Sombra

by Leslie McAdam

  I wait.

  And wait.

  And wait.

  Her room’s a mess. Clothes everywhere in piles. The cork oak outside makes the room gray.

  I lie back on the bed. If she’s pregnant, would I marry her?

  In an instant.

  Me, who has no interest in getting tied down before I travel the world. Me, who wants no obligations. Me, who has family up to my eyeballs.

  I would marry her in an instant, because I know she’s the one I want to be with for the rest of our lives. I know we can do all the things we dream of because she’s proved to me it’s possible by coming here.

  But does she want an instant wedding? She just got out of one. By no means do I wish to cause her another matrimonial crisis. I just want to be with her, whatever form that takes, and however that ends up.

  After what feels like months, but it’s likely minutes, she comes back in, and her face declares the result plainly.

  “I’m pregnant,” she whispers.

  I stand, hold her in my arms, and say, with all the feeling I can muster, “Te amo.”

  I kiss the top of her head and hold her while she cries in my arms.

  After a while, I go and make Kim some broth and weak tea and get a package of crackers. While I’m in the kitchen, I can’t help but think that I told her I love her, and she said nothing. Worse, actually, it made her cry.

  I’ve never told any woman outside of my family that I love her. And I understand that she’s in shock.

  But her silence stings.

  While the water boils, I step outside and pick a large, late-season peony from the garden, placing it in a glass. With everything on a tray, I return to her room. When I present them to her, she bursts into a fresh wave of tears.

  I am helpless.

  For the next hour, I sit at the end of her bed, holding her ankle. She doesn’t eat or drink. She doesn’t talk. She just lies on her bed and stares out the window.

  The only movement she makes is to turn the other way and stare at the floor. When she does this, I switch ankles. And after turning over one too many times, I can’t stand it. I won’t stay at the foot of the bed anymore. I lie down behind her, spooning her.

  As I stroke her hair, I open my mouth to say something and stop. Repeatedly.

  I don’t know what to say. I love her. I want her child. And she … doesn’t?

  Finally, after an hour, I mumble in her ear. “You can talk to me, amor. I don’t want you to do anything just because I say it. But I must tell you what I desire. This is communication and a discussion, not me demanding you do anything.”

  She nods, her back still pressed against my front so I can’t see her face.

  “I want to be with you always. Stay and finish your degree. And then go to cooking school, either here in Granada or in Madrid or Barcelona. I will come with you. I will get an agent. Get a recording contract. Make music. And we will travel. If we travel as a family, that’s fine. But this is what I want. I want to be with you. And if you are to have a baby, I want it.”

  No words come from her.

  I’m close to telling her that I want to marry her immediately. But I need to hear from her.

  “Can you talk to me?” I say.

  Turning over on the bed, she faces me, her face streaked with red, her cheeks puffy, her eyes almost swollen shut.

  “Tavo. I’m twenty years old. I came to Spain because I wanted to get away from Iowa. I wanted to see what else is out there.”

  “Yes—”

  “I dye my hair and drink alcohol and try smoking. I stay up until all hours of the night. New foods and new hours and a new language and culture. All of those things are outside my comfort zone, and I’ve felt free doing them. But this?” Her voice lowers so it’s almost inaudible. “We’ve been together for mere weeks. If we have a baby, what happens if I keep it and you resent me for tying you down?”

  Shaking my head, I go to interrupt, but she keeps talking.

  “What if your family insists you marry Sonia?”

  “They won’t.”

  “Where will we live?”

  “We’ll figure it out.”

  She bites her finger. “I’m not ready to be someone’s mom. I just got started … Tavo, you’ve become my everything in such a short time, and I’m scared.” She’s looking at me for reassurance, and somehow down deep, even though I’m uncertain, even though I don’t have a crystal ball like the gitanos by the cathedral, I know we’re meant to be together.

  As my heart pounds, I hold her hand. “We can make this work.”

