“Do I need to call an ambulance?”
“No. I’m fine,” he said to the ground, his muscles clenched everywhere. He held his hand over his face, slicking back his hair repeatedly.
“You don’t look fine.”
“It’s nothing, Dani,” he snapped. “It’s just in my head.”
Then it dawned on me.
He’d seen my brother die.
That sobbing lump that I thought I got out of my system came welling up. My heart seized in my chest.
What else had he seen in Afghanistan?
A flash of anger tore through me at his fallen appearance. He had post-traumatic stress.
I’d spent years of my life helping people in other countries. But here was one of my own compatriots, and look how we treated him? What had he gone through? And why did we as a society do this to our young men and women?
I guess at some point, it didn’t matter why. We, as a society, had sent him to a war zone, and he bore the scars. As Audrey Hepburn said, “I don’t believe in collective guilt, but I do believe in collective responsibility.”
I was responsible for helping make Trent well again.
This poor, broken man. This brave, brave soul.
“Trent,” I said quietly, getting down next to him. I put my hand on his shoulder, and his skin twitched. “Look at me. It’s okay. You’re in Granada with me. You’re safe. Nothing is going to happen to you here.”
He shook his head. “Goddamn it. I wish…I wish I didn’t do this.”
How often did he suffer like this?
“It’s okay. I’m here with you. Take a deep breath in through your nose and out through your mouth, like the yogis do. Let your lungs fill up. Let your belly get bigger. Then let it out. We’re gonna go slow. Get your breathing under control.”
He closed his eyes and did what I said. I reached over and held his hand. His long, slim hand, covered with healthy veins, clutched my fingers firmly. Pedestrians passed by us, but I ignored them. I only focused on him.
Breathing in and out. Breathing in and out. All the while, I was thinking if I shut him out, I shut out my brother, too. I didn’t want to do that. As painful as it was, I loved my brother. And I was sure Trent loved him also.
Maybe I didn’t have to leave Spain. Maybe I could stay in the same city as Trent. Maybe I could become his friend. Maybe the path to forgiveness was paved with a lot of sweat and tears.
I wanted to get to know the man when I’d only ever known the boy.
After a few minutes of breathing, his muscles relaxed and his color returned. We let go of each other’s hands. He went to get up, but I stopped him. “Stay with me.”
“Okay.”
We sat in the doorway watching the pedestrians. The mopeds kept coming. The scooters kept coming, but he seemed to get his thoughts under control.
“You ready to go back?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“Where are you staying?”
“Hostel Central Granada.”
“That’s near my place. Come on. Let’s get you home.”
“No. I’ll walk you.” Always a gentleman. Always courteous.
I stood up, then extended my hand to help him up. But I didn’t let go of it once we started walking again. Several blocks up, after passing restaurants and bars just opening up for the night, we made it to my apartment door.
“Meet you Friday to talk?”
“Sure.” For once, it didn’t feel like I was running away. “I’ll see you in class first,” I said, stepping inside.
He turned and left before the door was shut.
Part of me wanted to run after him. To hold him all night long while he got out whatever demons were chasing him.
I couldn’t do that, though. And I wondered if I ever could.
After Trent dropped me off, I ran up the stairs, got into my apartment, tore off my clothes, and paced, naked.
I saw tonight the damage the army inflicted on our veterans. Even ones like Trent, who physically was unharmed. The psychological scars cut deep. I’d work through those things with him, even if it charred me in the process.
And I couldn’t help but like him. A lot.
For now, I needed a shower, and time to think.
Degan’s letter sat on the table, unopened. I didn’t know if I could ever get the nerve to open it. It just felt so final. Like I’d never be able to hear anything new from him again if I opened it. So I just let it sit there.
Turning on the water, I waited for it to heat up. Maybe I needed more butane from the tío de butano.
Trent and I had a lot in common, and it wasn’t just my brother. He liked to watch me, and I liked being watched. Probably part of the reason why I enjoyed being a teacher—feeling the eyes of students on me. But when he watched me, it was special, the way his eyes lit up when he saw me. I could wear that as a garment. Clothe myself in his spirit and never let it go.
I didn’t like being his teacher, though. And I was older than him, although he didn’t feel younger than me. His eyes had seen so much, and he was much older than the other students. Afghanistan matured him.
