Spanish Lessons (Study Abroad Book 1)

by Jessica Peterson

  Goose bumps break out on my arms and legs. The air is thick with a buzzy, rushed sort of excitement; everyone is working furiously, their faces narrowed in concentration. Like they know their work is important, and interesting, and they are proud of it. Proud to be a part of such a gorgeous, massive hit of a show. The action and the art and the artists—it’s such a thrill to watch it; I can’t imagine the joy of being an actual part of it. The joy of designing and making and fitting costumes; of being outside on a sunny day in the freaking Alcázar in the middle of Spain; the joy of that being your job. Sure as hell looks a lot more fun than being chained to a desk at an investment bank for eighty hours a week. What do you even do at an investment bank?

  You don’t sew super tight leather pants onto super hot actors, that’s for sure. And you don’t get to create achingly beautiful costumes from another era, either, inspired by Goya and El Greco.

  It hits me then, a realization so sudden, so frightening in its clarity, it makes my heart clench. I want to do that. I want to make costumes for a living. I want to work on set.

  I.want.that.job.

  I have no idea what that job is even called, or how you get it, or what it pays. I bet it pays very little, at least at first; no signing bonus or sexy salary to be had here. No bragging rights or six-figure bank accounts.

  I would have to change my major to art history and take some theater classes. I’m a junior; I’d have to throw myself headlong into studying the history of design, techniques, the industry.

  I’d have to start over. There is no set path for becoming a costume designer, the way there’s a path with definite steps for doctors, and lawyers, and investment bankers. A costume designer. I can already see my friends’ expressions of “What the hell is that?” and “Is that even a real career?”

  It’s terrifying.

  It’s liberating, too. The thought of spending my days with art and theater and history professors—forget Econ, hallelujah!—of someday doing something so cool and inspiring for a living, makes my entire being thrum with excitement.

  I don’t know how to sew, and I don’t know anything about fabric, about fashion.

  I only know it’s what I want to do, and that it will lead me down a long road that could potentially lead nowhere—or lead to a fabulous job on a set like Tournament of Kings.

  I realize now that I was looking at my major—and my future—all wrong. Seeing the costume designers and the beautiful costumes they create has made my plans come into focus, suddenly, the blurred lines and ambiguity of my passions and my interests coaxed into sharp, certain shape.

  Now I just need the courage to follow those passions; to not get mired in what I should study, what my future should look like. To not think of art history as a “guilty pleasure”, but as a meaningful and pretty sweet way of tapping into my creative side.

  I’m in a daze as Laura leads me back to the group. Luckily no one realized we were gone. No one except Rafa, whose eyes gleam knowingly as he takes my hand in his, discreetly, when the tour is over.

  “Very sneaky,” he says. “Did you see the set?”

  “I did,” I say. “It was amazing.”

  He squeezes my hand. I squeeze back.

  Chapter 23

  A few days later

  Return to Madrid

  The taxi zooms from the train station through Madrid, the breeze blaring through the open windows. For the hundredth time I swipe my hair out of my eyes; it refuses to stay tucked behind my ears. It’s much cooler here than it was in Seville; the first hint of fall—otoño in Spanish—hangs crisply in the air.

  “I think you should do it,” Rafa says. “It is who you are, Vivian.”

  I look down. His hand, ridges of vein and sinew standing in relief against his smooth, tanned skin, is on my thigh. Even his fingers are handsome; blunt edged, masculine, the nails clean half moons. There’s an ease to the way he touches me, like he knows my body, he wants my body, and isn’t afraid to show it.

  “I don’t know,” I reply. “I mean. Am I signing up to be poor and underemployed for the rest of my life? It’s gotta be a hard way to make a living, being a costume designer.”

  Rafa brushes his thumb along the inside of my thigh. “Not if you’re very good at it. And you would be very good, Vivian.”

  “You’re just saying that because I’m sleeping with you,” I say, glancing at him with a grin.

  Rafa wags his brows. “I am no expert in the arts, but perhaps I might inspire you in other ways, yes?”

