Spanish Lessons (Study Abroad Book 1)

by Jessica Peterson

  I glance at Rafa. “He does look good in those jeans, doesn’t he?”

  “My eyeballs are on fire.”

  I smile. Laura smiles back.

  Our professor leads us into a small side chapel. I strain my neck to look up at a monumental El Greco painting set into an alcove above a marble altar. The Burial of the Count of Orgaz, the professor explains, depicts members of the church and aristocracy sending a count’s soul into the soaring heavens above. It’s a triumphant scene, a vibrant one, with angels and clouds and heavenly light. I notice the exquisite detail of the clergy’s jeweled robes; I can almost feel the silken velvet between my fingers, the glittering facets of the rubies and sapphires.

  But there’s something dark about the painting. Something sinister in the pinched faces of the nobles, the grey swirls that surround the angels. They wear expressions of seriousness, even agony.

  I look away at the sound of Maddie’s laughter. She’s leaning into Rafa’s shoulder, trying to muffle the sound. Rafa is laughing, too, already under her spell. The knot in my stomach tightens as I wonder what they’re laughing at; if it’s the start of an inside joke.

  Watching Maddie work her magic on Rafa is nothing short of torture. I look back at the painting. I can certainly relate to those angry, grey-faced angels; I can relate to their agony.

  An agony of my own doing.

  ***

  That Night

  “I think I like him, Viv,” Maddie says around her toothbrush. “No. I know I like him.”

  I hold my hair back and spit in the sink. It’s late; I’m tired. Even so, my stomach clenches at the thought of Rafa and Maddie together.

  Get over it, I tell myself. Just because I can’t be with him doesn’t mean no one else can. And Maddie could definitely use a little fun these days. A little distraction.

  “He is cute,” I say.

  “Cute? He’s fucking hot, Viv.”

  “Yeah, you’re right. He is,” I say, wiping my mouth on my towel.

  “I mean, how great was he to listen to all my bullshit on the bus? And he really listened. Like, really. I think I’m going to go for it. For him, I mean.” She meets my eyes in the mirror. I feel like she’s asking me for something. Not permission, necessarily; something else. I can’t put my finger on it, but the question—whatever it is—annoys me.

  “That’s cool,” I say, and walk out of the bathroom.

  When Maddie climbs into our marital bed, it’s my turn to pretend I’m asleep.

  Chapter 13

  One Week Later

  Madrid

  I set my phone on the lip of the sink and turn up the volume. Shakira’s latest single fills the bathroom, bouncing off the tiled walls as Maddie and I dance in front of the mirror, swirling our make-up brushes in time to the beat.

  We’ve settled into a nice little routine. Wednesday nights we meet the girls at that tapas place, where the same waiter with the wandering eye serves us every time; Thursday nights mean more wine; Fridays are pretty chill; and Saturday is the big night out.

  Hence the shimmery purple eye shadow Maddie and I pass back and forth.

  “You think it’s too much?” I ask, closing my eyes so Maddie can get a look.

  “Hell no,” she replies. “This isn’t Durham, Viv. We gotta step it up a notch. Here, try my eyeliner, it’s darker than yours.”

  I line my top lid, giving myself a nice cat-eye swoop. I blink, looking at the girl looking back at me in the mirror. I dig it.

  “Super guapa,” Maddie says, smiling. Very pretty. Madrileños love putting “super” (pronounced soup-err) in front of everything. Maddie and I have adopted the habit.

  I look down at my jeans. “I think it’s too hot for pants, though.”

  “What about that black skirt you got the other day?”

  I bite my lip. I don’t know what possessed me to buy that headband-sized piece of fabric, but for some reason I had to have it.

  A reason that may or may not go by the name Rafa Montoya.

  “I don’t know if I can get away with wearing it in public,” I say. “My vagina might fall out.”

  Maddie shoots me a look in the mirror. “Have you seen what those chicks outside the discotecas wear? Trust me, you’re going to look like a nun next to them. Wear a lower heel if that makes you feel better. There will be no vagina sightings.”

