Keep This Promise

by Willow Winters

  I sat there, stunned, as some of her smoke blew in my face. That’s how Mateo looked at me? Like he wanted to eat me? I was pretty sure that’s how I looked at him. Just last night I was contemplating nibbling on his ear lobes.

  “And yes,” she said, leaning closer to me, a small smile on her lips, “that is also how you look at him.” Great, a mind reader. “But you are more subtle about it. You try not to let everyone know. But, we know.”

  “There is nothing to know,” I reminded her, poking the table with my finger for emphasis. “We are not sleeping together. He is married. I have a crush. That is it. The end of the story.”

  “A crush?” she questioned. “Vera, I think you’re in love with him.”

  No fucking way. Not love. That did not happen with me, not ever and not now.

  “You can’t fall in love in a week,” I told her heatedly.

  “You can fall in love in a second,” she said with a snap of her fingers. “The heart has no regard for time.”

  With that sobering thought, Claudia told me about her ex-boyfriend and how they fell in love at first sight then took the conversation back onto Ricardo and their exploits. I envied her so badly right there and then. She could fawn over Ricardo, kiss him, fuck him and no one would ever bat an eye. It was okay for them to be together. It wasn’t forbidden.

  I gulped the rest of the wine and left her apartment, heading back to reception to meet Cristina for my next one-on-one, my mind and heart and hormones all over the place. Lo and behold, Mateo was walking up the path toward me.

  He was on the phone, smiling.

  His shirt was off and slung over his shoulder, exposing his bare chest, abs and arms.

  Holy fuck.

  For a moment, I was sure that time had stopped. Or maybe ever single nerve, cell, vein, bone, muscle in my body just slowed as I took him all in.

  From his thick-veined forearms to his sculpted shoulders, broad chest peppered with neatly-trimmed chest hair, to his six-pack abs, he had, by far, the best body I’d ever seen on a man. He kept himself in fine ass shape, looking more like a young athlete than anything else. Like, he and David Beckham had more in common than I thought, although David’s skin tone wasn’t as mesmerizing. Mateo’s color was amazing, just beautiful, this dark golden bronze tan that covered him everywhere. I wanted so badly to just touch him, to lick the sheen of sweat of his skin. I bet he tasted like victory.

  And to think, this was the man that Claudia said wanted to taste me.

  I really, really wanted to believe her.

  Meanwhile, I was just standing there like I was melting into a puddle of myself. I clamped my mouth shut as he walked past and I heard him say into the phone, “No, mi tesorito, it was easy, I didn’t injure myself.” He was beaming, talking about the game, to his wife. To his tesorito. And he called their relationship complicated? This was complicated.

  He winked at me in acknowledgement, his smile becoming broader. I tried to smile back but it wouldn’t come. I just stared at him, feeling stupid, foolish and strangely rejected. In a perfect world I may have been his favorite food, but it still wasn’t what he got served every day. I turned around and walked down the hill, my heart feeling like a pin cushion.

  “Vera!” I heard him call out from behind. I stopped and nervously glanced over my shoulder. He was holding the phone’s receiver to his chest, grinning at me. “I need to ask you your question.”

  “What?” I answered, hoping it was quick.

  “Who is your favorite Spaniard here?”

  Seriously?

  And yet I couldn’t lie to him.

  “You,” I said, more to myself than to him. Then I turned around and walked away as quickly as I could.

  Chapter 11

  The verbal attacks from Lauren, my conversation with Claudia and my encounter with shirtless Mateo did a total number on my head and my heart. The next four days passed by like a blender, shaking me up, changing my feelings from moment to moment. It didn’t help that a heat wave had suddenly gripped the region and the sweat diluted my thoughts.

  The thing was, I didn’t do love. That wasn’t my thing. That was the reason why I didn’t date, I only got laid when I needed to blow some steam or have some fun. I didn’t have time to put up with complicated relationships or put my heart and soul out there for someone to step on. Love was scarier than deep space.

