Keep This Promise

by Willow Winters

  I exchanged a quick look with Claudia, who looked wide-eyed and helpless, and said, “I don’t know. I think I got it at American Apparel.”

  Which, was true. I totally stocked up on the basics there before I came.

  The look of disgust on Lauren’s face was like I just told her I eat dirty diapers for breakfast. “American Apparel is a horrible company that demeans women by making their employees pose in overtly sexualized ways.”

  “Well,” I said slowly, noticing that a vein on her left temple was throbbing, “I gathered that from their ads. But hey, at least they aren’t exploiting children in China.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “There have been many sexual harassment cases. I don’t understand how any woman could support a company that perpetrates rape culture.”

  I frowned, totally lost at her train of reasoning. “I’m sorry?”

  “I must interrupt,” Mateo spoke up innocently. “I think the shirt looks very nice on her.”

  Lauren’s beady eyes darted to his wedding ring. “You shouldn’t.”

  I felt a flush of embarrassment but Mateo shrugged and said, “No? Is that an English rule, it is bad to compliment another?” Though the look in his eyes was completely innocent, I caught an edge to his tone. I could imagine him as a businessman, trying to be polite but ruthless at the same time.

  Lauren’s eyes were now snake-like slits. She slowly took them off of us and turned around in the chair in a huff.

  Jeez, what was up her ass? I looked at Mateo and raised my brows. He gave me a similar look back. Lauren definitely wasn’t a fan of us. Fortunately, Claudia turned out to be more than cool and the three of us chatted about movies for the rest of the ride. I kept talking about what a genius Michael Bay was, which was a total lie, of course, but it was fun to see Lauren get worked up. Finally she stuck in earbuds and listened to her music, tuning us out.

  After we had a quick pit stop at a gas station, where we all descended on refrigerated sandwiches like vultures and Claudia was able to smoke her brains out, it was a short hop to the town of Acantilado.

  According to Mateo, Acantilado meant “Cliff” in Spanish, although I couldn’t figure out if he meant like a sharp rock face or the name of some dude who was always at a bar. Soon, though, I got the meaning. We descended into a small valley in Sierra de Francia, where rugged rusty and grey cliffsides rose out of green foliage. The village of Acantilado was very small and very quaint, like something from a storybook. I wanted to take out my digital SLR camera and capture every detail but the scenery moved too fast and I knew the blurry photos would do nothing to convey what I was experiencing.

  To my surprise we didn’t stop and the bus went around the outer rim of the village where we barely fit through the narrow passages between stone buildings, the wheels trundling on the cobblestone, until we were coasting slowly down an open country road.

  “Where are we going?” I asked Mateo.

  He shrugged. “I do not know. Perhaps they mean to murder us?” He said this in all sincerity though I caught a wicked gleam in his eyes.

  I grinned at his humor, so similar to mine. It almost made me…giddy. God, giddy. What a dumb feeling. And yet I felt like I was infinitely cooler by sitting on this bus and joking with this man I’d just met. I felt giddy that I was part of something, a team of strangers who were all being driven to some place to get murdered.

  I was wriggling in my seat like a puppy, my hands gripping the back of Claudia’s seat while we all craned our necks forward to see where Manolo was taking us.

  We finally pulled up in front of a long windy driveway up a hill. Farmer’s fields surrounded us, rolling on with the hills until it met the hazy line of mountains.

  Manolo ordered us off the bus. As we got up, Mateo nudged me gently in the side with his elbow and with his warm breath close to my ear said, “It was nice knowing you.”

  I giggled which drew a look of ire from Lauren. Oh right, she was still here.

  Once we were off the bus, we huddled around as Manolo started bringing out the bags, explaining that the hill was too steep for the bus to go up. Though it was still warm, there was a nip in the air and you could tell that we were at a higher elevation.

  Soon we were joined by a skinny, scrubby man in cargo shorts coming down the hill toward us. His receding hairline took the focus off his pale and sweaty face.

