I know assuming makes an ass out of you and me, but I can’t help but assume she’s one of those girls. You know, the girls like Kelly from 90210; girls who drive brand new BMWs, who only party with the right guys in the right frats; the girls who are shallow and super aware of their social superiority. Those girls form a small but influential clique at Meryton.
I’m a little intimidated by her, to be honest.
The girls look as exhausted and overwhelmed as I feel. When the waiter comes, the five of us stare down at our menus, waiting for someone else to speak up first. I’m pretty decent at reading Spanish, and I know the words for basic foods—apple, chicken, beer, olives. But the menu might as well be written in Elvish for all I understand. Gambas al ajillo? Albóndigas? Morcilla?
What.the.fuck.
At last Katie looks up at the waiter. “Vino,” she says. “Por favor, mucho, mucho vino.” Wine. Please, a lot, a lot of wine.
“Vino tinto de la casa?” he asks. He points to a line item on my menu.
The girls and I look at each other. Some kind of wine of the house? Whatever it is, it’s two euros (what?!) a glass. It’s cheaper than ordering a soda or a bottle of water.
Wine is literally cheaper than water in Spain.
This may be a hungry semester, but it will not be a sober one. A fair trade-off, I think.
“Vale,” Rachel says. “Right now I would slap around a bag of Franzia, so whatever that tinto stuff is, I’m sure it will be fine.”
I like Rachel already.
The waiter returns with several glasses of red wine in his hands, the long, lithe stems tucked between his fingers. I lick my lips. My eyes are sore and tired from crying during my multiple crises today. A glass of anything alcoholic sounds heavenly.
“I don’t think I’ve ever had red wine,” I say, sticking my nose into the glass because I guess that’s what you’re supposed to do. “It smells good.”
Maddie makes a face. “I’ve had it before. It’s all right. Kind of an acquired taste, I think. Considering I usually drink really bad whiskey sours out of plastic cups when I go out, red wine feels fancy.”
“Oh, whiskey sours,” Katie says. “Worst hangovers ever.”
Laura shakes her head. “Not as bad as cheap champagne. I was bedridden for two freaking days once. I’d say never again, but that would be a lie.” She holds up her glass, almost blinding me with those bracelets. “A toast, to making it through the first day of classes without dying.”
The waiter, passing by our table for the fiftieth time to check Laura out, stops and shakes his head. “No no no. Así es como lo hacemos en España.”
This is how we do it in Spain. I think.
He swipes an empty glass from a nearby table and holds it up. “Arriba.”
We hold up our glasses. “Arriba,” we repeat.
“Abajo,” he says, sweeping the wine down to his chest.
We do the same. “Abajo.”
He moves his glass to the center of the table. “Al centro.”
“Al centro,” we say, clinking glasses.
“Al dentrooooo!” The waiter brings the glass to his lips.
“Al dentrooooo!” we say, smiling as we gulp at our wine like the underage American chicks we are.
The wine is…not bad, I guess. I sputter a little bit; you definitely can’t drink this stuff the way you drink a crappy whiskey sour. It’s meant to be sipped, which will take a little getting used to.
Maddie smacks her lips. “That’s…interesting.”
“I mean, everyone seems to be drinking it,” Katie says, glancing around the restaurant. “There must be a reason.”
“I say we just keep drinking until we like it,” Laura says. “Or we fall over.”
We laugh at that, and I feel the tangled knot of worry at the back of my head begin to unravel. So maybe Laura is a little less Kelly, a little more cool.
A little.
“So.” Rachel lets out a sigh as she places her hands on either side of her wine glass, sliding it onto the table. “Can I just say that ever since I got to Madrid, I’m having trouble shaking this giant sense of WTF? Like, what did I do to myself?”
I am so relieved to know I am not alone in my foreign land struggles I almost reach across the table and pull Rachel into a bear hug.
“Yes,” I say. “Yes. Totally. Everyone back at Meryton raved about their experience abroad. They made it sound like the best thing ever. Maybe it will be, I don’t know. But right now it’s all I can do not to cry every ten minutes. I’m, like, completely overwhelmed.”
