag.
“I knew it, you are Mateo Casalles,” the man said. “I thought you looked familiar.”
Mateo nodded and gave the man a polite smile, the kind that politicians gave.
So…who the hell was Mateo Casalles?
Claudia picked up on my confusion for she lay a hand on Mateo’s chest—something I had wanted to do—and tapped him there. “Of course, you don’t watch football do you?” she addressed me.
I grimaced. “Canadian football or American?”
“No, football,” she said. “Soccer.”
Oh right. Football was called soccer here, which makes more sense when you think of it.
I shook my head. “I don’t really know a lot about sports. I played soccer as a kid but I got in trouble for kicking shins instead.” True story. My coach was so upset with me that banned me from taking part in any games. Eventually my mom put me into gymnastics, which wasn’t much better since I have the coordination of a severely untalented monkey.
“Casalles was part of our team,” the frog-eyed man said. I peered closer at him. His name tag said Jose Carlos. Froggy Carlos was more apt.
I tried to think about what I knew about Spain and soccer. Suddenly it hit me. “Oh my god,” I cried out. “You were on the same team as David Beckham!”
Mateo gave me a chuckle, his eyes softening. “No,” he explained. “There are two teams for Madrid. I was part of Atletico de Madrid. It’s…not the team you would have heard of.”
Aw. No Beckham. Though to be honest, the dude did have a higher voice than I did. Still, if Mateo had been on a soccer team—one important enough for someone to recognize him—that meant he might have a body like David Beckham, something I had suspected anyway.
Oh boy. His wife was one lucky bitch.
“He was the best centre-back we ever had,” Froggy Carlos said excitedly, pride practically pouring out of him. “He could stop everyone.”
Mateo’s smile faltered slightly. “More or less.”
Froggy Carlos’s expression faded to somberness. “Yes. More or less.”
Okay, so there was some story here that I wanted to know. What had happened to Mateo? Why was he in the restaurant business now and not being the best centre-back they ever had? Just how old was he? And did he wear David Beckham underwear, because those boxer briefs were sexy as fuck.
My thoughts—probably everyone’s thoughts—were interrupted by the screechy call of Jerry.
“Listen up, mates,” he said, climbing on top of the antique coffee table in the middle of the room. I wondered if he was going to damage it in some way, but he seemed so sickly and frail that it was deemed impossible. “We’re going to play the icebreaker game. It’s simple, it’s easy. And it’s fun! So don’t worry.”
I was worried.
He went on, as if we were all eight-year olds at our first day of camp, “You’ll take the card out of the little envelope that’s inside the big envelope and—without looking at it,” he jabbed his finger at us like we’d already made a mistake, “you put it up on your forehead. Your goal is to go to each person and ask them one question to try and figure out who you are. No cheating! I’ll be watching you.”
Well, what else would he do?
He clapped his hands together and told us to commence the game. With a sigh, I exchanged a caustic glance with Claudia and fished the card out. I immediately put it on my forehead and held it there and turned to look at her.
She was holding a card that said Napoleon on it. I was already smiling.
“Do you want to go first?” I asked her.
“Okay,” she said, her eyes darting up to the ceiling in thought. “Am I…a man?”
Good question. “Yes, you are.”
She nodded, knowing that didn’t really narrow it down.
My turn. “Am I a man?”
She shook her head vehemently. “No. you’re a woman.”
Okay, so quite a feminine woman and probably not a girl or a child. I was putting my deduction skills to good use.
An older Spanish man with the name Pablo and the card of Steve Jobs tapped her on the shoulder, sequestering her attention. I turned around and looked at Mateo who had just finished asking Froggy Carlos something. His face broke out into a huge, panty-melting grin the moment he saw me. Meanwhile he was holding a card to his forehead that said Muhammad Ali. Floats like a butterfly and stings like a bee. Seemed about right.
Froggy Carlos cleared his throat and I looked over at him. His pick was Albert Einstein. Hmmm.
“Who am I?” Froggy asked me. Always so exuberant.
“Um, that’s not how this works,” I told him. Damn, it had been one minute already and my arm was getting tired of keeping this at my forehead.
“Who are you?” he asked.
Oh dear. Drowning in translation.
“Yes. Who am I,” I said slowly. “Am I a movie star?”
A dawn of understanding came over his face and I could hear Mateo chuckle softly beside me.
“Oh,” Froggy said. “Yes! You are a big movie star. You were. You’re dead.”
I raised my hand. “I think we’re only supposed to do one question at a time.”
“Lo siento,” he said, then clamped his hands over his mouth in shock over his contraband Spanish. Then dropped the card so it landed face up and just ruined the game for himself. What a noob.
“Oh no,” he said softly, bending down to pick it up. “Oh no, I was Alberto Einstein.”
I swiftly turned to Mateo, trying to suck up all of his attention.
“Okay, you ask me something about yourself,” I said, making sure he hadn’t gotten sidetracked by Froggy’s version of the game.