  “Hola folks!” he cried out in a thick Irish accent, waving at all of us and then wiping his hands on the front of his shirt. “I’m Jerry.”

  He looked like a Jerry.

  “And that hola will be the last Spanish any of you will ever hear,” he went on, putting his hands on his hips. He came across like he was really involved in what he was saying even though I was sure he’d had to do this speech a million times before. “For the next two weeks to one month, all of you will be speaking English. Not a problem for the English-speakers, though I assure you your English will greatly deteriorate as time goes on. The Spaniards will speak better English than you.” From the way he smiled and paused, I could tell he expected more than just a few titters from the crowd but that’s all he got. He shook his hand and clapped his hands together once, loud. “But for the Spaniards, this means no business calls unless absolutely necessary. No talking to your family. You may email them and write them in Spanish to your heart’s wee desire but no speaking Spanish, you all understand?”

  I heard Mateo murmur “puta” something to himself. I leaned in, catching another whiff of his cologne. “What was that?”

  “I was cursing in Spanish,” he said. He lifted a well-manicured finger to his lips to shush me. “Don’t tell anyone.”

  “What were you saying?” I said in a whisper, like we were conspiring.

  “I’ll have to teach you when the program is over,” he said. Then he straightened up, hands folded at his front. Jerry was still talking, trying to engage each of us with load of eye contact.

  “So I hope you’re all prepared for this,” Jerry went on saying, “because this isn’t going to be easy. But, if you’re anything like the one hundred and twenty six other groups I’ve overseen, then you’ll get through it just fine.” Jesus. One hundred and twenty six? Did this guy never take a day off? “There are twenty Anglos and twenty Spaniards and you’re going to get to know each other really well. Up there,” he turned and pointed at the roofs that were just peeking over the crest of the hill, “is your home for the next while. That is where you will be interacting with each other, Anglo and Spaniard, for six hours a day.”

  Mateo grunted and leaned in close to me. “You English don’t understand siestas.”

  “Well,” I said, keeping my eyes on Jerry in case he felt like calling on us, “I can’t speak for every other English-speaker here, but I am a huge fan of naps. Totally underrated activity.”

  “A nap is very American,” he whispered.

  “Canadian,” I scolded him from the side of my mouth.

  “You’ll find out what a siesta is. I’ll show you.”

  “You’re going to show me how to nap?” I asked warily.

  “Siesta,” he repeated and I wished the word didn’t sound so sexy coming from his lips. “There is a difference.”

  Jerry continued, oblivious to our conversation, “There will be schedules posted every night about the next day’s routine, telling you who you’ll be paired up for the day’s activities. You will have three separate one-on-one sessions in the morning before lunch, and three business situations after lunch. You’ll get an hour of spare time before dinner. After dinner the dramatics will begin.”

  Dramatics? I exchanged a look with Mateo but now he was being the poster child for learning and pretending to be attentive.

  “This is a fun session, where we learn about both cultures by using immersive techniques and activities.”

  I still didn’t know what he meant. Were we all going to start Flamenco dancing?

  “There will be flamenco dancing lessons and performances,” he said. I smirked
to myself. “Skits, games and excursions to the town for food and drinks. These sessions are when we really let our hair down and get wild.”

  Jerry made the motion like he was a 90’s supermodel shaking out her hair. It made everyone uncomfortable.

  “Now,” he said, oblivious to how much of a dork he was, “let’s all grab our bags and head up to the lobby. We’ve taken over this whole resort so the lobby and bar now will be our main meeting area. I’ve got some ice-breaker games for us to play and me and my assistant Janet will be assigning your room and room keys.”

  “Ice breaker?” Mateo said to me. The sun broke through a few high clouds and bathed his face in light, showcasing his eyes. I could see that brown was an understated way of describing their color—they gleamed like a dark teak wood deck on a sailing ship. They were rich and layered and oh so deep.

