Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3)

by Jessica Peterson

  I stopped running when I was seven. That’s when he left. By then, the attendants at the petrol stations and the homeless guys in the park and the girls who swept the sidewalks in front of the grocers knew me by name, and knew where I went to hide. They’d hardly raise their heads as I ran past, chased by the invisible specter of my red-faced father.

  Maybe that’s why I’m such a fast runner now. All that training so early in my life gave me a cardiovascular leg up on the pitch.

  The attendants and the addicts and the shop girls would always lead mum to my hiding spot. They always knew where to find me.

  Just like they’ll know where to find Miguel.

  My eyes fly open. I may not know Miguel’s neighborhood, but I know what’s it like to live there.

  I know how to help find him.

  I glance through the physio’s glass door. William Wallace is still waiting inside, hands shoved impatiently in his pockets. I can’t miss this appointment. My knee is still relatively fragile a little more than a year after tearing my ACL. The physio’s been helping me build up my leg and hip strength—quads, hamstrings, glutes—to take some of the pressure off my knee and keep me from hurting it again. We’ve got another big match on Sunday, and I have to be in top form if we’re going to win. The exercises and massage we’ll do today could make all the difference in my play—it definitely has before.

  “Rhys?” Laura is saying. She swallows audibly. “Rhys, are you still there? What I should do?”

  I let out a long, low breath. Fuck. I can’t miss this appointment. But I also can’t let Laura try to find Miguel on her own. Not when she speaks broken Spanish at best and I know exactly how to find him. Sure, I can tell her who to look for in the neighborhood, and what to say to them. But considering how upset she is right now, there’s no way she’ll be able to communicate what she needs to. And she won’t know what to look for like I do. What I can get done in a matter of minutes will take her hours.

  I glance one last time at coach. He’s going to have my head on a spike, but what can I do? Laura needs my help, and right now there’s no way my footy is going to win out over my lady.

  “Stay right where you are,” I tell her. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  I duck inside the building. “I’ve got an emergency. I’ll meet you back at your office in an hour,” I yell to William Wallace.

  He looks none too pleased about it. I get it. I really shouldn’t miss this appointment.

  But my knee will be fine. I hope.

  ***

  Laura trots beside me, sniffling as tears run down her face.

  “I know I keep saying this, Rhys, but I’m really, really sorry. You didn’t have to come. I know how important that appointment with the physio was—”

  “Hey.” I palm the nape of her neck, gently pressing my fingers to her skin. “Stop being so hard on yourself. Shit happens, love. And I’m happy to help—we’ll find your little guy in five minutes flat, don’t worry. I’ve got a plan.”

  She swallows, the sinews in her neck working against my hand. “Thank you. You’re the best.”

  I offer her a smirk. “I know.”

  Our first stop is a little newspaper and tobacco stand one and a half blocks from Santa Caterina. A middle-aged woman sits neatly behind stacks of gum and cigarettes and magazines, chatting on her mobile. But then she recognizes me and—it happens sometimes—her faces goes red and she drops her phone and she bursts into tears before I even say a word.

  “Oh dear,” Laura murmurs.

  I try my best to calm the woman down, and tell her I will come back for a proper hello and hug after we find the little boy we’re looking for. Between great, gasping sobs, she says she hasn’t seen him, but if we try the pet supply shop up the road a bit, we might have some luck. She says kids love to go there and see the kittens.

  Laura and I race to the shop. It’s a good walk, taking us into a depressingly anonymous corner of Madrid. We get lost. We ask for directions, which gets us even more lost. My feet start to hurt and so does my knee, but I keep going.

  Twenty minutes later, we run into the pet supply place. I know the second we walk inside that Miguel isn’t here. It’s too quiet; the store is small, with three little aisles piled with bags of dog food and a couple tanks of fish. If Miguel were here, we’d be able to see him straightaway.

  Laura does a mad dash about the place anyway while I head for the counter. I can tell by her increasingly manic footfalls that she’s panicking again.

