I look at Laura. She looks back. Her eyes are kind.
“I do,” I say, slowing my stride. “I do need to talk about them.”
She nods at a café across the street. “Want to grab a seat?”
“Yeah,” I say. I grab her hand. “Let’s.”
***
Laura
I meet Rhys’s eyes across the table. They’re a little glassy; mostly pained, but I also see some relief there, like he just rolled a two-ton weight off his chest.
“Wow,” I say. “Wow, Rhys. That’s a lot. Like. A lot lot.”
He fiddles with the cappuccino he hasn’t touched since we sat down more than an hour ago. He hasn’t had time to take a sip; he’s been talking, talking, telling me about Splott, about his sister Maggie and her fantastic grades in the private school he pays for, about her dreams of going to Oxford; about his wonderful mum and his deadbeat dad and about his aunt who has an eleven-year-old daughter with cerebal palsy.
Mister Manbun Prince Charming really is a prince charming. All this time, I thought his toys and his Instagram and his general ridiculousness showed that Rhys was this vain, superficial Ken doll.
But now—now I see he courts attention and sponsors because he’s trying to support a pretty giant family back home.
I’m stunned.
I’m stunned because he’s so fucking wonderful.
I’m stunned because the guy who never told me anything just told me everything.
“I know,” he says, scoffing. “Sorry for the long-winded saga.”
“No. No, I don’t mean your story was a lot. Long. Your story wasn’t long—I mean it was, but what I’m trying to say is that taking all that on by yourself is a lot.”
He reaches across the table and takes my hand in his. He keeps his gaze trained on our joined fingers. “What choice do I have?” he says slowly. Quietly. “I love them, Laura.”
“I don’t doubt you love them, not one bit. But it’s a lot of work for one person, trying to fix everyone and save everyone and be everything your dad wasn’t. That’s a lot of work, Rhys, and it’s crushing you. Anyone else would’ve been crushed years ago.”
Rhys swallows, an audible sound.
“It was crushing me,” he says. His eyes flick to meet mine. “But then I met you. I stopped thinking about them so much—my family. I don’t mean that in a bad way. I just mean I stopped thinking about them first, before I thought about anything else.”
“Before you thought about yourself.”
“Yeah. Yeah, I suppose so. But really I meant you, love. I started thinking about you. I think about you all the time.” He gives my hand a squeeze. Looks away. “I don’t suppose you think about me, too?”
It’s my turn to swallow. “I do. I do, Rhys, but—”
“But.” The skin at the edges of his eyes crinkles as he pulls his lips into a tight smile. “I hate that word.”
I love this new Rhys, the prince charming charging through Splott to save a family in distress. I just wish I’d known this guy four months ago; of course he’d pop into my life when I have mere weeks left in Madrid and I can’t, under pain of death, start to like him again.
Of course he’d make me feel all mushy and happy and at home when our time together is about to end.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
“Sorry for what?”
“For not asking you about your past all this time.”
I offer him a playful smile. “Rhys, you just asked me about my freaking major two days ago. I didn’t expect you to ask about my family.”
“I’m really sorry about that,” he says. “I want to make it up to you.”
“I know,” I say.
“Do you?”
I meet his eyes. There’s this look there, this warmth that I haven’t seen before. They gleam with interest, arousal, intent. I see nothing proud, nothing possessive. Just softness and vulnerability and hope.
Hope that I won’t crush him for confessing how he feels. Because that’s what this look is—a confession. A question I never thought Rhys of the “let’s keep things casual” school of relationships would ask.
Meeting his eyes head on like this—having nowhere to hide—is terrifying. Terrifying, and joyous.
Who the fuck are you? I want to ask. Can I kiss you until you die?
But I can’t. We can’t. I’m leaving. I need to leave, because staying here another semester in hopes that this new Rhys is real is just another way of putting my life on hold. I don’t want to feel…whatever it is that I’m starting to feel right now, because it’s pointless. I gave into these feelings once, and Rhys totally burned me.