Stepping in the shower, the water massaged my shoulders, my torso.
I almost felt the weight of him in my arms, remembering what it felt like to kiss him so long ago and how he felt the other day. He still smelled the same. He was sturdy, like he could pick up anything I put down, and could carry me away with him.
Unbidden, Lulu’s words came back to me: never underestimate the inclination to bolt. That phrase suddenly hit me with truth bomb clarity.
My inclination was always to bolt.
Abusive and controlling ex-boyfriend? I left town. Too stressed on the job? I quit and found another. I didn’t like a party? Buh-bye.
I’d always figured that leaving was a form of self-care. If I didn’t want to have to deal with something, I removed it from my life. That’s what a strong woman did—didn’t put up with shit. I was never the victim. Always in charge.
But was there something wrong with that? Was I running from things that I needed to face?
Like Trent.
Just seeing his name on my roster made my emotions zing. And then being in his presence? He took over my whole world, making me forget that there were any students other than him. At the same time he reminded me of all I’d lost.
The water washed away the run, but it also washed away a lot of my bad feelings. I felt a deeper relaxation than I’d felt in days as the shower streamed over my hair.
Granada had a history of severe droughts, so I knew I had to take a short shower. I turned off the water to soap up.
But as I felt the soap between my legs, I started thinking that I didn’t want to be Trent’s friend. Not after the feelings I had for him years ago. And how he looked at and treated me now.
It was so forbidden.
Was that what I was feeling? The thrill of doing something I shouldn’t? Going for a younger man, and my student?
Oh, why did he have to be a student? Did it matter? What would it be like to feel that beautiful body next to mine?
Dangerous ideas, Danika.
My finger lingered on my clit, rubbing it, feeling the sensual pleasure. With my other hand, I took the shower nozzle off the holder and turned it on, adjusting the spray so it was more vigorous.
As it went between my legs, I found myself wishing it was Trent, licking my clit, taking control. Taking me over.
That was the even more forbidden thought. What would it be like to stay? To see what would happen with him?
To allow him power?
As I stroked myself, I found myself more and more turned on by the idea.
God.
Him.
Beautiful man.
I wanted him to be mine.
Sleeping in my bed that night, clean and in the nude, pressing a vibrator to my clit, I dreamed of him making me come.
10
Trent -- Tetería
Loud bursts of angry gunfire.
/> Rat-a-tat of rounds.
Roars of engines.
Shouts, all the shouting.
Then the gushing blood all over my hands.
With a start, I woke up in my room all alone.
A light from the street outside spilled onto the floor, broken up into lines from the wooden shutters. I got up, my hands shaking, and picked up a bottle of water, downing half of it. Sweat poured down my face and back as I paced, overheated.
I studied the time on my phone. Three o’clock in the morning.
Fuck.
I hated these dreams. Nightmares. Whatever. Always the same. Every night since Degan died.
Placing the water carefully on the nightstand, I slouched on my bed and reached for my wallet. Sorted my cards. Inspected the picture. Put it all back.
Why him? Why couldn’t it have been me?
Trembling in bed alone, tears fell down my face, and the hair on the back of my neck stood up.
I’d let my best friend down. I should have reacted quicker.
Where the fuck were our tourniquets? Why hadn’t I thrown myself in front of the IED?
Why did I get to live?
I swiped a rough tissue from the nightstand and blew my nose, my shoulders aching from crying. I shoved on my shoes and shirt, grabbed my key, and took off down the hall and outside into the night air. Needing to breathe. Needing to escape from my nightmare.
The cooler air felt fresh on my face, drying the sweat on my cheeks, my forehead.
Peering up at the dark sky, I wondered if Dani would ever be able to forgive me, really forgive me for surviving when her brother didn’t. I winced, knowing that she saw me today at my worst. Did her kindness mean that she would give me a chance?
As I went farther and farther down the quiet street, my breathing regulated. My hands stopped moving in jerks. My racing pulse stilled to normal.
I kept walking, not sure where I was headed. But magnetized to her, I aimed for her place. After our talk today, I felt liked we’d turned a corner. I had something to give to her—a reminder of where she came from, an anchor—and she always gave me joy.
When I got there, only a few short blocks away, I looked up. Her apartment was dark and closed up, the shutters drawn.
