by Karina Halle
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.
And considering he was married, living a life with someone else, in another country than the one I lived in, I knew that my heart would only get broken. I’d slept with my fair share of men, but I hadn’t really cared about any of them. This man, I cared for him, craved him, and if I slept with him, his predicament would destroy me and every defense I worked so hard to build.
He saw me immediately, too. As soon as he closed the doors, his eyes made a straight shot to mine and held me there. For the first time, I could see the want and need in them, terrifying me to the core. I had to get away. I had to make this stop. He started walking toward me, trying to get past Sammy, Polly and Claudia who were all grinding in a circle. He was coming to ask me his question, the one I needed to answer honestly.
I had to act fast.
I reached out and grabbed Dave, who happened to be standing by me. I gave him a squeeze on his arm, smiled up at him, batted my eyelashes. Then I put my hand behind his head and pulled him into me, kissing him hard.
He hesitated for a moment, totally caught off guard, before he relented and started to kiss me back. He wasn’t bad at all—he knew what he was doing—and splices of memories from the week before flooded my brain. I knew I wasn’t as drunk this time around, which was good, because I needed be smart and in control. It’s hard to get over someone when you can’t remember what you did to get over them.
Eventually I caught my breath and pulled away. The party was still raging, people still laughing and talking and spilling their drinks. I could see Claudia over my shoulder, approaching us with a frown on her angelic face. I knew she wanted to have words with me, to tell me that Mateo was there. But I knew he was there—that’s why I did it. If he saw and he cared, well, he was married and he shouldn’t have cared. And if he didn’t care, well, then the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.
Or so I’d been told.
I turned away from Claudia, grabbed Dave’s hand and led him towards my bedroom. I made the mistake of turning around to face the party before I opened the door. I told myself I wanted to see if anyone had noticed, if anyone cared, but the truth was, I was only looking for Mateo’s reaction.
I was counting on it to set me free.
It didn’t. All I saw was him, paused behind the couch. He stared at me with such disbelief, such simmering… anger. As if I’d pissed him off and then kicked him in the gut.
Well…I guess that answered that.
He did care.
And so, I had to be doing the right thing. Right?
I ushered Dave inside my bedroom and closed the door behind us. I pushed him back a few feet and slipped my tank top over my head, and pulled my pants and boy shorts out from under my feet, until I was standing in front of him completely naked. I could tell he was taking a moment to take in my tattoos and my body. Then I walked over to him and shoved him onto the bed. I pulled out a condom from the drawer.
He was naked in an instant, and though I could see the tats on his body, I didn’t care enough about him to know what they were or what they meant. I thought about Mateo asking me to explain mine, I thought about the way he listened to the way I told him my favorite childhood memory, I remembered how my story about Leo put him asleep.
I wanted more than anything to be touching Mateo instead of Dave. But that wasn’t an option—it would never be an option. Not in this life of mine. So I had to make do.
Because Dave was on the drunk side, we had sex for longer than I anticipated. He was better than that Portuguese guy, I’ll give him that. He momentarily filled the empty yearning inside of me, distracted me from my thoughts as I was coming. He wasn’t by any means a bad guy. He just wasn’t the guy I wanted.
After we were finally finished, we must have fallen asleep for a little bit because when we woke up, the whole apartment was silent. We gave each other the nervous, awkward after-sex look and slipped on our clothes before I cautiously opened the door.
The apartment was empty. Messy as all hell with empty beer cans and wine bottles everywhere, but empty.
“Damn,” I said to Dave, keeping my voice down in case Sara was trying to sleep. “They must have gotten bored without us.”
He smirked at me. “Ah, they knew what they were missing.”
I decided to walk Dave to the door. I wasn’t really sure how to treat this, didn’t know if I wanted it to happen again, but at the same time I didn’t feel like telling him to get out of my place because I was going to bed, even though there was no way he was staying the night.
I opened the door and he stood on the landing, staring at me with the kind of smile that told me he had fun, and fun was all it ever had to be. I appreciated that about him—in some ways, we were very much alike.
“Well, good night,” I told him, hanging on the door. “See you tomorrow.”
He grinned at me, boyishly cute, even with the edgy hair and piercings. “See you.”
He ran down the stairs, the black spikes of his hair bouncing. I watched him and even when he turned the corner and I could hear his feet running on the pavement as he ran home, I still stood there, trying to take in the heat and the stars and the moon two nights away from becoming full.
I breathed in deep, the air full crickets and the starlight, then turned to go back inside.
“Vera,” a quiet, emotionless voice said from below.
I froze, recognizing the voice and slowly turned to see Mateo out on the path, as if he was walking home from somewhere down the hill. Half his body was lit from the neon orange lights from the dining hall.
I didn’t know what to say or do. I just stared down at him, feeling like I’d somehow made things more complicated than they were before.
That look in his dark eyes was like hit to the heart.
“You should treat yourself better than that,” he said, his voice glinting with a steely quality.
Then he started walking again, quickly, and in seconds he was out of my view. Gone into the night.
I realized then that I’d been holding my breath the whole time, afraid to move or speak or do anything. Afraid to let myself feel. Because the number one feeling that was waiting to pummel me over the head was damned, dirty shame.
Chapter Twelve
I didn’t talk to Mateo at all the next day. He wouldn’t even meet my eye.
He owed me two questions. I only felt guilt that I didn’t understand.