  “Yes,” I say. “Definitely, definitely yes.”

  “Just think about it,” Rafa says. “I know it is maybe too early to talk of a thing like this, but if you change your major to the art history, the department at San Pedro is one of the best in all of Spain. You could stay in Madrid for another semester, take more classes…”

  My heart hiccups. “And be with you?”

  “Sí.” He smiles. “And be with me. One semester is not nearly enough for us I don’t think.”

  Two months ago, I wouldn’t have considered spending a whole year in Spain for one hundred million dollars. I wasn’t sure if I would make it one semester, much less two.

  But now? Now I can’t imagine going back to Meryton come January. The thought of going back to my old life—a life without Rafa, without the sultry Spanish sun—is kinda depressing.

  Rafa feels more like home now than Meryton ever did.

  And while I’m sure the art history and theater departments at Meryton are top notch, nothing beats being able to actually see the art you’re studying—whether it’s a painting by Goya or a play by Lorca. If I want to pursue this crazy dream of becoming a costume designer—if I change my major, my career path, everything—it really does make sense to study another semester in Spain.

  Maybe I won’t have to give Rafa up at the end of this semester after all.

  “Think about it,” Rafa says. “There is still very much time.”

  “I will.” I look out the window. It’s all so intense, it’s all happening at once. The dramatic shift in my plans for a major, for my career, my future.

  And, lest we forget, the dramatic and sexually stimulating shift in my love life. The irony isn’t lost on me; I went from being homesick to deliciously, hopelessly lovesick in the space of several weeks.

  And I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  The taxi pulls up to the blue door on Calle de Villanueva. My stomach hurts. I’m excited to see Maddie, but I’m also terrified. I have to tell her everything I haven’t already told her—how I had every intention of cutting things off with Rafa, of staying away from him, but I’m in love with him, and I couldn’t. I tried to think of ways to begin the conversation on the train ride from Seville to Madrid, but nothing stuck.

  I have no idea what I’m going to say. Here I am, stranded, strangled by the knowledge of what I have to do and my complete lack of courage to do it.

  Rafa climbs out of the taxi and helps me get my bags out of the trunk.

  “You sure you don’t want me to stay for moral support?” he says, looking up at my building. “We can talk to Maddie together.”

  “No.” I hoist one strap of my backpack onto my shoulder. “Thank you, Rafa, I really do appreciate it, but I need to have this conversation with Mads one on one. I need to explain myself.”

  Rafa pecks my cheek. “You were just trying to do the right thing, Vivian. Don’t forget that. You did not hurt her on the purpose.”

  “On purpose,” I say, grinning up at him. “So now that you’re my boyfriend, does that mean I get to see you tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow?” he says. “I thought I see you tonight. My parents want to meet you—my mom is making her albóndigas.”

  I pull back, surprised. “Your parents know about me?”

  “They are sick of hearing me talk about you. All the time, they say, you talk of this chica Vivian. When are we meeting her?”

  I never thought I’d be so lucky to be asked to meet the parents. My
heart flutters inside my chest, making me forget, for a moment, the bomb I’m about to drop on my best friend.

  I look at Rafa from the corner of my eye. He’s a little sunburned, and there are small thumbprints of shadow beneath his blue eyes. We haven’t exactly slept the past few nights. Even after we were both too sore to do the penis-into-vagina thing, we couldn’t keep our hands off each other. So we resorted to endless hours of endlessly enjoyable oral.

  “You’re killing me, Vivian,” he says, a grin playing at the edges of his mouth.

  I throw my arms around his neck and pull him down for a long, lingering tongue kiss that has the taxi driver groaning behind us.

  “I will come get you,” he says, helping me shrug into my backpack. “My parents have a car I borrow. Around seven okay?”

  “Okay.”

  Rafa bends his neck and covers my mouth with his. His tongue opens me, coaxes me to fall into him, into his kiss. Already my body is coming alive, my pulse deepening with every stroke, every nibble and caress.

  I’m starting to kiss him back in earnest when I hear the door to my building open. My heart constricts, stops working altogether.