  “I don’t know. I mean, we’re talking about the future, and it’s so ideal. I’m a chef, and you play music. That’s all fine here in Spain, where everything is pretty and there’s tons of family around to help with a baby or cook or whatever. But where I’m from, I’m going to be judged. It’s frowned on to be a pregnant unwed mother, especially when I’m barely an adult. My parents aren’t going to like this. I came here to learn to live, but I’ve made one freedom-loving decision too many. And the problem is, this one is permanent.” She looks at me with her eyes full of tears. Her lip quakes. And she doesn’t move. Just like a statue.

  Fuck.

  As I wrap her in my arms for a fresh round of tears, I realize, as my chest tightens, that she still never told me she loves me back.

  Twenty

  Kim - Surprise

  Apparently the world keeps moving. Day and night meld. The time and day on my phone change. Because I’m so numb, there’s no difference between a second and a week.

  I’m having a baby.

  Tavo told everyone I’m sick, so they keep bringing me soup, broth, agua con gas, weak tea, and crackers. Even María Luisa has felt my head with the back of her hand and shown concern, closing the door behind her quietly.

  I barely eat anything and spend the days in bed with my thoughts, shutting out the outside world. Except for the cork oak tree outside my window.

  Almost immediately, Tavo stopped any pretense that we aren’t together. He’s practically moved into my room, spending hours lying next to me, brushing my hair with his fingers, singing quietly to me. Sitting at the end of the bed drawing me pictures. We haven’t talked that much. We can’t. But having him here makes me feel secure.

  Right now with his solid arms wrapped around me as he spoons me on the bed, I wonder how I lived before him, because I’ve changed so much.

  His palms touch my belly with reverence. He’s kissed it so many times, and I can’t help but cuddle my belly.

  My baby. Ours.

  Am I carrying a little Tavo?

  I open my mouth to say something to him, but my words are all crusty and creaky, and I’m still burrowing in my thoughts. Because this pregnancy has brought many things into sharp focus. Like, how did I get to this point?

  Before, in Iowa, I went to the school my parents chose and studied the major they selected for me, since I didn’t express a preference. My biggest rebellion was getting a Frappucino and taking a picture of it in front of my weight-obsessed mother. I had a boyfriend who spent time with me and organized my life—but was a friend, not a lover.

  But was I happy?

  No. I was unconscious. I lived in a cage—an invisible one. Those boundaries on my life delineated places I didn’t go, things I didn’t see, and activities I didn’t do. Me, dye my hair? Never.

  The problem was, I didn’t know I lived in a cage because it was so normal. As the Spanish say, regular. I didn’t strain against my restraints because I didn’t know they existed.

  To my credit, I must have known something was up, otherwise I would never have bought a bullet vibe. Or come to Andalucía.

  In Spain, though, I feel alive, almost too much.

  Tavo not only showed me I lived in a cage, he opened the door and melted down the iron bars behind me so I couldn’t retreat back inside it if I got scared.

  I snuggle into him, and he kisses my ear.

  Could I even go back to Iowa? To the w
ay I was living before I came here?

  No. I couldn’t pretend that Spain never happened. Now I’ve become free, anything less is unbearable.

  But I’m still not ready to be a mom.

  His sweet lips press against my neck. I think back on all his patience with me. How he taught me how to say tacos and how to eat European-style. He never made fun of my Midwest accent or difficulty with Spanish or any of the things that were new to me. He’s unconditionally accepting and embracing of me, both physically and emotionally.

  Unlike everyone else in my life, he never demands that I be anything other than who I am. Well, except for role-playing in his bedroom, but that’s a fantasy for both of us.

  He’s my lover. In all senses of the word.

  I’ve never experienced anything like this. His unconditional love. As his fingers tiptoe down my arm, I know he cherishes every part of me, inside and out.

  It’s frightening. Because am I worth it? Is love worth it? I’m so outside my comfort zone, I’m not simply poking a timid toe over the line. I threw my whole body into a new country, unknown and foreign.

  I rub my tummy, and he puts his hands over mine, rubbing it, too. I’ve never been so myself. I’ve never been so at peace. Never happier. Never freer.