On the morning of the grand soccer match, we found out all the day’s activities were cancelled. We were to pack our soccer clothes with us in the vans and all of us would be driven out to Acantilado for a day of sightseeing with an English-speaking guide. After the tour around town, then we would walk over to the elementary school field where the soccer match would take place. Later, the winners would return to town for their victory dinner.
This should have pleased me, the fact that we were all getting out of Dodge for the day, but the truth was nothing was making me happy. My whole life felt strained and weird and uncomfortable, like a wet bathing suit. I wanted nothing more than to go back in time, listen to what Mateo was going to ask me and avoid sleeping with Dave.
But there was no such thing as a time machine. I couldn’t undo any of my mistakes, because if I could, believe me, I wouldn’t have started with Las Palabras. I would have gone back a very, very long time ago.
As we all piled into the three vans, I made sure I was sitting with Claudia, Eduardo, Becca and Sammy, and not in the same one as Dave or Mateo. The driver was this older Spanish man named Peter, whom we called Peter the Everything Man since you could find him working the bar sometimes, cooking the dinner, unclogging the toilets, and—according to Sammy—showing up at your apartment with a bottle of wine. I didn’t want her to elaborate on that.
Once we got to the cobble-strewn town square of Acantilado, we sat around the edge of a fountain, waiting for the rest of the vans to show up—Peter drove like a madman. Claudia gently nudged me and leaned in. “Are you okay?”
I nodded and gave her a tight smile. I hadn’t talked to her since the party, since she saw me with Dave. For a moment I wondered if she thought of me as a big ol’ slut, then I looked at Ricardo on the other side of her, his hand on her knee, and realized she was the one who wanted me to go for it.
Only, there was nothing to go for anymore. There never had been.
“It will be okay,” she said softly so that the others didn’t hear us. “You will see. Spanish men are very territorial.”
I frowned, not sure what she was getting at. Before I could ask, the other two vans pulled up to the edge of the square, with Jerry hoping off and immediately launching into a story about the fountain we were sitting around, an apparent fountain of youth.
No thanks, I thought. I apparently had too much youth at the moment.
I stiffened when I saw Mateo step out and immediately turned to Claudia to busy myself as everyone gathered. Then the guide, whom Jerry introduced as Luiz, a supremely tall man in shorts with socks and sandals, waved us all over to follow him.
I lagged at the back of the group with Claudia and Ricardo. It was cute to see him hold her hand, even though there was a part of me that was raging with jealousy because I couldn’t have that, not with the man I wanted.
I sighed to myself, totally despondent. Sleeping with Dave didn’t help me get over Mateo at all. I wasn’t sure at this point anything would—not his wife, not the age difference, not our citizenships. Nothing. The only good thing I had going for me was that he was leaving in a week. It was going to suck, but at least I’d start getting over him faster.
We walked through the winding streets of the town and I started snapping photos to take my mind off of things. It was so damn cool and so different from what I was used to. The streets were crooked with a line running through the middle of them that acted like a gutter during the Middle Ages, when people woul
d just throw shit out their windows. Literal shit.
The buildings were mostly granite on the first floor, with dark wood beams and finishings on the floors above. I caught snippets of Luiz telling us that the buildings were all preserved as they were and all new buildings must match the look and not be higher than three stories. Upstairs it seemed more residential, with narrow iron balconies and potted plants. The occasional rusted gaslight lantern gave it a gothic quality. I started imagining what it would be like to live here, to go to the market each morning to buy vegetables, to spend nights on the patios of the tapas bars, drinking sangria. Everything about Spain just seemed so much more real, so much more alive than back home.
As we walked along, we stopped by a few shops that had their doors open to the summer breeze. It was actually my first chance to buy some Spanish souvenirs. The choices were overwhelming—there was daintily painted pottery, large rustic barrels lined with burlap and overflowing with a million varieties of nuts and powdered spices, bottles of olive oil and jars of figs. Eduardo came running toward us with a t-shirt that said “Spanish Triathlon: Eating, Drinking, Fucking” with the corresponding stick figure pictures.
“You must buy this!” he said to me, his round cheeks red with amusement.
I managed to laugh. “I do like all those things. Glad I was the first person you thought of.”
Next, blue-haired Nerea came over to us with a bulging shopping bag and handed me a small bag filled with what looked like white chocolate bark.
“It is turrón,” she said with her heavy accent and graceful smile. “I buy for all the Anglos. It is special to a place like this.”
I thanked her profusely for her kind gesture and while she went to go distribute the rest, Claudia told me it was a Spanish delicacy made from egg whites, honey and almond. As much as I wanted to tear into it and started eating, I knew I had to save it as a memory of this place.
When we were done with the shopping, we continued following Luiz down the narrow street until it opened up at an ancient looking church. In front of it was a huge bronze statue of a pig with abnormally large balls. While Luiz led everyone inside the church, telling everyone it was built in 1300s (which was mind-blowing to me since we considered an “old” building in Vancouver to be 100 years old), Claudia, Ricardo, Eduardo, Polly and Sammy went over to the pig statue and started fondling it. Naturally I had to get out of my camera and snap away. I guess we overstayed our welcome when Eduardo slipped the Spanish Triathlon t-shirt on—I can’t believe he actually bought it—and started riding the pig like a cowboy. A disgruntled local came over and told all of us off. There were a lot of gestures involved.