As he kept the card to his forehead I started noting the largeness of his hands, the details of his forearm, the way his dark hair complimented his bronze skin but never overtook it.
“I think I am a male,” he said slowly, a gleam in his eye. “In fact, I know I am. How could I not be?”
Good question. Seemed impossible.
“So,” he mused, “I have to ask then, am I dead or alive?”
I had to think about that for a second? “You’re alive,” I told him. “Though I don’t think you’re doing too well, which is a shame since you’re such a trailblazer.”
Okay, so I said more than I was supposed to but I wanted to help him out. Besides, he looked puzzled over the word trailblazer anyway.
“Okay, do me,” I said excitedly. And then my whole body
flushed hot from my words. My god, I was losing my edge here.
I had hoped the little phrase had gone over his head, but he just gave me a look that told me he knew. He seemed to pick up on the things I didn’t want him to.
“Yes, I will,” he said with a smirk. He straightened up and seemed much taller. “What do you want to know?”
“Oh, right,” I said, forgetting how the game worked for a second. I pursed my lips, thinking, my arm growing more strained. I had a feeling I knew who I could be, someone I hoped I could be.
“Am I sexy?” I asked, almost whispering, as if this was a secret. “Beautiful?” I added, in case he didn’t understand the sexy part.
His eyes looked me up and down and the slowest, wickedest smile tugged on his lips. “Yes. You are very beautiful. And very, very sexy.”
I raised my brow. “Not me, the person I’m trying to figure out.”
“Yes,” he said smoothly, eyeing me through his long lashes. “That is what I meant.”
We stared at each other for much longer than two almost strangers should, the room feeling like it had emptied out, like it was just us here and we weren’t surrounded by thirty-eight other people tripping on their words and laughing at their mistakes.
But we weren’t alone. Claudia was squeezing Mateo’s arm and saying something to him and he was tearing his eyes away from mine and breaking the spell. If there even had been a spell. Things of this nature were usually in my head.
With his attention on her now, I scanned the room looking for someone, anyone, to continue the game with. I wasn’t used to feeling attracted to guys I couldn’t have and it was throwing me off-kilter.
I spied the rocker dude making his way through the crowd, heading to the bar. There was no bartender there, though with the nervousness of the Spaniards and the lameness of the game, you’d think there would be one, just handing everyone free shots.
I squeezed through the people until I was at his side.
“Hey,” I said to the guy as he peered over the copper-topped bar in frustration. He turned around and I looked to his name tag. “Dave,” I said slowly. Damn, I thought he would have had a cooler name than that, like Jet or Bones or Styxx.
“Hi,” he said brightly with a North American accent. He had really nice deep blue eyes, though slightly bloodshot. He looked at my tag. “Vera,” he read thoughtfully. Then he looked at the one on my forehead. “You’re still playing that?”
I shrugged. “I’ve almost figured it out. Thought you could help me.”
He folded his arms across his chest and leaned against the bar, resting one black boot up on his toe. His arms were covered in tattoos, nothing too pretty or interesting though, just the generic snakes and symbols and shit.
“Sure, ask away,” he said.
I purse my lips in thought, hoping they looked poutier than usual and asked, “Am I a blonde?”
He nodded.
I smiled. “I’m Marilyn Monroe, aren’t I?”
I took the nametag off of my head and looked at it. Sure enough, I was Marilyn. I totally knew it. I had a bit of a Marilyn obsession and was convinced she was my sad yet sexual spirit animal.
“Not bad,” he said. “I’d buy you a drink to celebrate but…”
As if he sensed we were contemplating going behind the bar and taking a warm bottle of beer off the wall, Jerry appeared. He had a bit of Froggy Carlos’s bug-eyed thing going on too, coupled with bad teeth and a nose that wouldn’t stop twitching. I wanted to make a bunny comparison, but Jerry just wasn’t cute enough for that.
“The bar will be open after dinner,” Jerry said in his Irish brogue. He eyed the card in my hand. “Oh Marilyn, she was my favorite. Why do the beautiful ones always have to die?” I opened my mouth to say something but he went on, “I’m glad you enjoyed the game Vera and Dave.” He smiled at our name tags. “You’re free to go take your bags to your room and relax before dinner. It’s at seven, so make sure you come back here a few minutes before and don’t be late!”
He wagged his finger at us and then scampered off to the next person.
I looked to Dave who was rolling his eyes. “So,” I said. “What building are you in?”
“Eight,” he said, dangling his keys in front of me. “Want to go check it out?”
I gave him a wary look. He smiled—cute dimples—and said, “Let’s go.” He jerked his head over to the door and started walking. He had quite the swagger, shaking his little butt that was half the size of mine. I kind of wanted to bite it.
I followed him out, looking for Mateo and Claudia but not seeing them in the chattering crowd, and he picked up his duffel bag. I decided to go back for mine later.