  Excuse me, I ask the bored-looking guy behind the register. We’re looking for a little boy who’s run away from the school at Santa Caterina. Have you seen him?

  The guy says he hasn’t, and doesn’t offer any advice as to where we should look next.

  Cursing, I pull Laura out of the store and head back toward the school. We start to run up and down the streets, calling his name, stopping people to ask if they’ve seen him. By now Laura is practically hyperventilating. I feel horrible; I try to calm her down, but I know she won’t be able to relax until we find Miguel. I get it. I wouldn’t, either.

  Despite the chill in the air, I’m sweating a good bit. My knee’s really begun to ache. After the endurance drills we did this morning in training, I knew I’d be sore. But I don’t like the feel of the low, insistent throb in my knee that’s making me limp a little.

  I keep running, though, keep asking people if they’ve seen Miguel. It’s going to get dark soon; and the more time that passes, the further away this kid could be.

  Now I’m starting to panic, too. I almost get run over by a city bus when I try crossing the street without looking. Laura screams. I hold up my hands in apology and keep going. This neighborhood seems to go on forever. Or maybe we’re in an entirely different neighborhood by now, I don’t know.

  “Rhys,” Laura pants as we trot through a small, mostly empty park beside a metro station. “Rhys, what am I going to do if we can’t find him?”

  “We’re going to find him, love, I promise,” I say. “Are you getting tired? Should we slow down a bit?”

  Laura shakes her head. “Not until we find him. Poor kid could’ve been taken—he could’ve gotten on one of those buses that almost ran you over—”

  “Stop,” I say. “Stop thinking like that. Just focus on finding him. He’s a little kid who, like most kids, probably doesn’t get out of his neighborhood very often. He’s around here somewhere, and we’re going to find him.”

  I blink the sweat out of my eyes and keep going.

  Finally, after what feels like an adrenaline-induced eternity, we get a lead. A woman we stop on the sidewalk tells us to check out the little off-license, Alfonso’s Liquor Store, just down the street. It’s a high traffic area right near Santa Caterina, and she promises that if anyone has seen Miguel, it will be someone near that store.

  We head in that direction and find a rickety building that the GPS on my phone tells me is Alfonso’s. A man, gaunt and unshaven, stands on the side of the building, puffing on the stub of a cigarette. His fingernails are long and caked with grime. There’s an aluminum lawn chair set up on the sidewalk beside him, and a jug of red wine that’s almost empty.

  The pounding of my heart slows, just a little. I like the look of this guy. He reminds me of Jake, one of the bums who lived on a bench in the park just down the street from my house. He was very friendly, and had this awesome, booming belly laugh that you could hear five blocks away. He also bought my mates and I malt liquor from the petrol station, which could explain my fondness for him.

  “Hola, señor,” I say. “Como está?” Hello sir, how are you?

  He smiles at Laura and me as we approach, one eye squinted shut against the smoke that curls from between his fingers. He’s missing a few teeth.

  Looking for someone? he says in Spanish.

  I smile back. I knew we came to the right place. Yes, I reply. We’re looking for a little boy, about this tall, six years old. He took off from the school just down the block h
ere about half an hour ago. We think he might have come this way. Have you seen him?

  The man’s dark brown eyes move from me to Laura. They soften.

  Miguelito, he says. That little rascal is always running loose around here.

  My chest contracts. Laura told me Miguel ran to find his parents, not to get away from them. I hope that’s true. I hope he’s not running from home. It’s the worst sort of loneliness, that feeling. I’m not sure if it ever really goes away.

  “Yes,” Laura breathes. She slumps against me in relief. “Yes, that’s him. Thank God.”

  Can you show us where he is? I ask.

  The man stubs out his cigarette with the threadbare toe of his trainer.

  Follow me, he says, waving his fingers at us. We must go slowly, or he will run again. He is very skittish and does not like to be surprised. This way, it’s just up the hill here.