  Oh.

  Shit.

  I turn my head and see Maddie standing in the doorway. She’s looking down at her phone, but when she looks up she stops short, her eyes widening as the realization hits her. Her gaze flits over our bodies, my arms around Rafa’s neck, his hips digging into my hips, the casual way he holds my waist. This is exactly how I didn’t want Maddie to find out about me and Rafa.

  In the space of two seconds she’s seen all she needs to. Her face tenses the way it does when she’s about to cry. Her eyes are hooded with hurt; hurt that slices through my chest and leaves me breathless.

  “Maddie—” I say.

  “Hey guys.” Her voice is thin, dull from being congested. “I gotta—I was going to—medicine, I need more medicine—I’ll, um, see you later.”

  She turns abruptly and takes off at a clip, her sandals clacking against the sidewalk as she struggles to keep her bag on her shoulder.

  “Maddie!” I say. “Wait! Please!”

  But she ignores me and keeps walking.

  I turn back to Rafa. “I’ll see you tonight.”

  And then I take off after Maddie, my backpack bobbing in time to my frantic steps. “Wait, Maddie, Jesus!”

  It takes me a minute to catch up to her. My backpack dings someone as I pass; “Lo siento!” I call out. I’m sorry. I don’t slow down. Despite the flu, Maddie is walking fast, darting in and out of the foot traffic that fills the sidewalk.

  I’m out of breath by the time I fall into step beside her.

  “Can we talk?” I pant.

  “I don’t know,” she says. “Are you going to tell me the truth this time? Or are you going to keep feeding me that bullshit about you and Rafa being ‘just friends’? Again, Vivian—you lied to me again.”

  “I’m sorry, Maddie, really. This is all my fault—I fucked up, I take full responsibility—Jesus, Mads, can you stop for a minute?”

  “We’re here,” she says, looking up at the illuminated neon green cross that designates a farmacia. “I have to get more medicine.”

  I follow her inside. I can smell her coconut shampoo. It makes my heart dip. Oh, Maddie, I want to say. I am so, so sorry.

  “Please,” I pant as we make our way down the tampon aisle. “Please, Maddie, at least let me explain myself.”

  “I think what I just saw sums it up pretty nicely, Viv. You and Rafa are together. I get it. Congratulations.”

  We turn the corner and head down another aisle. “I don’t think you get it,” I say. “I haven’t told you—”

  “Haven’t told me what?” she spits, scanning boxes of medicine. “That you’re a pathological liar? You remember, don’t you, the fight we had after you hooked up with Rafa at Ático? You told me you lied about your feelings for him, but you said you were going to break it off. I told you, point blank, you didn’t have to do that, but you said it wouldn’t happen again. You said it was best for everyone if you and Rafa were just friends.”

  I swallow.

  “I’m guessing it happened again in Seville,” she says. “You lied to me this whole fucking time, Viv. That’s not what friends do. They don’t lie and sneak around behind each others’ backs, especially when it comes to guys.”

  Maddie’s voice is loud and shrill. People look at us as they pass by. I hate to argue here, in a small but public space, and I hate that Maddie won’t even look at me, but I’ll take what I can get. She’s the offended party; she gets to decide the terms.

  “I never meant to hurt anyone,” I say, ducking around her to try and get her attention. “You’re right, Maddie, I lied, and that was wrong. I knew you were going through a lot of shit, you know, with your family and your dad and everything, and I wanted you to have the best semester possible despite all that. I wanted you to have Rafa, I did, if he was going to be the distraction you needed. I swear to you, I would’ve never—I didn’t mean—I would’ve never done what I did if I knew how it was going to play out.”

  Maddie grabs an orange box off the shelf.

  “Here,” I say, grabbing another. “This is the kind I got before, if that’s what you’re looking for.”

  “Oh,” she says. She swaps her box for mine. “Thanks.”

  “You’re welcome,” I say. “How are you feeling, by the way?”

  “Better. Pretty tired. But better.”

