Sol (Love in Translation Book 1)

by Leslie McAdam

  For now, I was so tired, I scooted over my bag and snuggled up with a scratchy pillow, not wanting the sleep, but needing it just to make it to the next day.

  5

  Trent -- Student

  A strange buzzing noise dragged me from my sleep.

  Where was I?

  I looked around.

  Holy shit. Spain.

  Turning off the alarm on my phone, I checked the time.

  Holy shit, my class started in forty-five minutes. My alarm had been going off for who knows how long. And I didn’t know the way to school.

  Racing down the hallway, I took the world’s fastest shower—no time to make sure everything got cleaned in the proper order—slid back to my room, got dressed, then, nabbing a hunk of bread from the dining room downstairs, headed out on the streets of Granada at breakneck speed with my equipment—phone, wallet, key to the room, and the letter from Degan.

  My heart thudded in my ears, and my fingers tingled. Being late was not how I planned on starting class. No sleep for a really long time plus jet lag fucked me over. I was all turned around, as far as what was day or night, and which way to go in this city.

  Consulting my phone, I started following the directions to the school. If I walked really fast, I’d make it with five minutes to spare. I lifted my foot off the curb to cross, but an obnoxiously loud moped buzzed by like a tiny flying vehicle out of Star Wars, forcing me to retreat. My heart raced in my ears.

  Nothing to worry about, Milner. Just a moped.

  These fucking engine noises.

  I resisted the urge to swear at him—he wouldn’t hear or understand me anyway—took a deep breath, then darted through a break in traffic to the other side of the street.

  Since I’d been in Spain, the noise, the heat, and the crowds had been making my Spidey senses ping, scanning for potential threats.

  I was so close to fulfilling my mission, but my blood ran through my body so fast I thought I’d explode before I made it.

  And I hated the conversation I had to have with her today. Thinking about it set my jaw tight.

  But I’d let her cry. I’d hold her. She’d need some time. I’d give her whatever she needed. Whatever.

  I loped along a narrow street, then up another, and found my way to the translation school, with Facultad de Traducción written over the whitewashed building in blue tile. I strode to the office, jerked out my ID, scrawled my name on some papers, and finally received back an official-looking stack of documents, full of stamps and seals, Spanish bureaucracy at its finest.

  Come on, come on. When would I see her?

  The registrar handed me a map of the school and showed me where class was. I took off sprinting down the hall, turned the corner, and ran full-force into Danika Anderson, grabbing her to keep her from falling back. In the process, she dropped her purse and scattered her papers all over the floor.

  “I’m so sorry,” I gasped. “Forgive me. Let me help you.” I knelt at her feet and gathered photocopies of a class syllabus and news articles. Her tiny toes were painted blue, with little daisies on them.

  “Trent! It’s so nice to see you!” she said, then she laughed. “I saw your name on the class list and couldn’t believe you’re here! You’re here!” She regarded the sprawl on the floor. “Yes, I could use some help.”

  Being this cheerful? She definitely didn’t know.

  While she seemed the typical upbeat Dani I knew, I could tell she was flustered, because when she crouched down next to me, her hands trembled as she helped to pick up her things.

  First day jitters? Or—not to be presumptuous—was it because I was there?

  Once we stacked up everything, I handed her a set of notes written in Spanish, and remained near to the ground, mirroring her. The letter in my back pocket was burning a hole in it. I could just grab it and hand it to her.

  But that wasn’t the way to do it. I’d talk to her after class. Gently.

  “Here you go,” I said. “Your things.”

  She stayed crouched, too. At first she didn’t glance at me. Her eyes traced down my arms, taking their time on the colorful tats and bulging veins.

  Then her huge, blue eyes, like miniature Earths, locked on mine. Stunningly beautiful in the most painful way possible. She had the ability to do that to me. To make me want her. And she was always just out of reach.

  My pulse thundered in my ears, my heart hammered against my chest like it had to come out, and my stomach sunk so fast I felt lightheaded. I was so close to her face, I wouldn’t have to straighten my arm to touch her cheek. To kiss those lips. Again.

