by R.S. Grey
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
When I first moved to Spain, I toyed with the idea of inviting my mom to visit. Honestly, I didn’t expect her to actually take me up on it, but in that first year, she visits me three times. I even take a month off and we travel through Europe together, just the two of us. It’s painfully awkward for the first few days as we readjust to being around one another 24/7. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells, careful not to talk too much or too little. At dinner, when I want red wine but she wants white, I acquiesce. When she wants to tour the Parthenon but I want to head back to the hotel for an afternoon nap, I down an espresso and brave the crowds for her. I’m aware of how much shampoo I use when I shower. I deliberately let her take the side of the bed she prefers. It’s exhausting and draining, and after the first week, I think I’m going to have a nervous breakdown, but each day, I grow a little more comfortable in my own skin. I push back and assert myself more and more, testing the limits of our reconstructed relationship.
By the time we’re a few weeks into the trip, I finally realize she isn’t going to ditch me just because I’d rather eat pasta than share salmon with her. It’s a good revelation to come to because if I have to stuff another bite of bland fish into my mouth, I’m going to barf. After that, the trip really settles into place. We spend long evenings chatting at small cafes, people watching in between our conversations. Sometimes we talk about the past, a little at a time, until one evening, after a few glasses of wine, I work up the courage to ask her if she ever regretted leaving us.
She frowns, seemingly confused by the question. “I never thought of it like that, like I was leaving you.”
I laugh awkwardly. “Well…you did.”
Her shoulders droop as she tilts her head, her light brown eyes studying me sadly. “I gave you and your sister a choice. I wanted you to come with me.”
I shake my head. I don’t remember that.
“Obviously your father and I couldn’t stay together after I had the affair with Jorge. I moved out of the house and asked you if you wanted to come with me.”
“Yeah, once.”
And I obviously turned her down. In those early days, Ellie and I resented her for tearing our family apart.
“No. I asked you over and over again if you were sure you wanted to live with your father. You and Ellie insisted, so I lived with Jorge in Austin for two years, hoping the two of you would come around once you were ready to talk.”
“I don’t remember this,” I say on a weak whisper.
She sighs and glances away. “You were young.”
“I thought you left us and went straight into the Peace Corps.”
“No, we didn’t leave until you were in high school.”
“What?!”
How has time twisted so much of my memory? I always remember her leaving when I was younger, or maybe I just assumed she did.
I always think back on that time in my life with resentment. I carried a bitterness about the fact that she could pick up and leave us so quickly. She tells me she wanted to take me along with her during her first Peace Corps assignment, but my father thought it would be better for Ellie and me to stay in Austin and finish school the normal way.
I’m shocked into silence, my brain working overtime to try to reconcile my memories with reality. I decide to push a little further and ask if she ever resented us, if maybe she would have preferred a life with no children. At that, she reaches across the table for my hands and squeezes them tightly, imploring me to listen to her.
“I love you and Ellie so much. I wanted you from the very first moment I found out I was pregnant.” She leans forward and levels her gaze with me to ensure that I’m listening. “Do you hear me?”
My throat is too tight to speak, so I nod.
“My affair with Jorge was terrible and I regret hurting you and your father, but you have to know it had nothing to do with you or Ellie.” She smiles and quickly wipes the tear rolling down her cheek. “I love being your mom, and I know there are times where I’ve really sucked at it. I’m still learning, but I want you to know that you’ve always been first in my heart. Always.”
It’s the longest, most exhausting night of my life. The conversation ends with me crying against her shoulder, accepting her apologies and promising to leave the past in the past. When we leave the restaurant with her arm slung around my shoulder, it really feels like we’re turning over a new leaf.
The last week of our trip, Ellie flies over to join us. We spread those seven days out along the Amalfi Coast, lounging on the beach and eating enough pasta that we all have to casually unzip our jeans beneath the table. It’s a healing and bonding trip, one that will undoubtedly change everything that comes after it.
I return to Spain invigorated and ready to jump back into work. It’s been almost a year and a half since I first left Austin, and I’ve never felt more in control of my life and destiny. I have goals for the next few months. Fall is upon us, and I remember how nice it was this time last year. Luciana, Olive, and I sit up in my room, mapping out new destinations around the city. I don’t let them use Google Maps to figure out how to get around—sometimes, all we take is a handful of jotted notes, a compass, and a sense of adventure. The weather has already turned too cold for the beaches, but that won’t stop us from taking our bikes out nearly every day. I want to take in more of the architecture and Olive agrees, but Luciana would rather eat her way through the city one deep fried pastry at a time. I’m willing to oblige them both.
We settle on taking a cooking class together every Friday night for a few months. The girls manage to make fancy Spanish cuisine without causing permanent property or bodily damage; this constitutes success in my book. As for me, I manage to catch the attention of the very single, very flirty cooking instructor. He tastes my food and tells me enthusiastically that I’m the best student in the class. There’s an actual chef in the class, so I know he’s flirting, not to mention I burn half of my dishes while trying to keep Olive’s pyrotechnic proclivities at bay. Once, when I turned my back for one second, she piped the flame on her classroom stove as high as it would go. The only casualty was Luciana’s right eyebrow, which I proceeded to recreate with a brow pencil for two months until the hairs regrew. By the end, when Diego and Nicolás are none the wiser, I reflect on how frightening it is that these little girls can keep a secret of that magnitude. God help their future husbands.