  Maddie is right. The lower heel—black suede pumps—do the trick. When I return to the bathroom five minutes later, all skirted up, she whistles her approval. Even Stella approves; during a commercial break—she watches Bailando Con Las Estrellas religiously—she sticks her head in the bathroom and smiles.

  “Ooooh, chicas, que guapas con esta ropa!” she says. How pretty you girls look in those outfits!

  We thank Stella for dinner—leftover paella from lunch, super delicious—and scoot out the front door before Chiquitin can harass us.

  We meet up with our Wednesday night girls for a quick carafe of sangria, then head toward Plaza Mayor. It’s almost midnight, and the square is buzzing, the low roar of the crowd surrounding us. The air is warm but clean, not at all sticky, sweet with the potent smells of wine and whiskey.

  I’ve got a good buzz going on and I’m laughing with my girls, our heels clicking on the cobblestone sidewalk as we make our way to another bar. Katie tells us about an awesome bottle of wine she found at the grocery store for eighty-nine Euro cents. Laura confesses she masturbated four times today while fantasizing about one of the hot fútbol players on the Madrid team going down on her. Apparently she’s really into a good man-bun these days.

  A guy whistles at us; I tell him to go fuck a fish; the girls erupt in laughter.

  This is what everyone was talking about when they said studying abroad is the best thing ever.

  Maddie tears up a little bit when Rachel asks her about her parents. It’s a touchier subject than ever, and I feel terrible for Maddie. We take turns giving her hugs and pouring her more wine at a tiny, crowded bar lit solely by neon blue disco balls. It—the wine, not the balls—seems to help.

  My heart jumps when I see Al lingering outside the next bar. I quickly scan the crowd around him; lots of Meryton in Madrid kids, but no sign of Rafa. My heart falls. I can’t tell if disappointment is to blame for these vascular acrobatics, or relief.

  I catch Maddie doing the same thing, her eyes searching the faces around us. She’s tipsy enough to have forgotten her tears. I hate that we’re both looking for the same person.

  I hate to think about what will happen if we actually see him.

  I drink more beer than I probably should. Even though there’s no sign of Rafa, I’m still nervous. It’s the kind of nervous you get when you know you’re about to see someone you like. The jittery stomach, the thumping pulse. You don’t like him, I remind myself. You can’t like him, especially now that Maddie does.

  Our pack of Meryton kids moves to another bar, then another, until it’s late enough—close to two—to head to the discotecas.

  I’m about to get in the back of a very long line when Al takes me by the elbow, shaking his head. He types furiously on his phone.

  “Vale,” he says. “We’re in. C’mon.”

  I follow him to the front of the line. He speaks to the bouncer in fluent Spanish—must be nice to be raised bilingual. The bouncer, crisply dressed in a tailored suit and black tie, checks his list. He makes us wait. I feel like I might throw up I’m so nervous. At last he unclips the velvet rope.

  Just like that, we’re in the hottest club in Madrid.

  I follow Al through the entrance. Already my breastbone throbs in time to the bass. Behind me, Maddie grabs my hand; it’s a little crowded in here. I look back and smile; she smiles, too, and jumps up and down on her toes, excited, a little drunk.

  I look up.

  There, waiting for us by the entrance to the bar, is Rafa.

  The three beers I just downed hit me all at once. My heart explodes, a supernova of relief and fear and desire bursting th
rough me. He’s here. I should’ve known he was the one behind our expedited entrance to the club.

  He looks painfully handsome, a little dressier than I’m used to seeing him. He wears his usual dark jeans and a button-down, but tonight he’s wearing a navy blazer, too, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders, his arms. He’s so…God, he’s everything. He’s hot. Madrileño. Sexy and charming. Tall.

  Looking at him I fall apart. I want.

  He’s leaning against the wall, one hand in his pocket, the other curled around his phone. His hair sticks up from his head in careless waves. He looks up and our gazes collide, his pale eyes darkening as they move over my body slowly, deliberately; he wants me to know he’s looking. From the way his lips move into a wicked half-smile, he’s looking, and he’s appreciating, too.

  I’m glad I wore the skirt.

