The Fortunate Ones

by R.S. Grey

  I wipe at my eyes, trying to quickly put myself together before Ellie whips the door open and sees me having an emotional breakdown. “Yup. Got it!” I call back. “I’ll be right there.”

  The conversation doesn’t feel over between us, but what’s left to say? We could go around in circles all day, crying and slowly tearing each other down until one of us caves, and it would have to be me. I’d have to give up the opportunity in Spain, and I can’t do it. It’s better that he came to see me at work, in this cold, sterile room where there’s no chance of us forgetting ourselves. I’ve been given an opportunity to leave this hellhole, to do what I love most, and he knows that.

  I step back out of James’ arms and try a timid smile on for size. It feels tight and fake, but I hope he doesn’t notice. One of us has to be strong, and if he thinks I’m doing the right thing, he won’t try to stop me. My mask of resolve doesn’t have to be perfect, it just has to be enough.

  His pointer finger hooks beneath my chin and he lifts gently until our gazes clash in an unspoken goodbye. The tears I’d momentarily capped start to spill down my cheeks again. James doesn’t wipe them away. Instead, he bends down and presses a soft kiss to my lips. It’s the only farewell he gives before he turns and opens the door. Ellie nearly topples into the space, most likely having been listening with one ear pressed to the door. James steps around her and turns down the corridor.

  It’s the last time I’ll see him before I leave.

  Had I known it at the time, maybe I would have done things differently. Maybe I wouldn’t have stood immobile in that shitty employee lounge, looking to Ellie to wipe my tears and solve my problems. She wraps me in her arms and I bury my face against her shoulder. I cry at the unfairness of it all, the choice that was forced out of me and the lesson that’s getting hammered home in the most unforgiving way: you can’t have it all.

  James once asked me where I want to be in five years. Wherever I am, I hope I’m not looking back on this day, wishing I’d done something different, because if I had run after James and caught up with him before he left, if I’d jumped into his arms and told him I’d stay, maybe I wouldn’t have regretted it.

  I’ll never know, and that’s what makes life worth living.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Spain is beautiful, hot, and sunny—the antithesis of how I feel inside.

  It’s basically that annoyingly upbeat friend you want to deck in the face every time she comes around. To her, everything is great and carbs don’t matter.

  I am not in the mood.

  I arrive at the tail end of summer, when the days stretch out long and tourists are deployed in full force. I suppose I’m one of them, another newbie trying to learn the layout of the city as quickly as possible. Public transportation takes some getting used to, and I hate having to use my GPS to find my way. In those first few days, I get lost so many times that I vow to never leave the safety of Nicolás and Diego’s apartment until I have all the city blocks memorized 10 times over.

  The culture shock is hard to overcome. Though I speak the language, Barcelona still takes some getting used to. There’s no Ellie to decompress with at the end of a long day, and even though we FaceTime each other constantly, it’s not the same.

  I’m homesick and filled with niggling doubt over my decision to come, though I try to separate the two from each other. Even without James, moving to a new country would have still been a major adjustment. I try to give myself enough space to feel sad without allowing myself to get lost in the what-ifs.

  I’m here now, and it’s time to get used to it.

  The usual loneliness that settles in while traveling alone is relieved by the fact that I’m living with Diego, Nicolás, and the girls. We live in a three-story townhouse in the heart of the city, and I have the entire top floor to myself: a small bedroom, bathroom, and sitting area with a huge picture window. Most nights, Olive and Luciana wander up to see what I’m doing, even though their fathers implore them to give me private time. I don’t mind it though. I crave the company, and since they love to read so much, I try to join them whenever possible. We tear through books together, all of us a little intimidated by our new surroundings. They’ll be starting at a new school soon, and Luciana is worried she won’t be able to make friends. Olive is more concerned that she might have fallen behind other students in her class, so I asked her dads to pick up some workbooks early. Now, we work ahead together in the evenings to ensure she’ll feel extra prepared for the first day of school. Luciana, on the other hand, insists on taking “full advantage of the summer holiday”, which means anything but homework.