  “Gracias,” I say. “Muchas gracias, señor. Como se llama?” Thank you very much. What is your name?

  The man glances back at me, a look of confusion in his eyes.

  My name?

  Yes, I reply. Your name.

  He smiles again. Fernando, he says.

  “Rhys,” I reply, and hold out my hand.

  He looks at it for a beat before he takes it in his own.

  “Mucho gusto, Fernando,” I say. Nice to meet you.

  I turn to see Laura smiling at the two of us. Her eyes, still wet, glisten like pools in the late afternoon sun. Oh, that smile.

  We follow Fernando’s shuffle around the off-license and begin the climb up the next block. Laura grabs my hand, the same one I offered to Fernando, and gives it a quick squeeze. I squeeze back.

  A few times I could swear I hear footsteps behind us. I glance back once, twice, but there’s no one there. I obviously didn’t tip off the paparazzi that I’d be out and about today, but that doesn’t mean they’re not lurking about. Often they’ll wait outside the car park at our training facility and take photos of us coming and going in our cars. I don’t remember seeing any earlier today, but if photographers were there, they would’ve seen me leave early to go to physical therapy.

  Fernando stops in front of a sagging apartment building. There are bars on the windows; a dog barks, loud and insistent. He points to a dark hall that cuts through the center of the building. I duck my head to get a better view. A narrow staircase leads up to…I can’t tell what it leads to. It’s dark in there. Really dark.

  Up there, Fernando says quietly. Third door to the left. It’s his mother’s old apartment. He doesn’t know she left.

  “Thank you,” Laura says, tearful again.

  Gracias, I translate. Fernando offers us a smile, and then he begins to shuffle back down the hill. Laura’s already on the bottom step, hand on the baluster.

  “Wait,” I say, taking her by the arm. “Let me go first. I’m worried we’ll startle him if we both go up. I’ll call down if I need you, all right?”

  “Really?” She looks at me. “You really want to do this?”

  “I do.” I glance up into the darkness. “I have a pretty good idea how that little man is feeling right now. I think I can help.”

  Laura blinks, like she’s not quite sure what to say.

  “What?” I ask, grinning. “Are you surprised?”

  “No,” she says. “A week ago, maybe. But now? Now, I’m not surprised at all. And that’s a wonderful fucking thing.”

  I hold a finger to my mouth in mock censure. “Love, your mouth! There are children here.”

  “Sorry,” she says, wrinkling her nose as she grins, too.

  I move up the steps as quickly as I can without making too much noise. I turn on my phone’s flashlight and hold it up, slowing my pace as I reach the top steps.

  I hear a hiccup, followed by a sniffle, to my right.

  I let out a silent breath of relief.

  He’s here.

  “Miguel,” I call out, softly. Miguel, it’s me, your friend Mister Maddox. We played soccer together last week, remember?

  The sniffling stops. My flashlight catches on a pair of little grey trainers. I point it down and see Miguel huddled against a door, no jacket, a thick green river of snot snaking from his nose. Poor little man.

  I reach for him, but he backs up against the door and starts to cry.

  I look down at my mobile in my hand. I turn it around, so the flashlight is pointed toward me and not him. I blink at the sudden onslaught of fluorescent light.

  It’s me, I try again. Remember me, Miguel? My name is Rhys Maddox. We scored a goal together on the playground.

  Miguel sniffs. No way, Mr. Maddox, he says. I scored that goal, not you. So we didn’t do it together.

  I bite back a laugh. You’re right. You’re a much better player than I am.

  Thank you, he replies. I think so too.

  Would you like to play again today? I ask.

  Another sniffle. Will you be there?

  Of course.

  He lets out a breath. I turn the flashlight toward him, just a little. Okay, he says.

  And then he gets up and takes the hand I hold out to him. His fingers are sticky, probably from the snot. I smile.

  I miss my mom, he says as we make our way down the stairs.

  I know, I say. She misses you, too. Tell me about her.

