Lessons In Losing It (Study Abroad Book 4)

by Jessica Peterson

  The girly scent of her perfume fills my head.

  But really. What the hell is happening? A week ago, I would’ve been completely content holing up in my flat with Voldemort for company on a Monday off. But now the thought of eating pre-made meals by myself, and watching match footage by myself, suddenly seems…I don’t know.

  Sort of lonely, I suppose.

  When I’m with Rachel, I don’t feel lonely at all. I feel…found, as cheesy as that sounds.

  “I should go,” she says. “I’m going to be late for class.”

  “All right,” I say, reluctantly releasing her hand.

  She looks at me. I look back.

  She’s still smiling. Her eyes flick to my mouth.

  Quickly she leans in and kisses me. Her lips are soft as they move over mine. She tastes like toothpaste. Toothpaste and Rachel. She must’ve used one of the spare toothbrushes I keep in the guest bathroom

  My whole body jumps. I groan. “You sure you can’t meet me any earlier?”

  “Trust me, I’d stay all day with you if I could,” she says, looping the strap of her bag over her shoulder.

  “Good luck with your interview. Not that you need it, but…”

  She grins. “Thanks, Fred.”

  Rachel hops out of the car. I wait until she’s safe inside the building before I drive away.

  Chapter 9

  Rachel

  I’m unlocking my dorm room door, my hands shaking like the rest of me, my lips still burning from kissing Fred—still sore from our marathon make-out last night—when I hear a familiar voice.

  “Um. Did I just see what I thought I saw?”

  I turn and see Laura peeking out of her room two doors down from mine, a look of happy disbelief on her face.

  Damn it. I forgot she’s been staying at the dorm these days, and that her window looks out onto the street. Usually she’s shacked up at her boyfriend Rhys’s apartment. I should’ve known I’d run into her—we have the same class schedule on Monday mornings.

  “See…uh…what?” My voice is uneven. It’s a dead giveaway.

  “See you tongue kissing Fred Ohr in his car.”

  I swallow, turning the key in the lock. “Maybe?”

  “Holy shit, Rachel.” She steps out of her room and stands in front of me, peering at my face. “Are you guys, like, a thing?”

  “Um,” I say, fighting a smile. “We’re…well. I honestly don’t know what we are.”

  “Holy shit,” she says again. “Did you guys do it?”

  I open the door, shaking my head. “No. We just made out for, like, ever. It wasn’t supposed to happen, but…”

  I step inside my room, and Laura follows me in.

  “But if you guys just made out, then why do you look so…blissed out, I guess? It’s like he fucked you until you found nirvana. It’s scary. And kind of hot, actually.”

  “The way he kissed me last night—it was good. Really, really good.” So good my pulse throbs from the memory of it. That look in his eyes as he came in for the kill—he was scared and hungry and so intent. So focused on me.

  I put my bag on my desk and start stuffing random notebooks into it.

  I glance at Laura. She’s looking at me, tilting her head. “You like him, don’t you?”

  “I do. He’s charming, and smart, and hot as hell.” I look away. “He asked me to think about staying in Madrid for another semester.”

  Laura pulls back, eyes wide, jerking her head side to side. “What? Didn’t you guys, like, meet two days ago?”

  “We met a week ago, but yeah, it’s pretty crazy, right?”

  “Crazy? Rach, it’s insane.”

  My pulse hiccups. Hearing my friend say it out loud makes me realize just how nuts this whole thing is.

  “Fred wants a girlfriend,” I say with a shrug. “Like, wants to settle down with someone for real. And I like him. A lot. I’m just worried—”

  “Your internship,” Laura says. “The one you want back at Meryton. If you stayed here for another semester, you’d miss out on it.”

  “Exactly. That internship starts at the end of April, and the semester here doesn’t end until June.”

  Laura purses her mouth and sighs through her nose, deep in thought. “That’s tough. I know how important this internship is to you. You’ve been working your ass off to get it. I mean, you only talk sports, like, all the time.”

  “Sorry,” I say, grinning.

  “Don’t be. I bet Fred loves it.”