  This is a big step, but am I ready?

  I’ll have to be.

  As I turn to him and kiss him, I resolve to find a happy medium. I don’t have to throw myself into an entirely different milieu to be myself. I’m not going back to needing a cage. I can be myself right now.

  Starting now.

  I deepen the kiss. With my tongue searching for his, I feel I’m being fully myself, but a gentler version. Not so extreme that I need to rebel and do everything just because I wasn’t allowed before.

  Just. Me.

  His hands clasp my hair, and he kisses me back.

  I trust my feelings. I trust that Tavo has feelings for me. I trust that everything happens for a reason.

  Even if that everything is a baby.

  His hands now slip up my torso, pulling my shirt off. He’s kissing, stroking, holding me now. I kiss him back just as thoroughly, just as gently, running my fingers over his strong back, his soft, warm skin, his sinewy muscles. Down into his pants.

  He gives me a little smile, gets up, and locks the door.

  “Amor,” he says in his bedroom voice, hooks his fingers in my yoga pants, and pulls them down my legs.

  After he kisses every part of me, worshiping me, making me gasp, he drops his jeans and enters me.

  We don’t need protection from each other. I’m already pregnant. I love feeling him in me, tender. Kind.

  He has to know how I feel about him.

  Monday is a crisp, mid-November day, cooler than yesterday, and once I step outside in my thin sweater, I realize I’m going to be too cold to handle school all day. The Mediterranean aspect of southern Spain is misleading. You’d think it would be beaches and summer year-round, but it’s not. Snow is starting to appear on the distant Sierra Nevada mountains. It’s not Iowa cold, but it’s colder than I’d expected.

  “I think I need my jacket.”

  Turning to go back and get it, I stop and look up at him. Tavo pulls my hair back from my face, smiles, and kisses me softly.

  With the passage of a week, I’ve become increasingly embarrassed at how I’ve been acting. We were careless. I accept that. I thought we’d fixed it with the pill, and I never thought the results of one night of lax behavior would be so permanent.

  Butterflies run in my stomach. “I’m so sorry how I acted last week.”

  “You were in shock. We both were.”

  Letting out my breath, I reach for his hand. “And Tavo, I need to tell you something. I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. You said it, and I need to tell you—”

  But before I can get the words “I love you” out, a new blue Fiat approaches, creeping into view.

  “¿Quién es?” Tavo asks, his brows furrowing. While there’s plenty of activity on the farm, we normally don’t get any strangers. And harvest isn’t for a few days still, when we’re expecting lots of help.

  I don’t recognize the car either. “No tengo ni idea.” It continues all the way up by Tavo’s car.

  The car stops. Parks. The door opens.

  And the familiar form of Shane lumbers out.

  “Oh my God,” I rasp. “That’s Shane.” I’m not processing. He’s in slow motion. I’m nauseous, and I don’t think it’s from the pregnancy. I think it’s from his face.

  Tavo looks at me sharply. “From Iowa?”

  I nod.

  His nostrils flare, and his forehead creases into a frown. “The one you broke up with?”

  I’m chilled, and it’s not just because I need my jacket. “Yes.” The one who never responded to my email breaking up with him.

  Tavo’s mouth falls open. His head whips back and forth from Shane to me and back to Shane, as Shane approaches us, feet crunching on the gravel, the wintry sun low in the sky.

  This is worse than anything I’ve ever imagined. Even my naked stress-out dreams in the auditorium.

  Shane waves at me. “Kim?”

  I say with as much brightness as I can muster—admittedly not much—“Shane’s here, Tavo. Isn’t that great?”

  The look on Tavo’s face says this is anything but great.

  Shane’s precise hair jolts me back to all the trips to the barber in Iowa. His beefcake body hides under my least favorite shirt of his, the one that says, “I PAUSED MY GAME TO BE HERE,” which is not only ironic but likely true. Even though he’s wearing a hoodie, I know his wardrobe well enough to make it out from just a few words in the middle.