On the last day of our class, the instructor asks me out on a date. He says he’s been wanting to ask me for months, but he didn’t want to break the student-teacher code of ethics. I didn’t think there was such a thing in a non-graded community cooking course, but maybe things are different in Spain.
Olive and Luciana make kissing faces in the background as I try to think of the most polite way to turn him down. There’s a lot of “it’s not a good time for me” and “I don’t want to lead you on” before he finally has to cut me off with a tight, awkward smile. He tells me he understands, says he just got out a relationship himself. The entire way home, the girls tease me about what my life could have been like if only I’d said yes.
“You could have been his sous chef!” Olive exclaims, like this is a plausible turn my life could take.
I dismiss her suggestion with a shrug. “Ugh, and wear that dumb chef’s hat all day? No thanks. Luciana, stop touching your face! You’re wiping away your eyebrow.”
…
The cooking instructor isn’t the first man to pursue me in Spain. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t keep a harem, but for a woman who spends most of her time holed up tutoring young girls, I deflect a fair number of suitors. There’s a barista that works at a cafe down the road from where we live. He’s there every morning when I stroll in after dropping the girls at school and knows my usual order, but most of the time he throws in a fluffy croissant or pastry for free. I should probably stop leading him on, but…they happen to be really good pastries.
Diego and Nicolás are perceptive. They ask me
about my personal life every now and then, focusing on the details of my love life (or lack thereof). When we first moved to Spain, I told them I wasn’t interested in dating, said I wanted to soak in everything Spain has to offer on my own. They bought that response for a while, but now, they grow more skeptical with each weekend I spend with the girls instead of going out. I’m supposed to have the weekends off. They want me to go out on dates and meet friends, but I’d rather just stay in, eat dates, and watch Friends.
Right around the time our cooking class ends that fall, I nestle into a comfortable realization. I come to the conclusion that there are no mistakes in life, just decisions. I chose to come to Spain and here I am, finding my footing. I had a goal of succeeding as a tutor and exploring the world, and that’s just what I’ve gotten to do. There’s a sense of accomplishment that comes with that, and a reminder that whoever came up with “This too shall pass” really knew what they were talking about. Sometimes things pass like giant, painful kidney stones, but in the end, they pass.
When I first left Austin, the future looked bleak. My heart was broken, my world flipped on its head. Now, looking back, it’s hard to regret my decision. In fact, I conclude that there was never a right or wrong decision at all. I didn’t make a mistake in leaving the States, just like I wouldn’t have been making a mistake in staying behind for James. I still miss him—of course I do. Maybe I always will. Maybe that’s part of the lesson I’ve learned here: some people carve their initials so deeply into your heart, they’ll always be a part of you. James and I had a tumultuous few months, and I felt more for him than I’ve felt about any man I’ve ever met. Even now, his old clothes are still the most comfortable pajamas in my dresser, and I wear them to sleep a few times a month. I sometimes scour the internet for news about him or his company, but only late at night, and only after I’ve had a little bit of wine.
During the day, when I’m busy and enjoying life, I feel whole and normal again. I’m more excited for the future than reminiscent about the past. I think Diego and Nicolás can see that, because it’s right around this time that Diego announces he’s bringing a friend for dinner—a young, handsome colleague named Alejandro.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
“That’s what you’re wearing?” Luciana asks, eyeing my dress from her perch on my bed and scrunching her nose in distaste.
“What’s wrong with this?” I ask, spinning in a circle to take myself in from all angles in the small full-length mirror mounted on the back of my door. I’m wearing a simple white sundress. I’ve worn it a hundred times before, and she’s never said anything about it.
“It’s fine for any other night but…Alejandro is coming to dinner tonight!”
I nod. “And?”
“So maybe you should put something else on,” she says with a pointed glare. When I don’t make a move to change, she hops up off my bed and starts rifling through my closet until she comes back out with a slinky black dress I packed on a whim and have not worn, or even entertained the idea of wearing, even once.
“This!” she says, her eyes wide with wonder. “It looks like something a lady of the night would wear!”
I laugh and yank it out of her hand, hanging it back up where it belongs. “That dress isn’t appropriate. Also, that phrase doesn’t mean what you think it does.”
She frowns. “Fine, but the dress you have on makes you look frumpy.”
“What? No way.” I reach down to lovingly smooth out the faithful cotton fabric. “This dress is a classic.”
“Exactly,” she stresses with every ounce of preteen attitude roiling inside her tiny frame. “And it shows. There are…one…two…three gelato stains down the front.”
Oh, well, yeah. I try in vain to clear the most noticeable stain with the pad of my thumb. It’s there to stay, but it’s tiny, hardly visible at all really. I ignore her remaining reasons for why I should change and instead reach for the hair tie around my wrist and twist my hair into a low ponytail at the nape of my neck.