  I bite my lip. “He does.”

  “Maybe you guys really are meant to be together,” she says.

  “I mean, there is another sports medicine internship I could apply for, one that’s here in Spain. I have to do more research, but it’s a possibility. I’m just not sure it’d be as great of a fit for me as the internship back home would be.”

  “Worth considering,” Laura says. “So, don’t get me wrong, I like Fred. But you’re talking about taking a pretty giant leap of faith with him here.”

  “I know.” I shrug. “We just…we have a lot in common, weirdly enough. We both love sports, and books…beer…we like the same TV shows. We even like our spaghetti the same way. I’ve been into a guy before, but this…this just feels different. He’s so real, Laura. Authentic. Like he doesn’t give a shit what people think. There’s not a superficial bone in his body. He’s confident in who he is. I think there’s something incredibly sexy about a guy who’s confident like that.”

  Laura smiles. “I have to agree. Rach, I think you like Fred. A lot. Even though you are playing with fire, making out with him like this,” Laura says. “What if you end up falling for him, but the internship here doesn’t work out—for whatever reason—and you have to leave at the end of the month? Obviously, you can’t pass up the internship at Meryton. Aren’t you worried you’ll be a little crushed?”

  I blink. Look away. “Well—yeah, of course I’m worried about that. Really worried, actually. But I’ve never hit it off with someone like this before. Part of me thinks getting involved, seeing where things go, is worth the risk. The other part of me—that part of me doesn’t know what to do.”

  “I’m sorry, friend,” Laura says, wrapping me in a hug. “To be fair, a lot would need to happen between now and the end of December for you guys to go from first-kiss-butterflies to oh-my-God-our-forbidden-love-is-doomed. And who knows? Maybe he turns out to be a total weirdo. A serial killer.”

  I laugh. “Fred is many things, but a serial killer isn’t one of them.”

  “You never know.” She pulls back and holds me by the arms. “Then again, I this is your semester of hashtag-YOLO.”

  I nod. “It is. Well. It’s supposed to be.”

  “So maybe you should live a little. Realistically speaking, the chances of you two falling in love and having a Romeo and Juliet moment are slim to none. But the chances of you having super hot hook-ups with a super hot footballer are way better. So why not have some fun with him, I guess, and see where it goes?”

  I take a deep breath, let it out. My body aches with exhaustion, but I’m somehow wild with excitement at the same time. Excitement, and anticipation.

  I have gotten pretty good at living in the moment in Madrid. And the semester isn’t over yet. Why not end it with a figurative (and hopefully literal) bang?

  Besides. Laura is right—the chances of Fred and I falling for each other, really falling, are tiny at best. I mean, we’ve only known each other for a freaking week. Yeah, it’s starting to feel serious now. But maybe it won’t be serious after this honeymoon glow wears off.

  Maybe I really should just enjoy the moment and see where this thing goes.

  Because really, even if Fred is different—even if he’s genuine and fun and hot as fuck—could I truly want someone more than I want to chase down my dreams and make this sports medicine thing happen?

  I don’t think I could, honestly.

  So I guess the decision would be easy enough, if I had to make it.
<
br />   I guess I’m safe, then.

  ***

  Later That Night

  It’s so quiet in the gallery that the scratch of my pencil across my notebook makes me squirm. For the hundredth time I set the notebook down on my lap and glance around, but the gallery is empty. Just like it was fifty seconds ago, when I last checked. It’s only half past six, which means Fred won’t be here for another half an hour at least.

  Since when am I so impatient?

  I curl my legs underneath the bench I’m sitting on and attempt to get back to work. The painting I’m writing this paper on hangs on the nearest wall; it’s Herman Anglada Camarasa’s Sonia de Klamery (lying). The painting is a dark and moody portrait of a black-haired woman, her shoulders and chest bare, lying down beside a peacock in an exotic garden landscape.

  I don’t know why I was drawn to this painting when we had to select our topics. I’ve always been a fan of portraiture, I guess, and I liked that this one was bright and weird and different.