Maddie wraps an arm around my waist. “Aw, Vivitar, I’m sorry. No more crying. Only more drinking.”
“I get it,” Katie says. Her lips and teeth are already stained purple from the wine; she makes it look adorable. “It’s horrible to say, but after I got out of my first class today, I wished this semester would go by quickly and just be over. Keeping up with the professor was exhausting.”
Laura nods, the wine slipping forward in her glass as she sips it, thoughtfully. “I’m with you girls. I, like, didn’t sleep at all last night because I was so anxious about everything. What if I’m the dumbest kid in class? Or what if the Spanish deodorant I got at the farmacia doesn’t work and I pit out my shirt and everyone knows it was me who stunk up the classroom?”
OMG yes, I think to myself. I worried about the exact same thing.
“But don’t you remember, that first month or so of freshman year at Meryton, feeling so out of place? Wanting the four years to be over so you could go back home?”
“I do,” I say. “But now it’s the opposite. Not that I hate to go home to my parents. But Meryton is home now.”
“Exactly,” Laura says. “I feel like that’s how it’s going to be here. I don’t think Madrid will ever really feel like home, per se, but I do think we’ll fall in love with it. We didn’t come here just to pass the time and get the hell out. We came here to experience life in a different country.”
Maddie swirls the wine in her glass. “You’re right. And the more we make the effort to experience things, the more we’ll fall in love with Spain. I hear you, Laurencita. But these first few weeks are going to be hard. Sometimes it just flat out sucks.”
The waiter with the wandering eye returns, sliding a couple bowls of green olives onto the table, along with a small platter of white cheese.
“And sometimes,” Rachel says, spearing an olive with a toothpick and popping it into her mouth, “it’s magical. Alcohol plus cheese plus olives, and on a Wednesday night? Hell yes.”
Rachel is right. If we were back at Meryton, we’d probably be holed up in the library, trying to ignore the internet while highlighting the hell out of our textbooks.
This—the five of us getting buzzed on a school night in a local tapas bar— is something that would’ve never happened in North Carolina. This is new; this is an experience. One I’m really enjoying.
“So, Katie,” Rachel says around a mouthful of cheese. “Tell me about this guy Rafael. You know, Alberto’s cousin or whatever. I heard you went out with that whole group on Saturday night. People keep talking about how insanely hot he is.”
Heat rushes to my face. Oh no. Not this guy again. I can’t get away from him. I bring my glass to my lips, trying to hide behind it. People are talking about how hot Rafa is? When did this happen?
And why do I feel an unworthy—and unwanted—prickle of jealousy at the mention of his name? Didn’t I just tell him I wasn’t interested in anything more than his tutoring services this morning?
Katie meets my gaze across the table and grins. “You should ask our friend Vivian here. She hung out with him for a while that night.”
“You did?” Maddie turns to me, eyes dancing with curiosity. “Oh my God, you did make out with a stranger in a public place, didn’t you?”
I’m glad it’s dark in the bar, so the girls (hopefully) can’t pick up on my burning discomfort. I chug my red wine. I feel the start of a happy buzz in my legs
.
“Um,” I say. “I mean, yeah, we talked for a little while. But that was it.”
“Was it?” Katie’s grin broadens. “He was into you, chica. You guys should’ve seen the way he was looking at Viv.”
I can’t help but ask. “How was he looking at me?”
“Like he wanted to eat you.”
“No he wasn’t,” I say, averting my eyes. I try to blur the image that pops up in my head, the one of Rafa looking down at me just before he swallowed my soul in the kiss to end all kisses. But I see it clear as day. Even now, it makes my stomach flip—that gleam of interest in his eyes, the dark hint of sex.
I need another glass of wine.
“Rafa is cute, sure…” I begin.
Katie arches a brow. “Rafa? Y’all are already on a nickname basis?”