  We walk. Miguel chats. I meet Laura’s eyes over his head. She looks exhausted, and relieved, and so beautiful I can’t bear it. I can’t bear to keep how I feel inside any longer.

  I love you, I mouth to her.

  She blinks, her features moving into an expression I can’t read. My heart skips a beat. Is it too soon? Am I coming on too strong? I knew telling her the things she knew I felt would be a risk. Things between us are still somewhat fragile; the university hasn’t approved Laura’s application to stay yet, and I know she’s disappointed to miss out on the opportunity to TA for that professor she admires so much back at Meryton. She’s got several very good reasons to tuck tail and run.

  I don’t want to give her another by making her feel weird, or pressured. I know Laura feels something for me, something stronger than like. The girl’s offered to stay another semester in Spain with me, for Christ’s sake. But I don’t know if she’s in love with me yet. Not the way I’m in love with her.

  I wait for what feels like an eternity for her to say something.

  Her eyes flick to her feet.

  Chapter 26

  Laura

  I don’t know why I’m so taken aback—I knew this was coming, Rhys almost said it that night in Olivier’s drug lord bathroom—but for several beats I just stare back at him, too dumfounded, or maybe too tired, to reply. My feet are killing me and my lungs are weirdly sore, like they’re muscles I’ve torn working out.

  Maybe I just don’t have the mental or emotional capacity to process this right now. Rhys really has been Prince Charming today, charging in on his white steed (or black Lamborghini) to save his lady love from her self-afflicted distress. I never would’ve found Miguel without him.

  I feel a lot of things for Rhys. All of them are good and strong and overwhelming, as all things Rhys-related tend to be.

  I look at him. He looks at me.

  I open my mouth at the exact moment Nuria’s cry of relief pierces the air. I blink, realizing we’re back at Santa Caterina. Teachers and cops and parents are running toward the fence, motioning us closer.

  I offer Rhys a smile before the crowd swallows us. Miguel bursts into tears.

  So do I.

  ***

  Rhys

  Later That Night

  Laura collapses into the passenger seat of my truck with an exhausted oompf. I close the door behind her and make my way to the driver’s side, waving at Nuria over my shoulder as she locks up Santa Caterina for the night.

  I climb into the car and take Laura’s hand. She’s crying a little, sniffling. She turns her head on the headrest to look at me—really look at me—for the first time since I told he
r I loved her.

  “Thank you,” she says. “For everything. You were really great tonight.”

  “And you’re really exhausted.” I pull out into the street. “But do mind if we make a quick stop? I’d like to grab something for a friend. I promise it won’t take more than five minutes.”

  “Not at all,” Laura says. “Which friend is this?”

  “Fernando,” I say.

  I get what I need, and a few minutes later, I climb out of the car with a bottle wrapped in brown paper in my hand and another baggie tucked beneath my arm. I glance one way down the street, then the other. It’s empty. Still, the hair on the nape of my neck prickles to life.

  I’m probably just being paranoid. But I feel like someone is following me. Watching me, maybe. I’ve felt like this all afternoon. It’s a familiar enough sensation; I know it well. I usually like the attention, welcome it even; so do my sponsors. The paparazzi love catching me in the act almost as much as I love being caught.

  However.

  Being caught with a bottle of bum wine in my hand while hanging out with an actual bum would not be a good thing. Not for my relationships with my sponsors, not for my career, and definitely not for my club. My dad was caught in similarly compromising circumstances the night before a match, and those pictures marked the end of his football career.

  Granted, I’m not an alcoholic like he was. But the press just needs to catch you doing something stupid once, and all of the sudden you’ve got a giant problem on your hands. The media can spin the truth however they want; they can spin it into an outright lie, easily, if it means more money for them. After all, misery is their biggest moneymaker.

  I glance down the street again. Nothing but quiet, patient darkness. Yeah, I’m totally being paranoid. I’m also freezing, so the sooner I can wrap this up, the better.

  Laura rolls down the window. “You okay? Want me to come with you?”