  I didn’t think the painting was especially sexy. But now, suddenly, I do. I see sensuality in Sonia’s naked arms, in the shape of her waist as it curves into her hip. I see sex in the bright, flaring red of the peacock’s tail feathers. I feel the living throb of the darkness that surrounds her.

  Something else is starting to throb between my legs. My lips tingle with the memory of Fred’s mouth on my mouth, his mouth on my body.

  His mouth. It’s like Fred and his tongue and his hands are breathing new life into this painting for me. I had to experience the sort of deep, unsettling, wild sensuality I did with Fred to be able to see it in Sonia.

  The world is literally more colorful, and more interesting, now that I’ve made out with Fred. I can’t imagine what the world would feel like if we went further. If we did more than feel each other up. The intensity—I think it’d be unbearable.

  I swallow. Look down at my notebook. It is not okay to be this turned on in an art museum.

  It is not okay to be this turned on by a guy who says things like sex should be special.

  I look up at the distant rumble of voices. My heart rate, already elevated, takes off at a sprint. I start scribbling in my notebook again, some bullshit about the birth of sensuality in art in the pre-war period, in a lame attempt to look like I haven’t been waiting for this moment all day. My palms are sweaty; the pencil slips in my grip.

  This is it, a man says in Spanish. His voice echoes off the tall ceiling. Room 201.

  Thank you, another man says.

  I know that voice. I know that man and his German accent.

  Good luck this weekend, the first man says. Granada is garbage this year, you shouldn’t have trouble defeating them.

  Fred laughs, a giant, genuine sound. It makes me smile.

  Granada is actually quite good, he replies. A fair opponent. We’ll do our best.

  I look up and there he is.

  Fred’s shaking the other man’s hand—the guy is in a museum uniform—offering him a smile before he turns his head. His eyes meet mine. They’re more green than blue in this light. His smile broadens, the skin around his eyes crinkling in unselfconscious pleasure.

  Oh, dear.

  “Hello, love,” he says.

  My heart contracts.

  He looks good, like he always does. Jeans, sneakers, jacket—same Tomás Rincón hat—he wears it all well. I don’t think I’ll ever get over just how big he is. How handsome. I’ve never been with a guy this good-looking. I doubt I ever will be again.

  “You’re early,” I say, happy with disbelief. “Like, half an hour early.”

  He digs a hand into the hair at the nape of his neck and looks at me, sheepish. “Sorry—I was a bit impatient to see you. Do you need more time to work? I’m happy to wander about on my own…”

  I dig my nails into the palm of my hand. I can’t maul him. Not here. Not in public.

  “No. No, I’m good,” I manage to say. I close my notebook and stand. He walks over to me. He puts a hand on the small of my back as he leans in and kisses my cheeks. He smells delicious—like sandalwood and soap. My knees are doing that funny thing again where they feel like jell-o. “Hi. Hello.”

  He only pulls back part of the way. His face is close to mine; so is his body. His hand is still on my back. We’ve crossed into touching territory—where it’s okay to touch, I guess, now that Fred’s hands have been on my boobs—and I don’t mind it. Not one bit.

  “How’s the paper coming?” he asks. His eyes move over my face. It’s a careful gesture, and a caring one, too. Like he’s making sure I really am good.

  I swallow. “Eh. Shitty.”

  “You’ll get it done. And the interview? How’d that go?”

  “That went well, thank God.”

  “Brilliant. We’ll have to celebrate.”

  “No celebrating yet—I don’t want to jinx it,” I say. I bend down to grab my notebook, grateful for the space this creates between my body and Fred’s. It’s overwhelming, being so close to him. I put the notebook in my messenger bag, which I hike over my shoulder. “How about we just take a stroll around here instead? It’s my favorite museum in Madrid—I know it decently well. I take it you’ve never been to the Reina Sofía?”

  Fred grins. “How’d you know?”

  “Lucky guess,” I say, and now I’m grinning, too. “Hang with me, Fred, and you’ll see more of Spain in the next three weeks than you have in the years you’ve been here.”

