Made In Manhattan (Made In Series Book 2)

by Ana Newfolk

  Carry on reading for an excerpt of Made In Portugal.

  Made In Portugal

  Prologue

  David

  Portugal, August 2003

  All I could see from my position, lying on the beach towel, on my back, with my eyes closed was bright orange. I moved my eyes around under my eyelids, but it was the same all around, then a darker orange and brown for a moment until it was bright orange again.

  The sun was warm on my face, and I could feel the skin on my arms and legs tingling from the heat. Maybe we should go for a swim to cool down. While my tanned skin was used to the sun, I didn’t want to burn.

  My best friend, Joel, and I had spent most of the last six weeks on the beach. This particular spot was our favorite since it was the furthest away we could get from home on our own. In the last two summers, our moms had allowed us to take the small train that transported people along the thirty kilometers of continuous beach. Those beaches were always a favorite with locals and tourists since it was just south of Lisbon, on the other side of the river Tagus.

  We always chose the last stop, thinking it was unlikely we’d run into anyone we knew. Not that we did anything other than to sunbathe and swimming.

  Joel lived in America so at the beginning of his holidays here we always met up with friends from school and others who lived near us, but after a while, we just ended up doing stuff on our own. By the end of his visits, we were virtually inseparable. It was as though we wanted to make as many memories to last the year until he would come back again.

  I opened my eyes only a little bit, the bright sunlight making my eyes water until I focused on the blue of the sky. There were no clouds, just blue, and all I could hear around us were the seagulls squawking in the distance and a soft giggle right next to me.

  A face appeared in my line of sight, slightly blurry at first until my eyesight adjusted and zoned in on the blue eyes hovering over me. The same face, the same eyes, that beginning tomorrow I would no longer see every day, at least for another year.

  “Não the mexas!” Joel cried, putting a hand on my shoulder so I wouldn’t move. His blond hair flopped all over his eyes, sun-bleached and stuck together from the salt water.

  “Porquê?” I asked why.

  “Because I’m building a shell made of shells on you,” he said as though it was an entirely natural thing to do. I must have been asleep because I didn’t remember feeling him place the shells on me, and we both knew there wasn’t a chance of me staying still long enough for that to happen.

  I lifted my head slightly to see all over my flat stomach the shape of a seashell made out of the little shells collected from the sand around us. The individual shell rings consisted of shells from different colors and to make them distinct from each other. I was impressed.

  “Joel, I need to move. I’m burning,” I said, trying to keep still so the shells didn’t fall off.

  “But I haven’t finished yet.” Joel pouted his lips like he used to do when we were little. His shiny blue eyes looked at the shells and then at me, and a small smile appeared on his lips.

  I knew what he was thinking, and he would have to catch me first. In a split second the shells were falling off me as I got up to escape the tickling attack I knew he was planning. Joel got up after me and chased me in circles on the sand, trying to catch me.

  We were both out of breath and giggling as I held my hands in front of me and suggested we go for a swim.

  “Okay,” Joel agreed. “How long do we have until we have to get back?” he asked, looking in the direction of the bag where we kept our phones.

  “I think there’s enough time for a swim. We can walk for a bit while our shorts dry out and take the train back home at the next stop.”

  Joel

  New York, Present Day

  The summer afternoon sun was shining brightly through my kitchen window, bringing out the colors of the drawings I had stuck on the fridge door. I found myself standing there remembering the class earlier this week when I told my students about where I came from, that small country on the southwest of Europe that everybody likes to confuse with Spain, Portugal.

  "Mr. Peterson, what color is the sand in Portugal?"

  "Have they got palm trees?"

  "What about ice cream? Do they eat ice cream? Ice cream is my favorite. My mommy takes me to Dairy Queen and gets me a chocolate-dipped cone when I do all my homework."

  I’d asked my young students to draw a picture of something they like about Portugal based on the photos I showed them in class. What I got was an array of weird and wonderful drawings that only the imagination of six-year-olds could conjure. Sandy beaches, castles, palm trees, sharks, and even pirates.

  I loved teaching; it was a passion I knew I’d inherited from my dad, and looking at the work of my students made my heart swell with pride.

  The intercom buzzed, bringing me back to the present.

  What was I going to the fridge for? Oh yeah, food!

  Max was coming over to get the spare key to the apartment, and I was sure he’d be hungry after his shift at the hospital.

  "Time to get the coffee brewing,” I muttered to myself as I buzzed Max into the building.

  Max had been my best friend from the moment we met at school after literally bumping into each other on my first week in the new American school. A school that was so different to what I was used to in Portugal.

  Max's home life wasn't all that great, so he spent a lot of time at my house, becoming more of a family member than a friend. The only difference between us was that I loved reading and had a passion for languages, something I got from my dad, while Max felt a pull towards medicine and helping people. When I started my Early Childhood studies, Max went to nursing college.

  Our made-up family of four was pretty much perfect in my eyes all the way up to the day of the tragic accident that took both my parents last Christmas. Six months later, it still hit me hard in the chest every time I thought of the day I found out I would never see my parents again and more than anything wouldn't be able to hug them and feel like I belonged somewhere.

  "Hey, Joebug, what's up?" Max said, coming in, dropping his backpack in the hallway.

  I got stuff out of the fridge to make a couple of sandwiches and ignored his use of the nickname he’d given me in high school.

  "Ooh, is that chorizo in your hand, or are you happy to see me?" Max asked with a smirk and his eyebrows motioning up and down.

  "Do you want coffee?" I asked, ignoring him. Max lived to get a rise out of me, and I was determined to keep my reactions neutral.