  “Thank you, Trent,” she whispered with a smile, and suddenly it was just her and me again in the pizza parlor, four years ago. The passage of time had treated her well, only making her more alluring.

  Long, dangling earrings, silver and turquoise, hit her narrow shoulders covered in a bright, rough-woven fabric. Her cute, upturned nose led to a pretty pout like a soft peach. Blond hair waved so much that it seemed almost tangled. Like she just got out of bed and tumbled into class, sweet-sexy and sleepy. I didn’t know how to describe it, except that she looked like the queen of the itinerant princesses. Like a fairy who spent a wild night out under the stars and woke up late but happy. Like Tinkerbell took out the ponytail and forgot her comb for a day or two.

  My eyes followed her hand as it passed through her hair.

  The blondness was a shock against her tan, freckled skin and dark eyebrows. Her slim fingers were laden with rings, and as she lifted her arm to set all the papers again in order, she exposed a sliver of inked skin on her waist. Even though she wore a loose top, it stuck to her torso, outlining her small breasts.

  She stood up. The light filtered through her long skirt, showing me her figure.

  Goddamn.

  If only I could worship that in church.

  An image flashed to me for the millionth time of what she’d look like in bed. But the difference this time was that I was looking at her face, not a photograph. So surreal, I couldn’t handle it, like seeing a celebrity in real life—they existed, but not really. Miley Cyrus wasn’t gonna show up in my world.

  Even better, right now I had Dani before me.

  After all these years, here she was, more beautiful than ever. And still smelling like chai tea.

  Then I glanced into the class. Two dozen students stared at us, hanging onto every word.

  She giggled. “Let’s start the class, shall we?”

  I got up, dusted my hands on my thighs, and beelined for a seat in the back against a wall. The safest one. I could defend from this position. No surprises.

  Dani waltzed up to the front, an angel gliding around, skirts billowing around her legs, feet ensconced in gladiator sandals. Bangle bracelets stacked on her thin arms jangled as she pushed back her messy, but fantastic hair from her face and set her papers and embroidered bag on the teacher’s desk.

  She didn’t seem like a teacher, but rather like a student. Waifish, much shorter than my 6’1” and much tinier than my 205 pounds of muscle. I bet she didn’t weigh half that. She hadn’t gained an ounce in the time we’d been apart.

  And she didn’t seem to have the weight of authority. The gravitas. I wondered what the fuck the administration was doing hiring the Instagram version of Janis Joplin as a teacher. Had they no sense of responsibility? Did they hire any street person who showed up? Could she really teach this class?

  It was the kind of thing where I needed to pinch myself, to stay grounded in the present, to know that she really was here and I’d found her. Otherwise, she’d take off, leaving a vapor trail behind her.

  A brushfire of possessiveness ripped through me. I should stand up and keep everyone away from her. I needed to cordon off a perimeter around her and get her out of here. Out of Spain. Home. With me, where I could keep her safe. I’d haul her out over my shoulder if I had to, if any threat presented itself.

  Then I sighed.

  There goes my fucking brain aga
in.

  It’s just a classroom, Milner. Relax.

  Spending four years on high alert meant my brain had been warped, because this room was benign. About twenty desks and chairs surrounded me. An old-fashioned chalkboard adorned the front wall behind a large teacher’s desk. The spartan, clean walls were otherwise blank. No threats.

  The other students were benign, too—neat, young Spaniards with fashionable haircuts and button-down shirts and ironed jeans with leather belts, even in forty-three degree Celsius weather. Male or female, didn’t matter, they were all elegant. No shorts, no T-shirts, nothing sloppy. I stretched out my black boots, glad that I wasn’t dressed like a typical tourist in cargo shorts and a loud shirt. I felt like a tourist though, since I understood not a word of their rapid-fire Spanish.

  I rehearsed what I had to tell her.

  Less than two weeks ago, Degan died while our unit was on patrol in the Korengal Valley in Afghanistan.