I am not going to let myself get burned again by falling for a guy I’m just going to leave in two weeks’ time. My plane ticket is paid for, as is my tuition for next semester at Meryton.
I push back from the table. “It’s getting late. We should get going.”
I don’t look at Rhys as we make our way through the café and back out onto the street. I’m about to start walking in search of a cab when Rhys grabs my hand, drawing me to a stop in front of him.
“Happy Christmas, Laura,” he says.
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. A tingly warmth moves through my body.
I look away. “Do you think I could get away with saying ‘Happy Christmas’ instead of ‘Merry Christmas’ back home in the states? Or would I just sound like a total douche?” I ask.
“You’d definitely sound like a douche,” he says, smiling. He steps forward, our bodies touching, and noses my hair. My stomach flips. It’s overwhelming, how much I want this man. How much he’s making me feel.
I can’t.
“Rhys,” I say, pulling back. “I’m leaving at the end of December. I’m not staying with you in Madrid.”
His eyes blaze as they lock onto mine. I can’t tell if he’s angry, or sad, or both. I struggle to meet his gaze for several agonized heartbeats. Part of me wants him to take me in his arms just so I can push him away. Just so I can hurt him for doing this to me, for turning into this wonderful, wondrous, communicative guy just before I have to leave. Just when I’m sure I’m ready to be alone for once in my life. Just when I’m excited to be alone.
“Is that set in stone?” he asks, carefully.
I nod. “It is. Look, I’m having an awesome time with you lately. You’re, like, turning into this whole new guy I really, really like. But I’ve been planning to go back to the states for a while now. I already registered for next semester’s classes, and I’m coming up with a new bucket list of things I want to do at Meryton. I’ve got a life there, friends and family and interests, one I’d very much like to get back to. You and me, and this keeping-things-casual thing…I don’t, like, want to offend you, but I can’t keep putting my life on hold for that. For you.”
He draws a breath, lets it out. “What if we don’t keep things casual? What if we become more than that?”
“It’s too late.” I close my eyes against the pain that arrows through my chest. Fuck, I’m in too deep, this has already gone too far. “Going back to the states is the right decision for me. I think we both know that.”
“Do we?”
“I do.”
“Okay,” Rhys says after a beat.
“Yeah,” I say.
I’m leaving. Rhys may have changed, but my plans haven’t.
Chapter 22
Laura
Sunday Night
The Usual Madrileña Spot
Rachel tips back her wine glass and drains the last drop. “Shall we? It’s almost time. Laur, I still can’t believe you passed up box seats. What in the world were you thinking?”
I grab my coat and scarf from the back of my barstool. I know I’m asking a lot of the girls to sit outside at the match tonight—a cold front just hit Madrid—but it felt like the right thing to do. I want our last time at the stadium to be as ridiculous and electrifying as the first.
I also want to put a little distance between Rhys and
me. Despite my declaration that I’m leaving Spain, we’ve been talking and texting and hanging out nonstop. Last night we talked on the phone for hours. We talked about nothing and everything, and when I hung up I had to resist the urge to call him back up and talk more. Now that we’ve opened up to each other—now that we’re learning each other—it seems neither of us can get enough.
It’s gotta stop. I’ve made my decision, and I am sticking to it. I don’t want to leave Spain totally, completely heartbroken. I can’t have the fresh start I’m looking for at Meryton if that happens.
“I mean, the box is great,” I say. “But you’re kinda cut off from all the energy and excitement up there. I want to actually watch the game, sing the songs, hear the drums, just like we did back in August.”
“Do you also want to freeze your ass off?” Viv zips up her giant puffer coat. “It’s, like, negative ten degrees outside. I know that box is heated.”
Maddie snickers. “Your box is heated.”
I shrug, wrapping my scarf a little tighter around my neck. “I brought our flask. We’ll be fine.”
You’ll be fine, I tell myself.