  So that’s why I knew I couldn’t be in love. I was just in lust with Mateo, and that was usually fine, totally normal. But now, everything seemed so jumbled. I couldn’t keep my head on straight and every time I tried to pick a new strategy to get through this, such as “from now on, I will not be attracted to him” or “from now on, I will not speak to him”, something came along and shook things loose.

  That something was usually Mateo. Avoiding him was really hard when you were forced to interact nearly every day and especially hard when he still sought you out for his daily question.

  It was also hard because every time he asked me to go for a walk with him, to eat breakfast with him, to look through an English gossip magazine together with him, I couldn’t say no. I didn’t want to. I wanted to be around him as much as I could, even though I knew I shouldn’t.

  Really, I was just fucked. And not in the right way.

  Like when he asked me to try napping with him again after we finished lunch. The temperature was sweltering, even with the fans inside going full blast, and everyone looked like they’d been hit by a truck carrying a flatbed of sweat. I hadn’t been sleeping very well thanks to the heat and was extra tired. So, taking a nap felt like the smart thing to do even though it might have not been.

  We walked outside onto the patio where he once again grabbed a few extra seat cushions and went over to the tree where we last had our siesta. Because of the heat, he was wearing his worn-in jeans, Keds and a fitted black t-shirt with faded vintage designs, pretty much his uniform for the last few days. I wasn’t complaining. I loved Mateo in his slick business suits but I also loved Mateo in his dressed down, rough style. I had a feeling that deep down, that was the style closer to him.

  I loved Mateo in everything.

  Except, I wasn’t in love with him.

  Of course.

  “Ready for another siesta?” he asked as he got down on the ground, propping one of the cushions up under his head.

  I looked around me to see if anyone was watching. There were a few people at the tables—Polly and Eduardo, Sara, Manuel and Nerea. The slut-shamer and the Brony were nowhere to be seen.

  “You going to join me?”

  I stared down at him, at his long body lying beneath me. What I really wanted to do was straddle him and put my hands down those jeans. But I shoved those lewd thoughts in a box somewhere.

  I got down to the ground and made myself comfortable. We were lying closer to each other than we had been the first time. I felt like if I moved my arm even the slightest little bit, my hand would brush against his. I couldn’t help but wonder if that was a coincidence or not.

  “Are you going to the party tonight?” he asked casually.

  “Why wouldn’t I?” Tonight was the weekly party and this time we were supposed to get a flamenco dancing show, put on by Sara and Nerea, with Manuel playing classical guitar.

  “You seem tired,” he explained. “But so am I. It usually doesn’t get this hot until August.”

  “I bet you wish you lived on the coast,” I said. In Vancouver, it rarely got hot—or cold—because we were by the ocean.

  “Yes,” he said. “But I have an apartment in Barcelona, so I try to go on the weekends.”

  Wow. Now that would be cool. I bet it was a beautiful place too. My mind immediately began to envision a butter-colored Dali-esque exterior overlooking a wide expanse of golden beach. Mateo was there, standing by a balcony, the transparent curtains blowing past him. In my mind, he was wearing only boxer briefs, with a plush robe half-hanging off of him, the ocean breeze moving his hair.

  “You should come
see it one day,” he said, still a casual tone to his voice. It entered my dream and suddenly I was in the picture too.

  I let out an uneasy laugh and the image vanished. “Yeah, I wish.”

  Silence hummed between us. I could feel that Mateo wanted to say something more but I didn’t want him to say it.

  “So,” I said, sliding over it. “In the last however many days, you’ve asked me who my favorite Spaniard is, my first pet as a child, my favorite childhood memory, what my thoughts are on global warming and why Justin Beiber exists.”

  He raised his hand in the air and started ticking off his fingers. “And you’ve told me it was me, naturally, a hamster named Chubb-Chubb, a sailing trip on your parent’s friends boat when you were nine, you think the planet is angry and we are all fucked, and that Justin Beiber exists because he is the anti-Christ and no one would ever suspect the anti-Christ came from Canada. Correct?”