  Fuck. If I thought about it too much, I’d break down. I blinked rapidly, holding my jaw as tight as I could.

  My knees banged the underside of the desk, and the hard wooden seat hurt my tailbone. Now that I sat down, I noticed the temperature. I’d figured I was just hot from running, but no. Even with the windows and doors open, the air felt stifling. A pressure cooker. A bead of sweat rolled down my temple into my hair, and my T-shirt stuck to me. No air conditioning.

  As Dani arranged her papers on her desk, a ruddy blond guy with a Havana shirt and Hawaiian shorts plopped his pile of books on the desk next to mine. With a round face, he was the human version of Olaf, the clueless, jolly snowman from Frozen.

  Don’t be a hater. I saw it with my friend’s kid while on leave a few years ago.

  “Are you American?” Olaf asked in a thick German accent.

  “What makes you say that?” I couldn’t help being surly and defensive even though I didn’t think he meant to piss me off. But I was on edge, in a class I was barely qualified to take, in a strange classroom in a strange country, needing to deliver bad news to a girl I desperately wanted to make love to.

  He looked at me quizzically and narrowed his brows, not understanding. “What you did say?”

  I took pity on him. English could be as hard for him as Spanish was for me. “Yes. I am an American,” I said slowly, enunciating every syllable. With my light hair and eyes, I stood out in Spain. He had the same coloring, with a shorter, rounder body.

  Just like Olaf.

  If his parents had named him that, I’d lose it.

  “Nice to meet you,” he said. “I’m from Leipzig, Germany. My name is Didier.” Dih-dee-yay. “Call me Didi.” He pronounced it Dee-Dee.

  Stifling a chuckle, since what kind of dude was named Didi, I reached over, picked up his pen, which had dropped, and handed it to him, then shook his hand.

  Another student, hearing us talk in English, turned around.

  Jesus, it was a Latin lover. No joke. Women surely took their panties off for him if he raised an eyebrow. I wouldn’t know, but he seemed the type—coiffed dark hair, dark eyes. Brooding. He looked me up and down—maybe he was gay—then turned back to his friends.

  “You like the teacher,” Didi whispered with a smirk, scooting his desk closer to mine.

  I glared at him in response. I more than liked the teacher, but he didn’t need to know that. No one needed to know. And had he no sense of personal space?

  “Have you studied translation before?” he asked with another goofy Olaf smile.

  “No. This is my first year.”

  Correction. First class, besides high school. The rest of these kids had to be in college. This was my inaugural attempt at higher education.

  “Need a partner?” he started to ask, but the energy in the room stirred, and everyone turned to the front.

  Dani addressed the class now with those blue eyes. Immediately, the chatter silenced. She straightened her clothes and started talking. “Good morning, class,” she said slowly and clearly, but with a wide smile. She talked too quietly. Timid. Her voice cracked on the word “morning,” and she tried again, stronger. “Good morning. I am Professor Anderson. This is Spanish to English Translation One. All conversation in this class this month will be in English. Next month is English to Spanish, and all work in that class will be in Spanish. If you do not understand something, raise your hand, and we will stop and discuss. I will now call roll, and you will answer, ‘Here.’”

  Then she proceeded to say a diatribe in what sounded to me like perfect Spanish. The rest of the class perked up.

  Calling from a roster, she began taking roll. One by one, the Spaniards awkwardly said, “Here,” not used to speaking in English.

  “Vicente Lopez”

  “Here.”

  “Amalia Macía.”

  “Here.”

  “Sergio Mendez.”

  “Here.”

  When she got to my name, she paused, and those eyes were on mine. After our spectacle at the beginning of class, she’d glanced over at me repeatedly. While it was obvious that she was diligently trying to learn the names of her new students, I knew I distracted her. “Trent Milner,” she called with a smile.

  “Ma’am, yes, ma’am.” That was not what I was supposed to say. Fuck. Army habit. “Here.”

  “I’d like to speak with you after class.”

  I nodded. “Yes, professor.”