But there’s still a knot in my stomach. This is the last time I’ll see Rhys play in Madrid. It’s a bittersweet moment. As ready as I am to move on, and to tackle my stateside bucket list, I’m going to miss all the hoopla surrounding football season.
I’m going to miss Rhys.
***
The game is a close one, close enough to keep the girls and I too invested in the match to notice how freaking cold it is. We bounce on our toes to keep warm, our eyes locked on the field as Rhys and the rest of the guys try to dig out a victory.
A little after half time, the crowd comes alive when Olivier charges up the field and passes the ball to Fred. Dogged by a pair of rival defenders, Fred passes the ball to Rhys.
Rhys doesn’t hesitate. He dodges a midfielder, then ducks past another; my heart is in my throat as he manages to launch the ball at the goal just as a dude tries to slide tackle him. I watch, not daring to breathe, as the ball rockets past the goalie and into the net.
“Holy. Moly!” Rachel screams above the earth-shattering roar of the crowd.
“Holy shit!” I say, dizzy with relief.
People start chanting, they start singing. It’s so loud that when Maddie looks at me and shouts something, I can’t hear her. The ground trembles beneath our feet.
I start to laugh. This is fucking amazing.
When Rhys turns to face our side of the stadium, my heart skips a beat. He’s laughing, too, a giant smile plastered on his sweaty face.
I’ve never seen him smile on the pitch. Even when he scores—and he scores plenty—he’ll usually run around like a lunatic for a minute and embrace a teammate or two. But he never, ever smiles.
Not until now.
Oh, that smile. It’s handsome and happy and so very much him. I know he loves football, and I know it’s been his dream to play it professionally. But I never considered until now that he hasn’t been having much fun playing it. Tonight, though, he’s having the time of his life—that much is apparent in his smile, and the joyful way he clings to his teammates as they celebrate.
Rhys turns back to the crowd, holding up his arms. His eyes move over the stands, almost like he’s looking for something.
Vivian nudges me in the ribs. “He’s looking for you!” she yells.
I blink, a tingle moving up my spine. “No way,” I reply. “He doesn’t even know where I’m sitting. I didn’t tell—”
But then his eyes catch on mine, and an even bigger smile splits his face. He brings his hands to his lips, and in a ridiculously dramatic, and ridiculously adorable, gesture, he blows me a kiss.
“Ohmigod,” Rachel says. “Ohmigod I am going to faint, that is the cutest thing I have ever seen in my life.”
Viv nudges me again. “C’mon, Laur, you gotta blow a kiss back!”
I smile. It’s stupid, but I don’t care. I do it, I blow him a kiss. At that moment Olivier appears at Rhys’s elbow. Smiling his wicked, only-a-French-guy-could-get-away-with-it smile, Olivier pretends to grab my kiss just before it hits Rhys’s mouth. Laughing, Rhys shoves him aside and trots down the pitch. On the sidelines, the photographers and the announcers are on their feet, pointing their lenses at me.
The only thing that would make this moment more magical would be if Rhys took off his shirt. Which, coincidentally, he does just as I’m thinking that dirty old lady thought. The crowd goes ape shit; the ref holds up a yellow card; Rachel literally sways on her feet.
I keep smiling. I’m so happy for Rhys, and so proud of him, I could burst. I know how much winning a game like this means to him. It means a lot to me, too.
I almost wish it didn’t. Leaving Madrid—leaving Rhys—is really going to rip my fucking heart out.
***
Rhys
The lads hang about in the locker room, high on victory and buzzing with adrenaline. Apparently Olivier is having a bit of a celebratory soiree at his flat, but I’m not interested. There’s only one person I want to see tonight, and what I want to do with her requires a more—er—private setting.
I’ve already done my requisite post-game interviews, although tonight the media is going absolutely insane over “the kiss seen ’round the world”, as they’re calling it.
We’ve never seen you like this, one reporter said. You seem very…elated. And your play was animated tonight. It’s like we are watching a whole new player.
I’m having fun, I replied in Spanish. I think that is making a big difference in my game.