As we walked up the road to his cottage, he brought out a pack of cigarettes and shook it in my face.
“You want?”
I shook my head. I smoked sometimes but usually when I was drinking or feeling down. Right now I was sober and delightfully optimistic, something I just realized I hadn’t been in a really long time.
I watched him light up with a gold zippo and studied his hands. I liked men’s hands, obviously. His fingers were skinny and slender and looked just calloused enough that I could tell he played guitar. Maybe bass. He had tattoos across them, Asian symbols or scripture of some sort.
“What do those mean?” I nodded at them.
He glanced at his hands as if he was surprised to see them. “I don’t know. I got them in Thailand. I was drunk.”
I laughed. “Good story.”
“Better than waking up with a young boy you thought was a woman.”
I grimaced and he shot me a smile. He had crooked teeth but it suited him. “That didn’t happen to me, don’t worry.”
“I wasn’t,” I said. “I can tell you know the difference between a man and a woman.”
He cocked his brow but said nothing until we got to his cottage. He was in a duplex style one, single story and very charming.
“Wow,” I said as we stepped inside. There was a really small kitchenette off to the side but what was impressive was the gleaming wooden floors, the iron chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and the cream colored couches complete with plush woven throws. The white stone walls had Spanish tapestry hanging from it. I didn’t follow him into the bedroom where he put down his bag, but I assumed it was just as nice.
The fact was I hit a wall and my body was suddenly exhausted. I guess waking up early in London and all the traveling, plus leftover jet lag, was starting to affect me. I was about to tell Dave I was going to head back to my room to get settled and have a nap when his roommate showed up.
She looked to be in her late twenties, maybe older. She was tall, almost as tall as Dave, and just as thin, though her skin had a nice healthy glow to it, the kind that came from lots of yoga and coconut water. Her name tag said she was Beatriz. She eyed our tattoos and piercings and gave us a shy smile, probably thinking we were a couple and she’d interrupted something.
We quickly made introductions and after Beatriz put her bag away, Dave had brought out a bottle of grappa liquor he’d bought a few days ago. The two new roommates settled on the couch and I perched on the armrest and we all raised our glasses before taking back the foul-tasting poison.
The shot was a bad idea. I’d only learned that Dave was from Ann Arbor, Michigan and was a guitarist in an “ironic punk” band (whatever the fuck that meant) and Beatriz was from San Sebastian and was a local news anchor who wanted to try going international, before the room was spinning and I could barely keep my eyes open.
I excused myself and said I needed to unpack and I’d see them at dinner. I left them behind in the warm glow of their living room, feeling the slightest bit lonely all of a sudden. I shrugged it off and gathered just enough energy to make it back to the reception area and pick up my bag.
Again, I didn’t see Mateo or Claudia, even though there weren’t many people mingling anymore. With great effort, I swung up my backpack on my shoulders. I was so looking forward to p
utting it down in my room, unpacking and never having to see it for a month. I loved the idea of backpacking but after struggling with mine for one day, I wasn’t too sure how cut out for it I was. It was probably my fault for taking so many pairs of shoes. Narrowing them down to five pairs had taken up an entire day and was a traumatic experience.
My building was right across from the reception/dining hall and at the edge of the property. A bucolic low-stone wall, crumbling and spliced with dried moss, lined it on one side, bordering a barren field as it swept down the hill to the narrow road below. It was early evening now, around five o’ clock or so, and the air was growing colder and the sun was starting to dip toward the mountains.
My first night in Spain was upon me.
And I all I wanted to do was just to crash onto my bed and sleep. I couldn’t even fathom unpacking. Even the idea of food seemed overwhelming.
My apartment was on the upper level of the cottage, so I staggered up the wooden steps to the second floor and stuck my key into the door. The apartment looked more or less the same as Dave and Beatriz’s, except that there was a balcony that ran all along the front with French doors that led out from the common area onto it. Two iron wrought chairs and a tiny round table beckoned you to sit for a spell.
I beelined it to my room and had just enough energy to appreciate the white bedspread complete with Spanish embroidery, the dark wood floors and furnishings and the wonderful dying light that streamed in through the large, gauze curtained windows, before I dropped my bag to the floor and collapsed onto the bed.
Just five minutes, I thought to myself.
Thirty seconds later, I was out.
Chapter 4
Here’s the thing about me—I’ve never been very good at fitting in. I know that goes without saying in some respects but when you think about it, there’s no reason why I shouldn’t have found my tribe/gang/group/family over the years. Sure, in high school I hung out with the “skids” but only because I liked to smoke pot and get tattoos and listen to punk and metal. But I was smart too—I liked to learn, I wanted to attend a good university, whereas they did not and wouldn’t even go onto community college. So while I was accepted and had made some friends, none of them were the best of friends, those people that had your back, that made you feel like you could be yourself. I was part of my peers and yet apart from them at the same time.
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