“Yeah, of course! Why wear your hair down, how it looks the prettiest, when you can just throw it up in a ponytail!” She throws her hands up in defeat. “You know where a pony’s tail is, right? On its butt!”
“Audrey Hepburn wore a ponytail,” I remind her.
“Yeah, but Audrey Hepburn also probably went on tons of dates! You haven’t had a single date since we’ve been here!”
It’s true, not a one. I’ve been a lone wolf since arriving in Spain and that’s the way I’d like to keep it, hence the dress and the ponytail.
I pat her on the head (which she hates) and then pass her up to start down the stairs toward the kitchen. I can hear Olive down there helping her dads prep for dinner. Luciana begrudgingly follows behind me, grumbling under her breath about my “undateable” hair.
When we step into the kitchen, Olive looks up and smiles timidly at me. “I like your dress, Ms. Brooke.”
I thank her while aiming an I-told-you-so grin at Luciana. She sticks her tongue out at me and winds around the back of the kitchen island to steal a piece of bread Diego just took out of the oven. He shoos her away, lest she ruin her appetite before dinner even starts.
My eyes widen as I scan the kitchen. Diego and Nicolás have gone all out for the occasion. The large, antique dining table is already covered in appetizers and wine. Nicolás hurries over, asking me if I’m excited to meet Alejandro.
“I’m sure if he’s a friend of yours he can’t be too bad,” I say with a casual shrug.
He steps closer and drops his voice to a whisper. “Diego tells me half the women at the university have eyes for him.”
I hum in mock interest. “Sounds like he must be one hell of a professor.”
He throws up his hands, exasperated by my lack of enthusiasm. “Forgive me for the intrusion, but you aren’t still interested in that man back home, are you?” He turns to Diego. “What was his name?”
“James, I think,” Diego supplies.
My heart leaps at the mention of his name. “Nope. Thanks for asking though,” I add with a quick, easy smile.
He narrows his eyes in disbelief then quickly changes tactics. “Right. Good.” Then his gaze drops slightly. “Hey, it’s the gelato dress!”
Luciana claps across the room. “Ha! SEE?!”
Jesus! What is it with this family and my clothes?!
“All right, if you guys want me to change, I’ll—”
There’s a knock on the front door, and all four of them freeze in panic then turn to me.
Diego drops his salad tongs and wipes his hands on the front of his apron. “No, no. The dress is fine—endearing even. Anyway, it’s too late to change.” Without warning, he rounds the island and beelines for me. Then he reaches up and tugs the ponytail out of my hair. My long, thick black hair tumbles down my back, and he smiles in appreciation. “Much better. Now, could you please answer the door?”
I get it. This dinner is a setup. They feel bad for my lonely heart, and they want to set me up with a nice, handsome man. I don’t even have the energy to be angry with them. A part of me is curious to see if this mythic Alejandro can stir something within me that other men in Spain have yet to evoke. I’ve seen enough men to write a Dr. Suess book about it: tall men, short men, rich men, poor men…clergymen, firemen, postmen, doormen. None of them have made me feel even a sliver of what I still feel for James.
I curse, angry that I’m still playing this game with myself. James isn’t in Spain. He’s in Austin, and likely married now. My stomach twists at the thought of Lacy. It’d be easy to figure out if they were together. Ellie asks periodically if I want an update about him, and I always, always turn her down. It’s a slippery slope, and we both agreed early on that it was best if she stopped telling me what she knows about him.
So far, it’s proven successful, because if I don’t know whether or not he’s married, I don’t have to come to grips with the fact that I’m just as hopelessly lovesick over him as I was when I first left.
I take a deep breath and open the door.
Alejandro stands on the doorstep with a bottle of cava in one hand and flowers in the other. They’re sunflowers wrapped in butcher paper with a thin ribbon tied around the middle. When he sees me standing on the doorway, his brows rise in shock. Apparently, I’m not the only one who’s being set up.
In the two seconds I stand there before I greet him, I come to the conclusion that he is indeed the most handsome man I’ve seen since arriving in this country. He’s everything you’d want in a Latin lover: thick hair; dark, smoldering eyes; olive skin; a strong, muscular frame; and a smile that widens as he watches me assess him. He’s wearing a black leather jacket and nice-fitting jeans with boots that look entirely too stylish for most men to pull off. He’s a danger to all womankind.
I reach out my hand in a friendly greeting. “Hi, I’m Brooke,” I say in Spanish.
He accepts my handshake with a firm grip and I wait for the butterflies to kick in. “I’m Alejandro, but my friends call me Alex.”
“Ah, you speak English?”
He nods and releases my hand. “I do, but my accent could use some work.”
It’s true. He speaks well, but it’s clear it’s not his native tongue. As I lead him through the entry and toward the kitchen, he explains that he’s spoken the language for a few years, but he doesn’t have many people he can practice with here in Spain. Once we join the others, Diego rushes forward to accept the flowers and wine, promising him I am the perfect person for the job.
“She’s been helping our girls keep up with their English and has even started to teach them French!”
As proof, Luciana, who is sitting at the table, groaning in protest at having to wait before starting appetizers, says, “J’ai tellement faim. Ils m’affament ici.”