Another reporter pressed me for details about “the lucky woman” who was the recipient of said kiss. Are you in love, Rhys? he asked.
I laughed into the microphone to hide the fact that I was blushing. I didn’t answer the question, but I have a good idea of what I’d say if I did. I can’t stop thinking about Laura. I can’t stop wanting to be with her, wanting to live in the moment with her.
I can’t stop feeling like my life—away from my family, my father, and my career—is finally starting. I didn’t realize that by allowing so many people to have a say over my life, I was always trying to live up to their expectations. I was living to prove something to them. I was trying to prove to the press that I wasn’t my dad; I was trying to prove to my family that I could provide for them in a way dad couldn’t; I was trying to prove to sponsors that I was successful enough and popular enough and far enough away from the poor kid growing up in Splott to merit endorsement money.
Everything I did was for somebody else. I see now that my life hasn’t been my own, not really. I thought I wanted to flaunt my footballer life in everyone’s faces. I thought I wanted to just make my family proud. But pursuing Laura’s bucket list with her has made me realize that maybe what I really want is the freedom to be myself. To own my past and forge my future by enjoying the present.
My life is finally starting because of Laura. I know she has plans to head back to the states for good at the end of the month. But I can’t let her leave. I’ll be damned if I let the girl who gave me back my life go.
I’ve showered and iced my legs and packed my bag. My fingers shake with impatience as I button my trousers. Just a few more minutes and I’ll be able to meet up with Laura. I smile at the memory of the way she smiled when I blew her that kiss. I just felt…I felt fucking everything. Gratitude. Lightness. Freedom.
It hit me in the wild, ferocious seconds before and after my goal that I really was having fun. Honest-to-goodness fun. I was totally present in the moment. I wasn’t thinking about what this goal meant for my career or how it would change my stats or how it showed the world that I am a very different player than my dad. It was just me, and the ball, and the thunder of my heart.
“Petit chou!” Olivier shouts over the din. “What iz our little cabbage smiling about? You are not leaving, I ’ope?”
“Sorry, mates,” I say, slinging my bag over my shoulder. “I’m
absolutely shattered.”
It’s true. Every bloody muscle in my body hurts, and I’m going to be sore as hell tomorrow. But that certainly isn’t going to stop me from fucking Laura’s brains out tonight. After, of course, I go down on her for an hour. Maybe two. I have a feeling bucket list Laura will finally let me.
“Bah! Petit chou, you are a very bad liar. You go to see your beautiful woman. I do not blame you, she is very sexy, yes?”
“Keep going.” I level him with a glare. “Keep going so I can knock your teeth out.”
“Come on, Cabbage!” Fred says. “You won the game for us tonight. You can’t not come to Olivier’s party.”
“Yes.” Olivier nods his agreement. “You must come. If only to bring your sexy woman and zat free champagne you get.”
“So you’re using me for my pretty girlfriend and my booze hookup?”
Fred blinks. “Well, yeah.”
I roll my eyes. “Laura’s waiting. G’night, lads. Great m—”
“Bring ’er!” Olivier replies. “Your little sardine. Bring ’er, the lady Laura iz always welcome at my ’ome.”
“Tell Laura to bring her friends, too,” Fred adds. “All her friends. At least maybe five of them? One in five isn’t bad odds, right?”
“Yes.” Olivier wags his eyebrows. “All of zem. Come, Cabbage, do not disappoint your dear friend Fred. ’e did make ze assist zat ’elped you score ze goal of your dreams, no?”
Tongue in my cheek, I dig a hand through my wet hair. I really, really want to have quality alone time with Laura right now. I’m getting some pretty intense pants feelings just thinking about it.
Fred did do me a solid, though, helping me make the most epic goal of my career so far. I guess the least I can do is introduce him to some of Laura’s girlfriends. I’ll only stay for an hour, hopefully less. Just long enough to make sure Fred doesn’t end up drunk crying alone in the loo. Then Laura and I can sneak out and finally get naked.
Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3) Page 19