  I’m about to smile back when Maddie pushes past me. I stumble a little on my feet. She launches herself at him, snaking her arms around his neck. He falls back, like he’s startled, but he recovers quickly. She accepts the kisses he presses into her cheeks with a wide, flirtatious smile. Her body is plastered against his, she’s standing on her tiptoes to get in his face. I can’t tell if he’s into it or not; ever the gentleman, he’s too polite to show his dismay, if that’s what he’s even feeling. Maybe he likes it.

  I have to give it to Maddie. When she wants something, she goes after it, balls to the wall. She doesn’t tuck away her feelings beneath layers of guilt and responsibility and fear. I’m jealous of her ability to face what she’s feeling head on, even with all the heartache she’s experienced this semester.

  I’m jealous that she’s claimed Rafa as her own tonight. I have no right to be jealous, I know. Rafa can’t give me the forever I’m looking for. I did the smart thing, I made my choice.

  But the things I feel when Maddie slides her hand down Rafa’s arm, grasping his hand—it’s like the smart thing doesn’t matter. She tilts her head toward the bar and starts pulling him in that direction. Rafa looks over her head at me.

  I muster a smile. I wave.

  And then I proceed to the other end of the bar, tugging Laura behind me. I need a nuclear-grade Cuba libre, stat.

  The DJ is on fire. Multicolored lasers spear the dance floor as we push our way through the crowd. We find a spot toward the back, a knot of Meryton kids already waiting for us—including Rafa and Maddie.

  She’s shouting something into his ear. He laughs. I wonder if it’s that inside joke they probably shared back in Toledo, when Maddie was working her black magic on him. My stomach clenches. I can’t watch them. I shouldn’t watch them. I should dance with the girls, make this a good night.

  I gulp at my drink and start to dance. Our favorite Juanes song comes on, and the girls and I go nuts. Laura, Katie, and Rachel dance like the world is ending, shimmying up on each other, and I join in. They’re adorable, laughing, grinding on random dudes as they pass us. I grind, too. Why the hell not?

  “Hey!” Katie shouts over the music. She points behind me. “What’s up with them? That’s supposed to be you!”

  I turn to see Maddie all up in Rafa’s business, her butt pressed firmly into his crotch, her fingers tangled in the hair at the nape of his neck as they dance.

  I look away, my stomach clenching. It’s killing me. They are killing me.

  I shrug. “I’m glad they’re hitting it off.”

  Katie pins me with a disbelieving look. “Yeah right.”

  “No, really,” I say. “Rafa’s fair game for her, so why not?”

  “I think you’re full of shit,” Katie replies. “But whatever.”

  I grab the nearest guy and start dancing on him, hard. He doesn’t seem to mind; he dances back, rolling his hips against mine. I look up to see Rafa watching me, a weird, hard look in his eyes.

  He’s jealous.

  Good. Now he knows how it feels.

  Curling into the guy’s arms, I dance harder. In a fucked up way, it feels good to know I’m hurting him. I’m hurting, too. I take another long pull of rum and Coke. I keep dancing. This guy can’t dance like Rafa. I don’t think anyone can, even Justin Timberlake.

  Every so often my gaze meets Rafa’s. That look in his eyes hardens, darkens. He’s angry.

  Maddie is practically straddling him, her face tucked into the crook of his neck. It’s only a matter of minutes, seconds, even, before they start making out. The thought of Rafa kissing her the way he kissed me makes me feel like dying.

  I can’t take it anymore. I can’t watch it happen.

  I duck out of the crowd, my heart pounding. I make my way toward the bar and look around for the bathroom. I need a minute to catch my breath, to clear my head. I don’t want to be seen stumbling out of here with mascara streaking down my face.

  I finally find the bathrooms at the end of a hallway. They’re unisex; I push through the first door that’s open, relieved to find it unoccupied. It’s one of those bathrooms that has its own sink in the corner. Good; a little cold water might help me calm down.

  I reach behind me to close the door, but to my surprise someone pushes back, swinging it open. I stumble further into the bathroom, go fuck a fish on the tip of my tongue.

  The words die on my lips. Rafa fills the doorway. The anger radiating from his body is palpable. He looks huge. I reach for the wall behind me.

  Oh God oh God oh God.

  Before I have a chance to say a thing, he’s slamming the door shut and stalking toward me. His nostrils flare as he stares me down.