  Honestly, in those early weeks, I use the two of them as a shield against the homesickness. As long as I’m focused on Olive and Luciana’s troubles, mine can take a back seat, and maybe if I can stay distracted long enough, they might eventually disappear altogether.

  If my sadness is obvious to others, Diego and Nicolás do a good job of respecting my privacy. It’s not until one night over dinner, a few weeks after our arrival, that Diego asks me point blank if I’ve left someone behind in the United States. I shake my head hard, trying to keep my focus down on my lap. They don’t push the subject, instead quickly shifting to discuss some presentation Diego has coming up at the university. I finish my food quickly, push away from the table, and escape to the third floor.

  Luciana finds me sitting on the foot of my bed, staring out the window that faces the market across the street. Even at night, it’s packed to the gills with tourists and locals browsing the various stalls.

  She stands at the door, toeing the threshold, too scared to invade my space until I give a silent nod of approval. She runs over and leaps onto the bed, scooting close until her hip presses against mine. Her short legs can’t reach the floor and I glance down, admiring her glittery Toms.

  When she speaks, I’m surprised to hear such profound sadness in her tone. “You know, I miss my boyfriend too.”

  Her admission catches me so off guard that I’m helpless to quell the burst of laughter that spills out of me.

  She shoots me a death stare. “What’s funny?”

  “No.” I wipe the smile off my face. “Nothing.”

  It’s not. Luciana might be young, but she’s perceptive and thoughtful. If she cared about a boy back in the United States, she likely carried those feelings across the ocean with us.

  “Tell me about him,” I ask, tapping my shoulder against hers.

  For half an hour, she goes on and on about a boy named Collin who was the nicest person in her class back home. Her dads don’t want her dating yet, of course, BECAUSE SHE’S NINE, so she and Collin had to “just be friends at school”. I expected her relationship obstacles to pale in comparison to what I’m dealing with, but to hear her tell it, it’s pretty close.

  “My friend Valerie likes him too, and the day I left, she told me she was going to marry him.”

  Damn, nine-year-olds are savages.

  “What did you tell her?”

  She shrugs. “That it was Collin’s choice to make. If he wants to marry her, then that would be okay. As long as he’s happy.”

  “Even if that means you lose him?” I push.

  She looks up at me like I’m an idiot. “Ms. Brooke, I can’t expect him to wait around for me forever. I mean, we’re almost 10 years old.”

  Touché.

  “Do you want to talk about what’s going on with you now?” she asks with kind, gentle eyes. “Maybe I can help.”

  Though my usual emotional support system has not included girls that still use a Barbie toothbrush, I’m tempted by her offer. Ellie is exhausted with hearing me talk about James and how much I miss him, and nobody else knows about the things we’ve gone through.

  I don’t go into any of the PG-13 details with Luciana, but I tell her enough to make her nod sympathetically.

  “Star-crossed lovers,” she concludes with a long sigh. Then she taps her chin like a thoughtful psychologist. “I know you’re reall
y sad, but Olive and I think it’s boring when you’re sad. So you should just stop.”

  “What?”

  “Stop being sad.”

  Oh, okay. I hadn’t realized it was that easy.

  “I miss Collin too, but I don’t let it ruin my day. I still play with Olive and smile and stuff. And I can still read. You just pretend to read.”

  I thought I was being more convincing with that…

  “What do you think I should do?”

  I tell myself I’m humoring her, when really she’s giving me the best advice of my life.

  “Just smile.”

  “Smile?”

  “Yeah, even when you don’t feel like it. My dad says smiling is infectious. It’ll make you feel better.”

  I spread my lips, straining my face into an odd caricature of a smile.

  She erupts into a fit of giggles. “No! Not like that!”

  I contort my features into another silly face. “How about this? Am I doing it now?”

  She claps her hands over her face and shakes her head fervently. “Ugh! That’s not even close!”

  “No, no.” I reach for her hands to pull them away from her eyes. “I got it now. Look.”