  “Sounds right. So what is today’s question?”

  “Hmmm,” he mused. He put his hand back down beside him and his pinky finger lay directly across my pinky finger. I held my breath, afraid to move, the sensation of his skin on mine felt heavier than lead. It was all I could think about. His finger on mine. Was he going to move it? Should I move mine? Were we going to just lie there, touching like that?

  Oh my god, I was going insane.

  “Vera?” he asked.

  I swallowed. “Yes.”

  “What are you thinking about?”

  You, you, you, always you, I screamed inside.

  “Sorry,” I quickly said. “I was thinking about Justin Beiber.”

  “Is that so?”

  “What were you saying?” I prodded, hoping he wouldn’t pry.

  “I was saying I was hoping to ask you tonight.”

  “Why tonight?”

  “Because you would be drunk.”

  My heart thudded in my chest. What did that mean?

  I took in a careful breath. “How come you can’t ask me when I’m sober?”

  He shrugged but his finger was still on mine, trapping me. “People speak the truth when they are drunk. More or less.”

  “Well,” I said bravely. “Then ask me tonight when I am drunk.”

  “I will.”

  We didn’t say anything for a few moments. All I kept thinking about what he was going to ask me, why did he need me to be drunk and truthful? My mind started going fast, the hamster wheel spinning, as my heart sprinkled it with hope. Was he going to ask me to have an affair with him?

  No. No, it was such a long shot. Despite what Claudia said, he didn’t see me as his favorite food and even if he didn’t, he wouldn’t take a bite.

  Oh, god I hoped he wouldn’t because I didn’t think I’d be able to resist.

  And then what?

  Suddenly it felt like I choked up with fear, like it reached a hand in and took a good hold of my chest. I couldn’t go to the party tonight. I couldn’t be put in those circumstances. I didn’t trust myself this time, I didn’t trust that I wouldn’t do something that I would regret and I didn’t trust that I wouldn’t get hurt.

  If the heart had no regard for time, mine wouldn’t have any for pain.

  “Tell me about the stars, Estrella,” he said abruptly, clearing his throat, clearing my panicked thoughts from my head.

  I stared up at the sky, at the sun that was trying to push through the clouds, clouds that pressed down the oppressive heat like an angry fist. “Uh, you can’t see the stars right now.”

  “But let us pretend you can,” he said. “I know you are very good at pretending.”

  I frowned and rolled my head to the side to look at him. He was facing the sky, his aviator shades on his eyes, the clouds reflected in them. I loved the slight bump on the bridge of his nose, like he’d gotten it head-butting someone in soccer. He probably did.

  I watched him carefully for a moment before I told him constellations we’d see later that night, if it were clear.

  “We saw those the other night,” he said. “I want to hear their stories. Tell me a story about the constellation Leo, the lion.”

  “You mean the story with Hercules, or…”

  “No,” he said. “Something you’ve made up.”

  “Pretty sure the Hercules story was made up.”

  “Play along now, Vera,” he said, his voice so silky smooth. “For me.”

  I sighed and blew a strand of hair off my sticky face. “Fine.” And then I proceeded to make up some story about Leo, which ended up being eerily similar to the Disney classic, Lambert the Sheepish Lion.

  When I was finished the story, I looked over at him for his reaction. He was sleeping soundly, his chest rising and falling.

  Did Mateo just use me as sleep-aid? Why did I find that somewhat endearing?

  I smiled to myself and did the creepy stalker thing where I continued to watch him sleep, allowed to stare unabashedly at his beautiful, temporarily innocent face until he began to stir.

  The siesta was over.

  I tried not to go to the flamenco party, I really did. In fact, straight after dinner, I ran back to the apartment, took a shower and put my pajamas on, ready for a night in. I did not want to have my resolve tested. Even if Mateo was going to ask me something funny and completely innocent, it didn’t matter. At this point in our relationship, I did not trust myself around him when I was drunk and it made me really nervous to even talk to him with everyone watching. For the last four or five days, ever since Claudia told me that she assumed I was sleeping with him, I felt everyone’s eyes always on me, always judging. I knew this probably wasn’t true—aside from Lauren—but even so, a party seemed too risky.