“Everyone calls him Rafa,” I reply. The girls are watching me now, intently, waiting for me to reveal a delicious, or maybe embarrassing, tidbit. They’d flip out, in a good way, if I told them about the kiss. About the things Rafa did and said. The chocolate incident would slay them, I know it would, the way it totally slayed me.
But then they’d know my feelings for him are more than friendly. I can’t admit to those feelings; I can’t admit them to myself, and I certainly can’t admit them to other people. Admitting them would make them real. And having real feelings for Rafa is out of the question. My heart can’t take it, not again—falling for a guy I ultimately can’t have.
“Sorry, ladies, nothing exciting to report. We talked, danced a little. Then we went home.” I swallow. “He’s actually going to tutor me this semester in Spanish and Econ.”
The girls jump in disbelieving unison.
“Hot for teacher?”
“Yes, please!”
“God, I’ve always fantasized about hooking up with one of my professors. The older man thing…I can’t even.”
“I’m so jealous.”
“Please, Rafa, teach me everything you know. And I mean everything.”
“Tell me, Rafa, how do you say ‘I want to fuck your brains out’ en Español?”
“So, you sex goddess, how did you finagle this little student teacher situation?” Katie asks, when the five of us finally stop laughing. “Did you give him the best head of his life?”
“I didn’t,” I say. “Really, nothing happened on Saturday. Elena assigned him to me this morning. I’m already on the verge of flunking Econ, and my Spanish is pretty awful, so…yeah. They want me to start getting tutored ASAP.” I roll the stem of my empty glass between my thumb and forefinger. “There will be no hot for teacher, and definitely no head. I’m gonna be honest—I’m a little tired of the hookup thing. After all the shit I’ve been through with guys, I kinda want something a little more serious. And even if Rafa was serious, we’d have to break up at the end of the semester, which would totally suck. Hooking up with him would be a dumb move.”
“Or maybe the best move ever,” Rachel says.
“Not for me,” I say.
Laura flags down the waiter—it isn’t hard—and orders us another round of vino tinto de la casa. “But what if he really digs your vagina?”
“Yeah,” Maddie says. “What if he makes you come ten times a day?”
I laugh. If only. “Not gonna happen. I’d rather make myself come ten times a day and still keep my heart and my GPA intact, thank you very much.”
“Have it your way.” Maddie sips at her wine. “But if Rafa is as hot as people say he is, then someone has to take one for the team. Maybe I’ll say hello the next time he’s around.”
There it is again, that stab of jealousy. The idea of Maddie—cute, effortlessly smart, brilliantly flirtatious Maddie—hooking up with Rafa makes my stomach clench. I hate it. I don’t know where this sudden flush of hate comes from, but it’s there. I sip my wine but it does not dissipate. Maddie usually gets what she wants when it comes to guys. I have no doubt Rafa will fall under her spell in five minutes flat.
I just told the girls I wasn’t interested in Rafa. Maddie has every right to go after him. As do the other girls. I’m the one who has no right to feel jealous if they actually do say hello to Rafa; if something does actually happen between them.
I thought I was making the right decision by keeping things platonic with Rafa—by telling the girls that nothing happened. It has to be the right decision.
Why, then, won’t this terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach go away? Rafa doesn’t belong to me. He never did, and never will.
I drink more wine and change the subject. I’ve always loved my girlfriends; the relationships I have with my girls have always been very important to me, and I’m proud of the tight-knit circle of friends I’ve accumulated over the years. Considering how guys have treated me, I’m one hundred percent chicks before dicks. Feeling these ugly things about one of my besties is unsettling. She deserves better.
We drink, we laugh, we get our red wine buzz on. Eventually our conversation about Rafa feels distant enough that I can start to enjoy myself again. We have a wonderful time, and vow to do it again next week—same place, same time.
I have a sensation, as Rafa would say, that I’m going to like this little Wednesday night tradition.
Chapter 9
Friday Afternoon
I march through the sketchy tunnel that links my neighborhood to Retiro Park, my bag tucked firmly against my ribcage. It smells like pee; a couple dudes loiter toward the exit, offering me hashish as I pass. No gracias, I murmur. I make a mental note to never take the tunnel again.