  “I know. Why do you think I like you so much? Besides the fact that you’re beautiful. Here, let me take this.” Fred gently takes my bag and ducks underneath the strap, crossing it over his body. “Ready?”

  I bite my lip. “Yeah. I’m Ready.”

  ***

  Fred

  Rachel leads me through the museum’s highlights: Picasso’s Guernica, several Dalí masterpieces, an exhibition on Egyptian surrealism. Before I met Rachel, I never would’ve jumped at the idea of going to an art museum. But now that I’m here, listening to her talk about how this sculpture makes her feel, or how that painting is an interpretation of the Spanish Civil War, I’m smitten—smitten with the art, and with the girl who knows so much about it.

  Now that I’m experiencing more of Spain—more of life—I want to experience everything. And I want to experience it with Rachel. She makes the world come alive. She gives meaning to everything I see. Everything I do.

  Today was boring without her. Lonely. I went through the motions, watching film, eating lunch. But the silence of my flat pressed in on me in a way it never has before. It drove me mad. I missed the sound of Rachel’s voice, chatting about football, or vampire boobs, or Quidditch. I missed the smell of her perfume. The knowledge that she was there, with me, just an arm’s length away. I was dying to watch more of Tournament of Kings—really, I need to know what happens next now that Queen Lorena is a vampire hell bent on revenge—but I didn’t want to watch it alone. It wouldn’t be as fun without her.

  I’d hoped, foolishly, that I’d enjoy the time by myself after the…er…intensity of the past twenty-four hours. I am, after all, an introvert, and I usually do need to be alone after spending so much time with someone. I hoped that my burning desire for her might cool a bit. Out of sight, out of mind—that sort of thing.

  But I didn’t stop thinking about her, not for one bloody second.

  Now that I’m with her again, drinking in her knowledge, the two of us laughing about all the boobs in Pablo Picasso’s work (is it just me, or are there suddenly boobs everywhere since I met Rachel?), I realize how electrified I feel when I’m with her. How respected.

  How at home.

  This—whatever this is—it’s not going away. I don’t want it to.

  I want to take her home tonight. I want to take her home every night, even though—as of now—she’s heading back to the states in less than three weeks’ time.

  I am so beyond fucked it’s not even funny. It’s a risk, letting Rachel in. Letting our relatio
nship go any further.

  But maybe—just maybe—it’s a risk worth taking. Who knows what will happen in the next month? Maybe Rachel gets her internship at Meryton. Maybe she doesn’t.

  Maybe she applies the internship at the squad’s training facility and gets that one instead. Which means we’ll have far more than three weeks together. Rachel did say she’d think about it.

  I can’t stop thinking about her.

  “You okay?” Rachel asks as we make our way through one last gallery. “You look a little…”

  She doesn’t finish her sentence. She doesn’t need to.

  “Distressed?” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “I’m all right. Well. Maybe not. I’m not all right. Christ.” Instinctively my hand goes to the crown of my head, but my hat prevents me from tearing my fingers through my hair. I slide my hand to the bill and give that a solid tug instead.

  Rachel slows down, falling in line beside me. She tucks her hair behind her ear. “I didn’t think—I don’t think either of us thought—”

  “I missed you today.” Bloody hell, when am I going to stop blurting shit out when I’m with her?

  “I missed you, too,” she says, quietly. “But if you’re not one-hundred-percent sure about taking this further…I mean, we can just be friends, Fred. It’s not too late. Chalk up the make out to the beer and just…I don’t know, pretend like it never happened?”

  I meet her black eyes. They’re clouded. Uncertain. She hates that idea as much as I do.

  The soft parts in my chest swell. They fucking burst.

  “I don’t want to pretend with you, Rachel.”

  “And I don’t want you to do anything you’ll regret.”

  I chew on the inside of my cheek. Study her face. She’s so damn smart. Respectful. Almost too respectful, if such a thing exists.

  Like I could ever regret anything I do with this girl. Anything that happens between us.

  I reach for her, twirling a lock of her long, silky hair around my fingers. Her eyes darken. “Let me worry about that, yeah?”