Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3)

by Jessica Peterson

  My heart is pounding as I move through the crowd. The sting of cigarette smoke hangs in the air, mingled with the sweeter, almost potent smell of sangria. People laugh, they chat in rapid-fire Spanish.

  “Vivian!”

  I turn at the sound of my name, and a second later Katie is jumping on me like a baby monkey, pulling me into a tight hug. I cannot describe the happiness I feel at the sight of a familiar face. I’m smiling so hard I feel it in my eyeballs.

  “Oh my God,” I say. “Oh my God, Katie, I am so happy to see you.”

  Katie pulls back. As usual, she’s got her laid-back boho thing going on, a strappy paisley dress hanging off her wiry frame. She’s adorable.

  “So?” she says. “How is it?”

  “How is what?”

  She smiles. “Everything.”

  “All right,” I say, looking around. “A little overwhelming, but all right.”

  “A little overwhelming?” Katie laughs. “Girl, fifteen minutes ago I was sobbing outside a head shop in the Spanish hood. I took the wrong train on the Metro and got totally lost.”

  “Oh my God.” It seems I’ve started repeating dumb phrases not only in Spanish, but in English, too. “Are you okay?”

  “Better, now that you’re here.” She loops her arm through mine. “C’mon, mujer, let’s get our bebida on. We’re right over there.”

  She leads me around the corner to another alley, this one slightly smaller but just as crowded with bars and beautiful people. A few guys check Katie out as we pass. No one looks twice at me, though. I’m used to it; I’m never the girl that gets the guy.

  Still, it stings.

  I hear snatches of English as we draw up to a long table surrounded mostly by guys. I recognize a few of them from Meryton; others I haven’t seen before. Mismatched pitchers of sangria crowd the table, along with a couple pints of half-finished beer.

  “Viv Bingley!” a familiar voice calls out. I turn my head to see Alberto Montoya gesturing to the empty chair beside him. I bite my lip against my smile; it’s really starting to hurt.

  Al is in a fraternity my sorority mixes with a lot back at Meryton. He is cute, charming, and hella smart; to say he is excellent is an understatement. Considering the fact that nobody dates—our campus is very much dominated by a hookup culture—Al is something of a legend for making the very first chick he met at freshman orientation his girlfriend. They’ve been together ever since.

  Al stands to give me a hug, and that’s when I see the guy sitting next to him.

  For a split second our eyes meet over Al’s shoulder. My stomach does a backflip. This guy is cute; like, one-look-and-I-feel-my-face-go-up-in-flames cute. His eyes are slate blue, and warm with laughter; they are a handsome foil to the freckles that dot his nose and cheeks. He’s got a movie star jaw and deep, shapely smile lines that frame his nose and mouth.

  I don’t know, but there’s something about him—the wild licks of his dark hair, maybe, or his crisply pressed white button-down shirt, undone at the neck—that makes me think he’s Madrileño. Guys at Meryton don’t dress like Prince Harry.

  And they sure as hell don’t look at girls like this. Like they want to say hello and make you laugh.

  A slow, tingling wave of awareness moves up my spine, trailing goose bumps in its wake. It’s strange, this feeling, and new. The physical sensation echoes in my head, causing my thoughts to scatter in a starry rush.

  “Viv,” Al says, turning to the Madrileño beside him. “Meet my cousin, Rafael. He’s from Madrid, so he’s going to show us all the good spots tonight. Rafael, this is my friend Vivian. We’re in the study abroad program together.”

  I swallow, hard, and venture another glance in Rafael’s direction. I can’t think of anything else to do, so like an idiot I wave. “Hi, Rafael.”

  Rafael stands—oh, dear Lord, he’s tall, a head taller than me—and before I can so much as blink he’s leaning over the table and pressing a kiss onto both my cheeks.

  I blink, my body ringing with the pleasant shock of such an intimate, unexpected gesture.

  The kisses themselves are killer. But it’s the way he smells that really gets me. He smells delicious, like just-showered boy, a hint of woodsy aftershave. If it was socially acceptable, I would lick his neck.