  I squeeze my eyes shut, then fix my features into a smile and walk forward with my arms out. “Hi, Shane. Wow. This is a surprise.” I give him an awkward hug while Tavo scowls. When Tavo clears his throat, I step back.

  Shane grins, but he’s punchy. Jumpy like a boxer, dancing on his feet. Probably tired from the trip. “Yeah! I wanted to surprise you. Jeez, I didn’t recognize you with that hair color! I like it.”

  What the actual fuck? Did he not read my email? Why is he so cheery? Does he not know we’re broken up?

  The kitchen door bangs behind me, and Tavo’s mom emerges headed our way.

  Good God.

  “So this is where you’re staying?” Shane asks. “I dig it. It’s really pretty. Wow. Spain!”

  What the actual hell?

  Tavo tugs at his collar and steps closer to me, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he swallows hard.

  Shane holds out his hand. “Hi. Shane Nichols.”

  “Gustavo de la Guerra Cantor.” Tavo says that with as much Latin flourish as he can. They shake hands. While Shane’s friendly, Tavo wants to obliterate him with his grasp. His lips are pressed into a slash, and his jaw’s clenched tight. When they let go, he folds his arms over his chest and takes another step closer to me.

  Seeming to ignore Tavo’s reception, Shane grins widely and reaches out a hand, patting the side of my arm. I hear a grumble suppressed in Tavo’s throat.

  Tavo’s mom walks up between us with a curious look on her face. “Hola,” she says, extending her hand and giving Shane two kisses. “I am Tavo’s mother. Are you a friend of Kim?”

  “Yeah! Hi! I’m from back home. Shane Nichols.”

  “Mister Shane, you are her amigo?”

  As I shake my head no, Shane says, “Yeah.”

  Is she asking amigo as in friend or amigo as in more than friend?

  Tavo’s mom’s eyelids fly open, and she leans closer to him. “Welcome, welcome. You must be tired. We will feed you. Come, come. I will introduce you to our family.” Beyond her, back at the kitchen, Valeria and Tavo’s abuelo are standing in the doorway, watching intently.

  Clenching his fists, Tavo closes his eyes and gives the barest shake of his head. But his mom completely ignores him and pulls Shane into the house to have breakfast, leaving me an
d Tavo standing there. As Shane walks away, he looks back over his shoulder, and I could swear he smirks.

  “I … uh,” I say lamely. “He’s not … We’re not … I really need to talk to him.”

  The pain in Tavo’s eyes is too much for me to bear. “Did you know he was coming?”

  “No! He’s been radio silent for weeks.” I reach out and hold Tavo’s hands. “Please. Just let me talk to him. I’ll find out why he’s here.”

  Tavo searches my face, seeming to look to see if I’m telling the truth. Finding nothing amiss, with a curt nod, he lets go of my hands and exhales. “I don’t like this, Kim.”

  “I don’t either. Are you going to stay? Or go to school?”

  “La huerta calls me now.”

  “I’ll miss school today, too. Have to, I guess.”

  He pauses like he wants to say something else, then stalks off.

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  I take off to the kitchen, where Tavo’s mom has already placed bread, butter, jam, and coffee in front of Shane. “Carbs,” he says raising his eyebrows and lifting the bread up toward me. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had bread. Guess it’s okay since I’m on vacation.”

  María Luisa sits across from him. “Mister Shane, you must stay. How long are you here in España?”

  “A couple days,” he says, his mouth wrapped around the toast.

  She gestures down the hall. “A few days? Muy bien. You can stay with Miss Kim. We will have room.”

  Oh, no, he can’t.

  I open my mouth to talk, but María Luisa has already asked Mari Carmen to get a towel for Shane and sent Jorge to get his bag.

  This is my nightmare. My absolute nightmare.

  While Shane eats, looking around at the beautiful, ancient kitchen, he tries to talk to Antonio, whose eyes are like saucers looking at Shane’s biceps, but there’s not much communication going on. Tavo’s abuelo gives me a weird look and then goes out to smoke. Valeria cuts up vegetables for soup, likely an excuse to eavesdrop.