  "Hell, yeah, I feel like I've been put on the spin cycle of a washing machine and still came out dripping. I love working in the ER, but, man, it’s hard work."

  "Any interesting patients today?" My mom had worked in the emergency room in the same hospital with Max, and she always used to share her funniest patient stories. It became a tradition on our weekly catch-ups, and something I always looked forward to.

  "This hot guy came in today with a kid who needed some stitches on his little finger. He looked very nervous, and I thought he was going to faint at the sight of blood. Unfortunately, there was no need for mouth-to-mouth resuscitation." Max chuckled but then looked down and frowned.

  “You okay?” I asked. “Have you been on any dates recently?”

  “Of course I have.” The indignation in his voice was clear. “I’m young, good looking, and smart. I can get all the ass I want.”

  “You forgot modest, too.”

  I finished making up the sandwiches as the coffee maker was spewing its last drops of coffee into the pot. I loved the smell of coffee; it always reminded me of my grandmother’s house in Portugal.

  I used to joke with my mom that the blood on her side of the family was fifty percent coffee. Of course, it had been a while since I’d walked into a house that had that familiar smell of a freshly made brew.

  "Are you all set for the trip?" Max asked before taking a bite of
his sandwich and bringing us back to the reason for his visit.

  "Nearly. I'm all packed, and I've got the ashes with all the documentation." I looked down at my sandwich, well aware that wasn't what Max meant, but was trying to avoid overthinking the reason for my trip.

  "Joel,” he said, making me look straight at him, “ how do you feel about going back? I know you're trying to avoid talking about it, but I'm worried about you."

  "I'm not sure," I admitted. "I have amazing memories of my holidays in Portugal, and I'm looking forward to seeing my grandparents and my great-grandma again. I'm just nervous, I guess. What if they’re disappointed?"

  "What makes you think that? Joebug, you are the best person I know. You are fun, caring, and the kids at school idolize you. I'm sure your family will love you too."

  I sighed, almost convinced but still apprehensive. I hadn’t been back for so long.

  “I don’t know. I just never thought the next time I'd see my family would be to scatter the ashes of both my parents. Before school started last year, Mom and I had spoken about going back together and make a family vacation out of it. Now it'll be just me."

  "Have you got any plans while you're out there and until the fun party arrives?" Max asked with a wink. Trust him to change the subject to get me out of my mood.

  "Nah, I am sure stuff will happen, though.” Once again I looked at the wall next to the fridge where there was a photo of my parents and me at Westhampton Beach, taken when I was only fifteen.

  “They wanted their ashes scattered around the cliff behind the church where they got married.

  “I was there once, and the place is beautiful. The landscape of the cliffs is quite striking; it’s no wonder they married there and chose it as their final resting place. I wouldn't have picked a better place. Other than that it's flexible. I might rent a car. I’m thinking I might like to travel a bit while I’m there.” I finished my sandwich and took a sip of coffee.

  "What do you think the gay scene is like out there?” He leaned closer. “Joebug, I'm counting on you to check it out before I get there. We’re both in need of a good vacation fling to relieve the stress of city life. We need walks on the beach, kisses at sunset, and lube - lots of lube,” he said, punctuating each of his last words.

  I felt myself blush as a memory raced through me, and hoped Max couldn't read my expression. My apartment was close to the hospital, so Max was taking advantage of the proximity to his workplace before joining me on the last leg of the vacation. I quickly grabbed the spare keys and handed them to him.

  "Here are the keys. Don’t destroy this place while I'm gone." I turned to Max for a quick hug, "I am looking forward to spending some time with you out there, you know. It's been a while since we had time off together, and I think we'll have fun."

  "We will totally rock the place, and who knows, maybe even have some summer lovin' fun," Max sang with excitement, heading for the door.

  Later, as I lay down on my bed, I looked at the ceiling and allowed the memory to come back to me.

  The last time I'd been to Portugal, I had just turned fourteen. It was the best summer I'd ever had, and probably the best since. I had time with my grandparents and cousins, enjoyed family barbecues, and spent endless days on the beach with my best friend, David.

  I hadn't thought of David for years, but the conversation with Max brought back some memories. With his brown eyes and dark hair, David was the complete opposite of my blond hair and blue eyes, but that was the differences ended. Just like our mothers had been best friends, David and I’d grown up together and had been as close as two young boys could be. That was until my parents had decided to live in the States because of my grandmother's failing health. The geographical distance became too much, the short time together over the summer not enough, and I wondered if one day we’d just naturally drift apart. It didn’t seem likely, especially after the day we shared our first kiss. A kiss that to this day has burned itself into my memory, if not my heart, and it had to happen twelve hours before I flew back to New York for the last time.

  With a big sigh, I prayed I’d survive this vacation, and as sleep overtook me, I dreamed of sunsets on the beach, goose bumps, and dark brown eyes.

  About the Author

  Ana Newfolk was born in sunny Portugal where she grew up in a small town surrounded by countryside. She has always had a deep love of reading, and ever since she can remember, her favourite presents and treats have always been books. At 20 years old she moved to the UK where she still lives in the Suffolk countryside.

  In 2015 Ana stumbled across her first gay romance novel by chance in 2015, and she was hooked. This new found love for LGBT+ romance has opened a new world for Ana, and in 2017 she decided to finally listen to the voices in her head and write them down.

  You can follow Ana on Facebook, Twitter, Instagram or through her website for up to date news of her book releases. As an independent author Ana is always grateful for feedback, so if you have the time and desire, please leave a review, good or otherwise on Amazon and/or Goodreads.