  “Mucho gusto,” he says, his Spanish as crisp and intimidatingly perfect as his shirt. “And please, Vivian, call me Rafa.”

  Rafa. It’s like a Spanish pirate name. A sexy Spanish pirate name.

  I like pirates.

  I feel my stupid smile tugging at the edges of my lips. “Rafa,” I say, trying it on for size. I dig it. “Nice to meet you.”

  A split second of silence settles between us as Rafa looks at me. And keeps looking. I can’t tell if it’s awkward, the silence, or if I like it. All I know is I feel warm, a little giggly even.

  All I know is I got a lot less homesick all of the sudden.

  Al glances from me to Rafa and back again, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Vale.” He claps his hands together. “Viv, the sangria is amazing – we’re all on our second, so you gotta catch up.”

  “Thanks,” I say, tucking my hair self-consciously behind my ear. “Make it a heavy pour, if you don’t mind.”

  Al arches a brow as he fills a glass to the brim. “Long day?”

  “Very.”

  He presses the glass into my hand. Pieces of fruit float on the sangria’s inky surface. The sweet scent of brandy fills my head. This is going to be good.

  I start when Rafa taps his glass against mine. “Salud.”

  “Salud,” I say, meeting his eyes. It’s like a sock to the gut. They are so damn pretty.

  I surreptitiously check him out as I sip my sangria. His perfect white shirt is tucked into a perfect pair of dark jeans; he’s rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, revealing tanned, muscular forearms. One hand is in his pocket, an appropriately Prince-Harry-ish frayed bracelet wrapped around his wrist. His understated brown belt doesn’t match his shoes—tan suede—but somehow it works.

  Oh, how it works.

  I look away, my face burning, and catch Katie staring me down from across the table. There’s a knowing gleam in her eye.

  Talk to him! He is hot! she mouths, fanning herself.

  I sip my sangria. It’s delicious, not too sweet, not too strong, refreshing in the heat. I sneak a glance at Rafa. He’s still standing next to me, the smell of his aftershave tickling my nostrils. My cheeks burn with the memory of his kisses.

  I’m usually pretty shy around guys. Which probably explains why I don’t have many notches in my belt—and why, at twenty, I am still in possession of my v-card. I was ready to “do it,” as Maddie says, with the last guy I was with. A guy I thought I loved, a guy I thought loved me. But when I told him I was ready, he told me about the girlfriend he had back home. You know, the girlfriend he’d been dating the whole time he and I were together.

  The girlfriend he was in love with.

  Needless to say, the sex didn’t happen; apparently he didn’t consider oral sex cheating, but sex sex was where he drew the line.

  After that, along with some seriously unsatisfying hookups, I swore I wouldn’t allow myself to get burned again. No more casual dating, no more booty calls. I want respect, I want real, and I want romance—the forever kind.

  The kind I definitely can’t get with this guy—this ridiculously handsome Spanish pirate. He is way hotter than any guy I’ve ever been with or talked to. I should be intimidated. I should be crawling back into my shell.

  But I don’t. He is so far above my pay grade it’s laughable. He is some random Madrileño dude, and chances are I’ll never see him again. If I do, I can order a bucket of sangria and drown myself in it.

  I have nothing—absolutely nothing—to lose. Which makes me feel a hell of a lot less shy.

  I look back at Katie and lift my shoulder, grinning. Okay.

  “So, Rafa,” I say, turning to him. “You and Al are cousins?�
��

  He nods, swallowing. “You know Alberto’s father is Spanish, yes?”

  “I do,” I say. “But Al was born in New York.”

  Rafa nods again. “Our fathers are brothers. My uncle moved to the United States to marry a woman he met at university there – those are Al’s parents. I went to live with them one summer to take classes at NYU. And now Alberto comes to live with us in Madrid while he studies.”

  I sip my sangria. “Is that how you learned to speak English so well? Yours is very good. Way better than my Spanish.”

  He grins, and oh, God, it tears a hole in whatever stuff my heart is made of. “Thank you. Students in Europe, we learn a lot of languages. Alberto definitely helped with my English, though. My family goes to New York to visit them—Al and my aunt and uncle—a lot.” He drains his glass. “Is your Spanish really so bad?”