  Maddie turns and heads for the register. I follow a few steps behind.

  “Do you understand where I’m coming from?” I ask.

  “No, Vivian, I don’t understand why someone would tell her best friend she didn’t like a guy, only to hook up with that guy knowing her friend liked him too. And then you swore it was over—you said that you were breaking it off with Rafa after what happened at the club—but clearly you were lying about that, too. And then you had to kiss him, right in front of my face?” Her hand shakes as she digs her debit card out of her wallet and hands it to the cashier. “That’s a real dick move.”

  My throat constricts. She’s right, but it’s more complicated than that, and I’m getting frustrated that I can’t explain myself any better. My neck tightens beneath the weight of my backpack.

  “That first night, when I met Rafa,” I say, looking away as she keys her pin number into the pad, “I only flirted with him because I thought I’d never see him again. I didn’t want to start another thing—another relationship—that would end after the semester was over—”

  “But you did anyway, even though you lied to me and everyone else about it.”

  “Maddie, I lied to myself about it,” I reply. My voice shakes. Saying the truth out loud—recognizing it in front of Maddie—is like getting the wind knocked out of me. It makes everything hurt.

  She finally looks at me. “And now, all of the sudden, you’re gonna stop lying? You think poof, just like that I can be honest and everything will be perfect?”

  “I don’t think everything will be perfect,” I say. “I know it won’t be. I fucked up, Mads. But that doesn’t mean I can’t try. I have to start somewhere. And because you’re my best friend, I want to start with you.”

  I trail Maddie out of the farmacia, my pulse thumping in my ears. Maddie’s slowed her pace, which I take as a good sign. I fall into stride beside her, the plastic bag rustling between us.

  “I’m sorry, Maddie,” I say, softly. “I guess not telling you about how I felt about Rafa was my way of denying I had any feelings at all. I didn’t want to feel them, not after everything that happened with Keith. I didn’t think a guy like Rafa would even like me back. I didn’t want to get hurt again. I didn’t want to hurt you, especially with all the shit going down with your family. So I denied everything, thinking it would go away.”

  “No offense, Viv, but for such a smart girl, that was really a dumbass thing to do.”

  “I know,” I say, scoffing. “If there’s
one thing I’ve learned this semester, it’s that I’m really, really good at denial. Denying who I am and what I want. It’s so fucked up, I know, and I feel awful all this shit had to go down for me to recognize it. I denied the fact that I am definitely not made out to be an Econ major, despite the fact that I hate studying it and I’m so not good at it. And then I denied that I had feelings for Rafa. I really did think it would go away—what I felt. I wanted it to go away so you could have him. But my idiot plan really backfired. Like, really. I tried to keep things platonic between me and Rafa, I did break it off. But then I realized in Seville that my feelings for him weren’t going anywhere. I couldn’t fight them anymore, Maddie. I didn’t want to fight them.”

  I adjust my backpack; my shoulders are screaming. “I understand this whole mess could’ve been avoided if I had just been honest from the beginning. I hope—I hope—you will forgive me. I’m learning from my mistakes, Maddie. I’m trying to be honest with you.”

  Maddie stops in front of our door. She turns to look at me, her eyes brimming with tears.

  “What about you?” she asks.

  “What about me?”

  “Are you going to be honest with yourself for once about what you want?”

  I roll my lips between my teeth. “I am. I want to be with Rafa. And I want to be best friends with you. You’re the two loves of my life, and I can’t live without either of you.”

  Maddie looks at me for a long moment. She wipes her nose on her sleeve. A car zooms up the street beside us, trailing the scent of diesel in its wake. I squint against the afternoon sun. It is paler now, more warm than hot.

  Abruptly she turns and pushes through the door. It gapes open, the door; Maddie’s footsteps echo across the empty foyer. I duck inside, closing the door behind me. I’m starting to panic. I knew Maddie would be pissed. I was prepared for her anger, her biting rebuttal.

  But I was not prepared for the possibility that she would not forgive me. That our years-long friendship would not withstand the blow I dealt it.