  I needed to look away but I didn’t. I brushed my unruly hair behind my ears and shrugged. “You know, like getting to know you.”

  “But I already know you,” he said with an easy smile. “Why do I have to know anyone else?”

  My heart did a funny little flip. Damn his accent. And eyes. And everything.

  “This is yours,” Manolo suddenly interrupted us, thrusting my overgrown backpack at my feet before tossing a leather suitcase in front of Mateo. I expected Mateo to tell Manolo off for manhandling his stuff—it looked like a really pricey, custom-made suitcase—but Mateo just brushed it to the side with his foot and picked up my backpack instead. His arms barely strained under the weight but the muscles flexed just enough for my insides to flip again.

  “Do you want to wear it or can I carry it up the hill?”

  Wow. Chivalrous, too.

  I stuck out my hand to take it. “I’m good. But thank you.”

  “You are good?”

  I sighed. I really was going to have to try and speak more coherently and less colloquial for the next month, or I was going to have a lot of confused and slang-slinging Spaniards on my hands.

  “I can carry my own bag,” I explained patiently, “but thank you for offering.”

  “Ah,” he said with a nod. I wondered how he was taking it, a young girl like myself schooling him on his language every two seconds. I supposed he’d just have to get used to it just as I would. I wasn’t even used to hanging out with men who were over thirty.

  He picked up his suitcase with ease. “I thought you were saying you were good, like a good girl.”

  An involuntary smile spread across my lips. “Oh, I am definitely not a good girl.”

  “I knew there was a reason I liked you.” He wagged his finger at me, eyes glittering.

  He liked me? I knew he didn’t really mean anything by it but still. Butterflies tickled my chest and suddenly I was transported back to kindergarten all over again. I knew I needed to get a grip but I honestly hadn’t had a genuine crush on anyone in a very long time. Sex was one thing—I fucked when I was horny—but getting giddy like a schoolgirl because a guy said he liked me was another.

  Of course, a crush would do me no good in this situation since he was not just a guy, but a man and a married one at that. And I had literally just got here.

  “Want to go?” he asked. I blinked and realized that I had been standing there waging some eternal war with myself while everyone else had started lugging their bags up the hill. Only Mateo and I remained behind because I’d suddenly turned into a hormonal moron over someone I had just met.

  “Yes,” I said, giving him a lopsided smile. I swung the bag up on my back, my shoulders burning with the weight, and started walking quickly up the hill. I wanted it to seem like I was just trying to catch up but in all reality, I wanted to leave the whole “like me” thing behind, back near the bus, where it belonged.

  Chapter 3

  Once we reached the crest of the hill, we finally got a good look at what would be our home for the next month or so. It was amazing and not at all what I expected. Instead of one big hotel-like building like I had imagined, there were numerous houses scattered about landscaped grounds. Most of them looked like two-story cottages, although some looked like duplexes. They all had their own patios and balconies and little plots of green grass lined with lavender. The houses had a similar look to the buildings I saw in town—whitewashed stone with dark brown wood trim and brick-colored shingles on the roofs.

  In the middle of it all was one big brick and stone building that said “Reception” on it. There was a terra-cotta patio in front that lead into a wide, groomed lawn with small tables, wicker and lawn chairs dotted about. The occasional small oak tree provided shade. It was beautiful and I immediately saw myself soaking up the sun. I was pale as anything thanks to the endless rain of a Vancouver winter and spring and the little stint in London didn’t help either. I wanted my limbs, my hair, my everything to be golden.

  I could overhear Jerry telling everyone that each cottage housed two apartments. All Anglos would be sharing an apartment with a Spaniard though we would each have our bedroom and bathroom. I’d be lying if I secretly didn’t start hoping that Mateo would be my roommate. At least I knew I couldn’t be paired up with Lauren.