  I scoff into my sangria. “It’s abysmal. I can read it, and I can write it, but I can’t speak it. I get, like, flustered, trying to translate everything in my head. And my accent— yack.”

  Rafa reaches for the pitcher on the table. “Yack?”

  “Um,” I say, rolling my lips between my teeth. “You know, like. Throw-up? Puke? Just…totally gross.”

  He laughs as he refills his glass. He looks up, his eyes meeting mine; there is a question there. I nod and hold out my glass. He fills it.

  “Totally gross?” he says, setting the pitcher back on the table. “I think you are exaggerating. But it will help if you practice. All of the time, practice. Don’t think so much. And one night, when you have too much sangria, your Spanish will come.”

  “I didn’t know sangria had such magical powers.”

  Rafa shrugs. He takes a pull from his glass. “If it can make me dance like Justin Timberlake, then it can make you speak perfect Spanish.”

  I don’t know if he mentions JT on purpose, but I appreciate the common cultural reference nonetheless. It helps me get my bearings, helps me feel a little less lost.

  I bite my lip. “Justin Timberlake. Really?”

  “Really.” He meets my eyes. His spark with mischief. “Justin Timberlake. It has been confirmed by people I trust.”

  I don’t think Rafa needs much sangria at all to dance well. He’s one of those guys you can just tell knows his way around a dance floor.

  One of those guys you can just tell is good in bed. Not that I have much practice. But still. There’s something so…quietly virile, confident about him. He would know what he was doing, and he would do it well.

  “Well then.” I tip back my glass. “I definitely have some catching up to do.”

  “I have a lot of practice with sangria,” Rafa says. “I am telling you the truth. I am very confident in this—that you will be speaking perfect Spanish by the end of the semester. Not only that. I think you will dream it, too.”

  “That’s a tall order,” I say. “You have to be pretty fluent to dream in a different language.”

  He smiles. The curving lines around his mouth deepen, making him look boyish. Cute. “I think you can do it.”

  “I think your confidence is misplaced,” I say. “But I could use all the motivation I can get, so thanks.”

  “Vale,” he says, using that quintessentially Spanish word with a thousand meanings I have yet to tease out. I’ve heard it described as “okay” or “cool,” but it seems like neither of those words fully capture its nebulous spirit. “You just need a little bit of courage, and you will figure it out.”

  “Vale,” I reply. I’m teasing him now, flirting. Openly. It’s fun.

  “See?” He nods at the glass in my hand. “Already, the sangria is working.”

  “Hardly. Words are easy. But sentences?” I shake my head. “I need a lot more liquid courage for those.”

  Over the rim of my cup, I notice Al is talking to some of the other guys from Meryton, his back angled away from Rafa and I; we’re cut off, secluded in our own little corner. The sounds and smells of the alley crowd around us, but it feels like we’re alone, somehow, the space between our bodies vibrating with silent warmth.

  At least I feel it vibrating. I wonder if Rafa does, too, or if my sudden interest is unrequited. My crushes are usually—no, they’re always unrequited. No one ever looks twice at me. Ever. It’s like I’m always the bridesmaid, never the bride; I can make out with a guy, but he never seems to feel the fluttery things I do.

  “You came to Spain to learn our language,” Rafa says. “But what else will you study while you’re here?”

  I swallow my sangria. “Last semester I declared an Economics major, so I’ll be taking business classes, mostly. A literature class. And then I’d love to take some Spanish art history, but I don’t know if I’ll have room on my schedule for such a guilty pleasure. I don’t want to take too much on.”

  “Guilty pleasure?” Rafa arches a brow. “Madrid has some of the best art museums in the world. There is nothing guilty about studying it, especially while you are here.”

  “Have you?” I ask. “Studied art history, I mean.”

  “I have. Quite a lot, actually. You, too?”

  “Some classes. I love it, I do, but you can’t really do much with an art history major, so. Yeah.” I sip my sangria. “Who are your favorite painters?”