  Lauren’s words kept ringing in my head too, telling me his wife would find out. What happened when there was something to find out? I didn’t know Isabel Casalles at all, especially since Mateo didn’t seem to like to talk about her, but no woman wants to do that to another. No one wants someone to commit adultery.

  I’d just settled down in my bed with my Kindle, still a bit buzzed from the wine at dinner, and ready to read the urban fantasy I’d been sucked into, when there was a knock at the front door. I ignored it but it persisted and finally I heard the knock at my door.

  I really needed to start locking the apartment.

  “What?” I yelled, not bothering to cover up my annoyance. When there was no response I went over to the door and opened it enough to stick my head out.

  Claudia, Ricardo, Sammy, Becca and Dave were all huddled outside my door with devious smiles on their faces.

  “The hell?” I said, now conscious of Dave’s eyes roaming over the slice of booty-short topped leg that was visible to everyone.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Get dressed!”

  “Come to the party!”

  “You can’t hide forever.”

  I was suddenly bombarded by their drunken voices. Man, they must have gotten a head start.

  “Guys!” I yelled, trying to shut them up. “I’m in my pajamas, can’t you see?”

  “I can see that very well,” Dave commented with a lecherous smirk.

  I glared at him. “Shut up.”

  “Please Vera,” Sammy said. “You’re the life of the party.”

  “No, I’m not,” I said. “I’m reading a really good book. And it’s really hot out,” I added feebly.

  “And the beer is cold,” Claudia said, “and we are better company than a book.”

  I gave them all a wary look. “I don’t know about that.”

  “Come now, you twat,” Sammy said, waving at me. Tonight she looked like a tiny round blueberry: Blue camisole, short blue skirt and blue suede platform pumps. Jeez, she must have packed more shoes than I did. She plopped herself down on the couch and patted the seat. “Oy, everyone else sit your arse here. If Vera won’t come to the party, we’ll bring the party to Vera.”

  And that’s pretty much how that started. I relented and slipped on a pair of drawstring lounge pants,
though didn’t bother with a bra. Sure my tank top was pink and thin and you could see my headlights through it, but they were just girls. And Dave. Dave with his smarmy smirk and tattoos, who I’m pretty sure he’d at least gotten a feel of them the last time we were together. I wondered, briefly, whom he was fucking here.

  Pretty soon the wine was flowing, the beers were being opened and the firewater we called grappa kept being passed around. Jerry had been giving Dave and a few others a ride into Acantilado over the weeks so they could stock up on supplies and alcohol. I should have felt bad for mooching, but hey, they were offering.

  While Sammy and Dave had battle over what music would play on the iPod (Lana Del Rey VS The Clash), Becca, Claudia, Ricardo and I all sat on the floor playing the drinking game “Kings” with a deck of cards. I felt like I was in college—which was funny, because I was in college. It’s just that I didn’t have that many friends there and never got invited to anything on the UBC campus. Being around this group made me realize I might have been missing out.

  When we were sufficiently drunk enough, and The Clash had won out as the music on accounts of Lana’s music being too much of a bummer, we start dancing, just bopping all over the apartment.

  And then the party grew. At first it was just Sara coming home with Nerea and Manuel in tow, wanting to celebrate after their flamenco performance. We quickly convinced them to join us, even though I was bare-faced and in my pajamas. Then Claudia texted Eduardo, who came over with Polly and Jorge, then Antonio, Wayne, Angel and Mateo showed up.

  Yep. Mateo.

  I don’t know why I thought my apartment was some impenetrable little fortress against the powers of the Spaniard but clearly I was an ill-prepared idiot. The minute I saw him walk in the door, back in his white linen shirt and black dress pants, the heat of the night glistening on his arms and collarbone, I knew it was game over. I was drunk and improperly dressed, he was here, and there was a damn good chance that I was in love with the man.