  …

  It takes me a long time to get my genuine smile back. For weeks, I wallow in regret, scared to admit to myself that I might have made a mistake in coming to Spain. The thought keeps me up at night, long after the rest of the house has gone to bed. I lie awake, listening to the sounds of Barcelona outside my window, imagining what my life might have been like if I’d stayed back home in Austin. It’s a painful game to play, and some nights, I come close to calling James. I pull up his contact, hover over the green button, and my heart starts to pound in anticipation. I think he will answer, especially in those early weeks when our heartbreak is fresh and the possibility of reconciliation within reach.

  There’s one incident, a night that starts with pure intentions. Diego finds a few bottles of wine at the market on his way home from work. It’s apparently a steal, some really fancy shit he scores at a bargain price. He wants to celebrate, so after the girls go to sleep, we stay up watching bad TV and guzzling down glasses like there’s no tomorrow. We finish off the good stuff and then dip into the cheap bottles. Honestly, it all tastes the same to me.

  Bad TV gets boring, and they decide they want to relive their teenage years with a game of truth or dare.

  I go first and choose dare.

  They dare me to call the guy I’ve been so mopey about.

  “No,” I insist, suddenly feeling the wine churn in my stomach.

  Nicolás reaches for my phone on the coffee table and slaps it into my palm. “A dare is a dare!”

  I shake my head. “Something else. Anything.”

  I look to Diego for a lifeline, but he’s giddy from the wine and can’t stop laughing long enough to come to my aid.

  “Fine.”

  I pull up James’ number, trying to ignore my shaking hand. I’m pretending this is a huge inconvenience, something I’d rather not do, but deep down I’ve been wanting to do it for months. I want to hear his voice and listen to him tell me to come home. I’ve replayed our last conversation at Twin Oaks so many times that it’s like an old record, warped and distorted. Did he really ask me to stay, or have I imagined he did so many times that now I think it’s reality?

  “CALL!” Nicolás says, punching the button for me.

  It starts to ring, and it feels like I just leapt out of an airplane. My heart beats wildly. My stomach flips and then clenches tight.

  “Speaker, speaker!” Diego insists.

  I oblige, and the last two rings reverberate loudly across their small living room.

  My palms are sweaty. For that matter, so are my pits.

  Finally, the call clicks on and a soft, feminine voice starts to talk.

  “Hey! Brooke! Is that—”

  I don’t hear the rest of the sentence because I press the red end button so fast and so hard, I nearly crack my phone’s screen.

  Diego and Nicolás both groan in protest.

  “Come on!” Diego says. “Why’d you hang up?!”

  “Because some woman answered!”

  My phone vibrates in my hand and I look down. James is calling back, or at least his phone is calling me back. It’s probably the woman. His wife? Girlfriend? I’m not in the right state of mind to handle this. I’m going to spew wine all over their distressed leather couch. Shows them for getting me drunk—they had it coming.

  “Answer it!” Nicolás shouts.

  I do, holding the phone to my ear with a shaky hand.

  “Brooke?” the woman asks.

  It’s the same voice from a second ago.

  “Uhh, yes?” I answer hesitantly.

  “This is Beth, James’ assistant?”

  Relief floods my veins and I sag against the couch.

  “Oh, right. Of course.”

  Makes sense, I guess. Americans are still at work at this time.

  “James is in a meeting at the moment so he redirected his personal calls to me. Would you like me take a message and have him call you back?”

  A message?! How mortifying.

  “Oh! Dear god no.”

  I think I hear her chuckle, but I can’t be sure.

  “Brooke, I think he’d be happy to hear from you.”

  How would she know that? And what would I even say if I did leave him a message?

  Nothing poetic comes to mind, just a lot of drunk rambling about the potential for love and maybe a possible reconciliation. She hangs there in silence for a few seconds as I ponder an impromptu proposal. No. Hell no.

  Then it gets worse, because I hear James’ voice in the background. He’s bidding someone farewell, and then his attention turns to Beth.