  “I like all the Spanish painters. Goya. Velázquez.” He says the names in his perfect, succulent Spanish, and never in my life have I heard anything so sexy. I make note of his pronunciation, his accent; Goy-ja, Velash-quez; I will have to practice them later. “El Greco, even though he isn’t really Spanish. We still like to take credit for his genius. But my favorite? My favorite is Sorolla.”

  I blink. Sor-roya. “Sorolla? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him.”

  Rafa grins. “You must take art history, then, if only to learn of Sorolla. There is a whole museum here just for his work. I think it’s the best museum in all of Spain. I’ll take you there—even if you don’t take the art history class, you must see it.”

  I don’t know if it’s the sangria—it’s probably the sangria—or the way Rafa is looking at me, but the backs of my knees begin to tingle. It’s my first night in Madrid, and here I am, getting my buzz on, talking my favorite thing—art! —with an incredibly good-looking Spaniard. He’s probably only offering to take me to this museum because he’s drunk and trying to be polite, but I don’t care. However fleeting it may be, even if nothing comes of it, I am in love with this moment.

  And that’s got to count for something.

  “The Sorolla Museum,” I say. “I’ll have to remember that. Thanks for the tip.”

  “You’re welcome,” he replies. “I hope you like it here, Vivian. I know coming to a different country can be hard. The language, the food, all the little things—I remember being so homesick in New York when I first got there I called my parents ten times a day.”

  I look down at my cup—almost empty now—and slowly nod my head. “I admit I’ve cried a little bit today. And by a little bit, I mean a lot.”

  “It will get better,” he says. “You are here for, what, five months?”

  “Almost six.”

  “That probably feels like a lifetime right now, yes?”

  I scoff. “It does, actually. That’s what I was crying about.”

  When I look up, he is standing closer—there are people behind him now, pressing him toward me—and my heart skips a beat. We meet eyes. His reflect the soft glow of the lamps outside the bar; it’s getting dark, the air around us velvety. That tingle behind my knees moves to a full-on rush.

  “I’m biased,” he says, “but if you do it right, Madrid is an easy place to fall for. Mostly because I live here.”

  I smile and he smiles and the look in his eyes is so lovely it makes my stomach hurt in the best, the best way.

  “So where are you taking us tonight?” I ask. “I’ve heard pretty amazing things about the nightlife here. I mean, no pressure or anything.”

  He glances at his watch, a simple rou
nd face on a well-worn leather strap. “The bars close in a few hours. Then we will head to the discotecas—on Saturdays the best is Ático. We can start there.”

  “I hope Justin Timberlake will be making an appearance?”

  He holds up his glass, lets it tilt in his fingers. “He’d better. Otherwise I’m going to embarrass myself in front of my new friends.”

  I laugh. “Yeah, somehow I think you’re going to put us all to shame, with or without Justin’s help. I’m not proud of my white girl moves.”

  “But you’re not afraid to show them off,” he says, eyes sparking as he grins down at me.

  “Hell no,” I say. “Especially not after I’ve had a little—more than a little—sangria.”

  “Excellent.” Rafa taps his glass to mine. “Welcome to Madrid, Vivian. I’m glad you’re here.”

  What does that mean? It probably doesn’t mean anything. We’re just talking, drinking, maybe flirting, too.

  Even if Rafa did mean something by that, I came to Madrid to work my ass off, pull up my GPA, and enjoy some art. I didn’t cross an ocean to start a relationship—a hookup, a romance, whatever—that inevitably won’t last. I promised myself no more hookups, no more heartbreak.

  Still.

  I find myself grinning back up at Rafa, wondering what his wine-stained lips would taste like.

  Wondering if his kindness is a ploy to get in my pants, or if it’s genuine. It makes no sense, I know; guys this good-looking, guys that smell this wonderful, don’t need to be nice to awkward American girls like me to get some.

  But there’s something about Rafa—something about his eyes, his calm, easy demeanor, that makes me think he’s different.

  “Thanks,” I say. “I’m glad I’m here, too.”

  And I mean it. I do.

  ***

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