  “What the hell was that?” he says, his voice rough, strained with barely contained rage.

  “What was what?” I say.

  He’s close now, he keeps coming, relentless, and I have nowhere to go. I fall back against the wall, my chest working as I struggle to breathe. I press my palms to the wall; it’s cool to the touch.

  He looms over me, so close I can smell his aftershave. Even in his glowering, he looks and smells delicious. I feel trapped.

  I feel turned on.

  “You know what I’m talking about. Who is he?” Rafa growls.

  “The guy I was dancing with? I don’t know.”

  “Is he going to give you what you want? Is he going to keep you from getting hurt? I thought you didn’t want to start something while you were in Madrid.”

  I blink. Rafa must be as drunk as I am. There’s no way he’d be saying these things, here, in a bathroom at Ático, if he were in his right mind. But just because he’s tipsy doesn’t mean he’s not right.

  Still. I have to defend myself. He was just doing the old bump and grind with my best friend, wasn’t he?

  “That’s none of your business,” I say. “It was just a little fun. I can dance with whoever I want to. Just like you, Rafa.”

  He puts his hand on the wall beside my head, leaning into me. My courage wavers, even as the place between my legs throbs with heat. The light in the bathroom is low; I can see the fine sheen of sweat that glistens on Rafa’s skin. He’s killing me.

  “Maddie was the one who danced with me,” he says. “I did not invite her attention. I was just being polite.”

  “Just being polite?” I cry. “Are you kidding me? You were practically having sex out there. With my best friend.”

  Rafa moves closer. I’m bunched up against the wall now.

  Someone pounds on the door and it creaks open. Rafa flies across the bathroom to slam it shut, shouting something in rapid-fire Spanish as he throws the bolt into the lock. The guy on the other side of the door shouts something back; Rafa’s got an angry reply for him.

  He turns to me. “You think I want Maddie?”

  I swallow, hard, and look away. It’s unfair to call him out for dancing with Maddie, I know. I shut down whatever Rafa and I had before it even began. Just because I can’t have him doesn’t give me the right to keep him away from someone who can. He doesn’t deserve to be treated this way.

  I let out a breath, tucking my hair behind my ears. “I�
�m sorry. It’s okay, you know. It’s okay if you like her. I told you I couldn’t…that I didn’t…God, I’m sorry, I’m making a mess of this…”

  In one, two strides Rafa is across the bathroom. He plasters his body against my body and takes my face in his hands and presses his hips into mine, a hot, hard, deliberate grind. A cry escapes my lips at all this sudden, searing contact; the onslaught of all this Rafa is overwhelming. The smoldering heat inside me sparks into huge, heady flames.

  “You think I want Maddie?” he repeats.

  “It’s all right,” I breathe. “It’s all right if you do.”

  “It’s not all right.” He looks at me. Bends his neck.

  “Rafa,” I plead. “Please.”

  He angles his head, his breath warm on my mouth, and my eyes flutter shut. He’s killing me. He’s been killing me ever since I laid eyes on him my first night out in Madrid.

  He crushes his lips to mine. In the space of half a heartbeat the kiss is overwhelmingly deep. My knees buckle; I let out a moan; he holds me up with his weight, his mouth moving hungrily, deliciously over mine, drinking me in, making me his. I fall into him, I fall into this kiss, I’ve been waiting for this and I don’t want it to end.

  The kiss isn’t hurried, it’s not messy; but it’s hard and relentless, all our pent-up longing spilling over. Like we’re saying with our bodies what we can’t say with our words. My hands move up his chest; my arms circle his neck, pulling him closer, closer, he can never be close enough. The wall is hard and unyielding against the blades of my shoulders. It will probably bruise me. I don’t care. I want to be marked. I want Rafa to mark me.

  Our first kiss was a little hesitant, polite. There is nothing polite about this kiss. This kiss is all sensation. All sex. I’ve wanted to kiss Rafa like this forever. I’ve wanted to feel the weight of him pressing into me, squeezing the air from my lungs, I’ve wanted to see how perfectly, exactly, our bodies fit together. I’ve never felt this wild before. This sure, this scared.