  All of us left our suitcases and backpacks on the patio while we crammed ourselves into the reception building to get our room keys and the apparent rules to the icebreaker game. The building was grandiose inside, in contrast to its humble exterior. Smooth orange tiles, faded brick that covered the walls and arched over the doorways in a defiance of gravity. Everything I remembered about flying buttresses and the like from my history classes were all coming back to me. However I could have described it though, it was very European, very ancient and very cool.

  The reception desk was manned by two bustling, smiling women and across from it, where we had all gathered to line up, was a common area with a few computer stations, comfy chairs and antique looking coffee tables, as well as a bar made out of a solid piece of wood and layered with copper that complimented the green bottles of Heineken lined up on the bricks behind it. A spiral iron staircase at the end of the room led up to the second floor. Through the main archway I could see a large dining hall with impossibly high ceilings and large white table-clothed tables with four chairs at each one.

  Mateo didn’t seem the slightest bit impressed—maybe this kind of architecture was common here. He was, however, frowning at a little man in the line in front of us who kept turning around and giving him the eye. My gaydar wasn’t going off so it was more of a “do I know you from somewhere?” kind of look to which Mateo responded with a “you talkin’ to me?” stare. This was all done non-verbally, of course.

  Finally we got up to one of the receptionists. I gave her my name and was handed a thick pamphlet and was asked if I had a credit card I wanted to put down for bar charges. It sounded like a dangerous proposition—so I did it.

  While she took my Visa, Mateo read the writing on the envelope, “Vera Miles.”

  “That’s me,” I said. Jerry had been yelling at us to take out our name tags and wear the lanyards around our neck for the entire program. I took it out and put it on. There was another smaller package inside the main one and Jerry had warned us not to look inside those yet. My room keys were also inside.

  “There’s an actress called Vera Miles,” Mateo remarked. “She was in Psycho. Good film.”

  I nodded, trying to make sure my name tag didn’t get stuck between my boobs. It was hard to do with Mateo watching me so closely. “Yup. But I’m named after my grandmother.”

  “I’m named after my grandfather,” Mateo said with an easy smile. The receptionist handed me back my Visa card and looked to Mateo, her lips teasing into a smile when she got a good look at him. So, I wasn’t the only one who thought he was handsome as all hell. I could tell she also noticed his ring when he placed his hands on the counter, because her eyes flashed with disappointment.

  She looked at me and I stuck my lower lip out, as if to say, “such a shame.”

  She snapped out of it and looked
at him. “Your name please?”

  “Mateo Casalles,” he replied.

  Damn. I was hoping it was something less sexy than something that not only rolled off his tongue but made it sound like he could use that tongue in many interesting ways.

  Perhaps I needed to cancel my bar tab.

  “Mateo Casalles?” she repeated, a weird sort of recognition in her eyes.

  He gave her a quick smile but that was it. She reached underneath the counter for the envelope and gave it to him. He opened it up with deft fingers and stuck the nametag and lanyard so it was hanging out of his pant pocket.

  I wanted to ask him if he was trying to draw attention to his crotch, but I had a vision of that going horribly wrong in translation so I just said, “You’re supposed to wear that around your neck, I think.”

  He gave me a steady gaze as we moved out of the line. “This is good.” Then he brought out his room key and peered at it. “Room numero tres.” He waved his hand like he was erasing the Spanish from the air. “Sorry, sorry. Three. Building five.”

  I looked at mine and hid my disappointment. “Room two, building one.”

  “At least we are close to each other, no?”

  I grinned up at him. Everything he said was so disarming, how casually he treated this, like there was an us, like we’d been friends for a long time. He made me feel like I was the only person in the room.

  Until Claudia joined our side.

  “Hey, Claudia, how are you?” he greeted joyfully as if he hadn’t seen in her in a long time. My smile diminished slightly. He treated her the same way, like she was an old friend, too. Mateo was just a really personable, gregarious man. There was no us. There was just Mateo.

  I took in a deep, steady breath and suddenly I was okay with that. I was just really grateful to have friends, to have people to be comfortable with and to talk to.