When I emerge into the late afternoon sunshine, my pulse is skittering. A little bit because of those subterranean drug dealers.
But mostly because my first tutoring session with Rafa is about to begin.
I tuck my hair behind my ear, beseeching the humidity to be kind for once. I tug at my dress—this one is shorter, a little flowy. I should’ve worn jeans. I should’ve told Rafa I’d preferred to meet in the library for our first tutoring session. The park is busy and loud. A lot of people mill about the gorgeous grounds. I wonder how much we’re actually going to get done here.
I take a breath through my nose, let it out through my mouth. The clean scent of cut grass fills my head; I adjust my sunglasses. I am so, so nervous. I haven’t seen Rafa since we had that horrendously awkward conversation in the courtyard outside San Pedro on Wednesday.
Calm down, I tell myself. Rafa is just a tutor, nothing more. I should view him no differently than I view my professors, or the TAs in my classes.
But my heart knows better. It flaps around inside my chest, a caged bird attempting escape. For a minute, I contemplate tucking tail and running. I can tell Rafa I’m not feeling well. We can reschedule for sometime early next week, when I’m more prepared for the onslaught.
Then I see him.
And all my plans go up in smoke.
He’s not far; just far enough that I can appreciate, quite thoroughly, his overwhelming handsomeness. The air goes still as I drink him in.
Forget tall glass of water. He’s a jug of the juiciest, most potent sangria ever. I’m catching a buzz just looking at him.
Rafa leans against a concrete newel, his ankles crossed carelessly, the licks of his brown hair gilded by the sun. He’s wearing a pair of Wayfarer Ray Bans, which somehow make the angles of his jaw appear sharper, more chiseled; his smooth skin catches the light, gleaming invitingly.
The thought is there before I can catch it, smother it.
I want. Badly, I want.
There’s a blanket rolled underneath his arm. He’s got both hands tucked into the pockets of his jeans. He’s wearing—oh God, oh God—a heather gray T-shirt that looks broken in and soft to the touch. He fills it out nicely, the fabric stretched over broad shoulders and shapely arms.
The breath leaves my lungs as my gaze travels up and down the long, lean lines of his tall frame. Up and down. Up and down. I never, ever want to forget the way he looks right now. This is it; this
is the moment when Edward drapes his arm across Bella’s shoulders and walks her into school; this is Darcy meeting Lizzie’s gaze across the ballroom; this is that breathless, sigh-inducing moment when anything is possible.
When anticipation is at its thickest.
I’ve never been inside a moment like this before. I don’t know what makes this one different from all the moments I’ve shared with other guys. But it’s literally and figuratively a world away.
Rafa looks in the opposite direction, toward the crosswalk I should have taken instead of the tunnel. He’s waiting for me. Catching him unaware like this, seeing him before he sees me—it’s nice to have this moment to myself. A moment of appreciation, and of longing.
Longing that I have to bury the second he looks my way.
This isn’t a love story.
This is a tutoring session.
But he is so handsome it hurts. How in the world am I supposed to not want that?
Rafa turns his head and looks right at me. His face splits in a smile, the lines around his mouth deepening in the most egregiously cute way imaginable.
In true gringo-Vivian style, I wave. The waving has to stop, I know. Eventually I’ll think of some other, cooler way of greeting hot Spaniards, but for now the wave will have to do.
Rafa rocks against the newel, standing, and makes his way toward me.
“Qué tal, Vivian?”
What’s up?
“Not much,” I say. I wonder if the smell of his aftershave will ever stop turning me on. It’s delicious; it makes me want to press my body against his body and bury my face in his neck. “Thanks again for meeting me on a Friday afternoon. Probably not how you wanted to start your weekend.”
“No pasa nada. No worries. It is a beautiful afternoon, vale, and we have all of Saturday and Sunday to do the other things.” He glances over my head, toward the direction I just came from, and his smile dims. “You took the tunnel?”
Spanish Lessons (Study Abroad Book 1) Page 9