  “Who’s on the line?” he asks.

  I pinch my eyes closed and try to keep my calm. His voice is just like I remember: confident and hard, all business. I leap into action when Beth stammers, “Oh, umm…”

  “No message!” I plead, “and Beth, please, please don’t tell him it’s me.”

  Then I hang up and toss my phone across the couch like it’s on fire.

  I was so close to talking to him that my body shakes with an embarrassing amount of adrenaline.

  Diego and Nicolás sit there staring at me in shocked silence. Their eyes are wide and their mouths are hanging open. Diego pushes his glasses higher on the bridge of his nose. Nicolás clears his throat. Sounds from the street drift in through the open window.

  “Happy?” I ask, reaching for my wine glass and polishing off the last few ounces in the hopes that it’ll calm me down.

  “Oh my god. That was…something. Are you still in love with him?” Diego asks gently.

  “No!” I insist with a hard shake of my head, and then I emphasize, “I never was, I don’t think.”

  He tilts his head, studying me thoughtfully.

  “I wasn’t! Probably!”

  His eyes widen in a mixture of fear and shock, and then he holds up his hands in innocence. “Of course. Right. Whose turn is it?”

  I exact retribution by forcing Diego to drink a jar of pickle juice, and I force out hearty laughter while he does it. In reality, I’m seconds away from losing my shit. This distance I’ve put between James and myself has been a safeguard against my feelings, and calling him was a terrible idea. It’s like I opened Pandora’s box, and though I may try to cram all my half-baked feelings back inside, they don’t quite fit. The box is lumpy and straining at the seams. Mentally, I try sitting on it like an overstuffed piece of carry-on luggage, but it doesn’t work. That night when I go upstairs, I pull James’ Caltech t-shirt and gym shorts out of their spot in the top drawer of my dresser and slip them on. I don’t wear them often, fearful that the cotton will get too worn. In the beginning, they still smelled like him, but the scent is fading.

  I crawl into bed and focus on how the soft cotton feels against my bare skin. It’s like I’m poking a
bruise over and over again, but I can’t stop. In some sad way, the pain feels like my only connection left to him.

  After that, I never call again, and the days add together to form weeks, and then months start to divide now and the moment when we last spoke. It finally gets to a point where it would be really awkward to reach out again, and that moment brings with it a fresh wave of heartache, almost like I know I’m crossing the finish line, and once I do, there’s no going back. Luciana is perceptive during those weeks, doing her best to distract me.

  We explore the city together after I pick the girls up from school each day. On weekends, we set our sights on a new destination, either a museum or a park. We love to bring a blanket and lie outside in the early afternoon. We all get tan from walking around outside so much, and the girls tell me I’m “prettier than I’ve ever been”. It’s a sweet compliment to hear from two preteen girls, considering they’re the most brutally honest focus group demographic in existence. For instance, they once told me I should never wear pale yellow. “It makes you look like rotten milk.” Alrighty then.

  The weather turns chilly, and I’m supposed to go home for the holidays. My family misses me—Ellie most of all—but I beg out of it. I’m not ready to leave Spain; I’ve put so much work into forming a life here, but it’s so tenuous. Stepping back into my old life, even for a few weeks, feels like it would be a major setback. So, instead, I stay and celebrate the holidays with Diego and Nicolás and the girls. Those weeks are extra special. We decorate a tree in early December and sip hot chocolate every night after dinner. It gets to the point where I can’t stand the sight of a mini marshmallow, which, for me, is saying something. On Christmas morning, they surprise the girls and me with matching aquamarine bikes, and we make promises to use them every day this spring. I have visions of exploring the city on two wheels, and I’m giddy thinking about it.

  During the coldest nights, Luciana sneaks up to sleep in my bed with me. Her dads want me to set boundaries with her, but I can’t work up the nerve to do it. She’s the absolute worst person to share a bed with—her feet end up near my face more nights than not—but nights are the loneliest for me, and with her there, it’s easy to forget that.