  6

  Dani -- Army of one

  Blood pulsed through my veins like a bullet train to Seville. I didn’t know where the kid who used to hang out with my brother went, but the guy here now was so hot I forgot my lesson plans.

  I was so turned on by Trent I thought of nothing else.

  It didn’t help that the classroom was sweltering. He made it worse. At least a dozen students cooled themselves with traditional Spanish fans. I needed one fast before I passed out. Using a syllabus to fan myself, I managed to stay upright.

  Somehow, on autopilot, drawing on the muscle memory of past lessons, words came out of my mouth in an order that made sense. “Your grade is based primarily on class participation. I want active conversation from each and every one of you in class.” I leaned on the teacher’s desk for support, ignoring the two dozen pairs of eyes on me and mindlessly recited my spiel to an empty desk in the back. “And I encourage each of you to pair up, meet after class, and practice your translation.”

  I couldn’t help but want to pair up with him after class.

  Goddammit, no, Danika. He’s officially a student.

  “This is not the study of nuance,” I continued, not knowing how much the students were paying attention to me, just wanting to survive the class. “Not yet, at least. You will get the nuance, but it takes time. Right now, with this introductory-level class, we are learning the basics. Subtlety will come later.”

  I hoped I’d come later.

  Fuck, no. Keep it together, Dani.

  Trent hadn’t changed in any subtle way. He’d transformed drastically.

  The last time I saw him, years ago, his shaggy hair had framed features too big for his face. Too-big eyes. A too-big smile.

  He’d grown into them. His light brown hair flopped into his eyes, long on top and shaved on the sides, soft and touchable. Wrinkles around his eyes made him rugged and weather-beaten. But his eyes stayed the same—the most gorgeous blue I’d ever seen, like the Mediterranean Sea near Cádiz or the sky over the Indian Ocean right after sunset, when it was dark but not yet night.

  And his body?

  He’d hulked out and looked all the better for it. While I liked him before, I loved the way he looked now. Same height, but before where he was lanky and lean, now he’d developed muscles. Shoulders that were so broad they overshadowed the width of the wooden seatback of his desk. Thighs that filled out his tight jeans. Arms like they had softballs implanted in his biceps—and a new “Army of One” tattoo inked down the inside, along with a bunch of other designs I wanted to inspect.

  My God, he was beauti
ful. So much so that he utterly distracted me. I saw nothing but him, and I wasn’t sure I liked it. Because, soldier. Because, fighter.

  Because his world tore apart the peaceful, harmonious utopia I wanted to live in.

  Having taught this class before saved me. Otherwise I would’ve stood up there mute—or just left the room—unable to be in the same place as him. Relying on those reserve lessons stored in my brain, I kept talking, dividing up the class into partners and handing them an article to translate from Spanish into English.

  “The point of this class is to be able to understand each other. We may come from different worlds, and we speak different languages. But we can learn where the other person is coming from. And we can learn how to write their language from their point of view.”

  As I darted between the students, who were working on translating a simple article I copied off the El País website about a current event in Madrid, a transportation strike, I kept glancing at him. I tried not to. With every time our eyes met, I felt like I was gonna burn up like a falla de encendio—a Spanish papier-mâché caricature. I’d seen them burned in Valencia during a festival earlier this year.

  His fire.

  The heat of the classroom.

  My searing thoughts about all the parts of his body I wanted to see.

  Combustible.

  For two hours, I taught, delivering my lesson, walking among the students to check their work, listening to them read sentences they translated, gently correcting them, and feeling absolutely uncomfortable.

  Mostly because of the sergeant in the back row, who drew my attention no matter what he did—slouch, stick a pencil behind his ear, tilt his head to listen to his partner. Give me the raciest stare back, like he was imagining what I looked like with my clothes off.

  All the while lounging in a desk chair with his legs spread like he ruled the place.

  He’d pick up a paper and his arm muscles would flex, straining his T-shirt. He’d turn to listen to his partner and a vein would rise in his sinewy neck. He’d speak to his partner, and while I didn’t hover over him, I could imagine the provocative timbre of his voice.