Good. She was safe. I headed back to my room and fell asleep.
“It is hot,” Gustavo said, standing at the front of the room, translating a Spanish weather report.
You could say that again. Today, the focus was on climate in Professor Anderson’s class, although his report mirrored how things were going between me and Dani. The physical heat wave still hadn’t broken, but my sensitivity to her every move was heightened—and on fire. Class was a lot more comfortable now that she’d acknowledge my presence and call on me.
But my mind was still preoccupied, only now instead of dreading what I had to say to her, I had to control my arousal.
“We are expecting higher temperatures.”
The hostility she’d displayed toward me before had completely melted away, and I saw traces of the old Dani. The one who danced barefoot in the forest and loved life. The one I adored. She daintily moved up and down the aisles, while we exchanged our work with our partners. With Didi as mine, I likely was learning Spanish with a German accent. Whatever. At least I tried.
“This heat wave will continue.”
Listening to others in class, I saw that they had as much difficulty speaking as I did. Maybe more. Made me think about how much we’re taught by what we’re around. Our environment. Maybe Dani was on to something with the way she went everywhere. That way you’d be able to pick the influences you wanted on your life, not tied to those from the accident of birth.
When Gustavo finished speaking, he flashed everyone a smile and sat down. Then Dani announced, “Tomorrow, Saturday, I’ve arranged an extra credit field trip to the Alhambra at eleven o’clock, if you’d like to join me.”
“That sounds good,” Didi called.
Gustavo piped up, pointing to Sergio. “We’ll go.”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
Dani gave me a confidential smile. At least I hoped it was just for me. A few dozen other pairs of eyes could see it, though.
At the end of class, as she went up and down the aisles passing out practice papers, Dani handed me a folded note. I opened it. “Meet me at 61 Calle de las Teterías, 8 o’clock tonight.”
I caught her eyes and tilted my head up, agreeing.
But she hadn’t been so private.
Gustavo turned around. “The profesora likes you, amigo,” he whispered. “You will get a good grade.” He gave me a thumb’s up.
I shook my head tightly. Fuck. I didn’t care about the grade, and I really didn’t want anyone to know she saw me outside of class. I just wanted to talk to her.
Later that evening, I hiked up a winding cobblestone street so narrow that a Smart Car would have to push in its side mirrors to make it through, to a tea room district in the old quarter, full of activity. As I passed by one restaurant after another nestled in whitewashed buildings, people spilled out of busy shops and loitered, ate crepes, and smoked. A three-legged dog limped by. As the sun set late, turning the white buildings to gold and then pink, the call to prayer sounded from the tower facing Mecca.
I pushed past the muted red curtain into a dark, low-ceilinged tea room and saw Dani. She smiled and waved me over, wearing a little, sleeveless, cream-colored top embroidered with flowers, which showed her tan skin, and navy blue shorts, with strappy leather gladiator sandals.
Ducking my head once I entered, I scanned the tea room. Lit by candles and scented with incense, you sat on embroidered cushions on the floor, drank “infusions” of floral or herbal tea, and ate crepes off of tiny tables that were barely taller than my damn shins. Traditional Arabic music with vocals, strings, drums, and lutes played while people gathered to sip their drinks. This place was a riot of color—bright painted ceilings, walls, and furniture. A large group of Spaniards lounged on tufts to the right, talking and smoking. Curtains hung between tables, offering privacy.
She perched on a red bench covered in a matching red cushion emblazoned with gold embroidery. Her toned legs were crossed in some sort of pretzel position while she sipped tea in a clear glass cup.
This wasn’t heaven, although I’d bet my dog tags that heaven wasn’t far from southern Spain.
I hesitated for a moment to speak. It was like breaking a spell. “Hi.”
“Hi, Trent,” she said, and scooted over.
Army boy here felt a bit out of place in a room so ornate. It wasn’t that it was girlie. It was just…decorated. I’d never seen anything like it. And seeing so much of her skin? My mouth got dry.
A slim, mustached man handed me a laminated menu in English.
“Guess he could tell I was a foreigner.” I sat across from her on a small cushioned bench, a tiny table in between us, our knees almost touching.
“They’re used to tourists,” she said, her eyes bright and her face flushed. “I can order for you if you like.”
“No, I can do it.” I rubbed the back of my neck as I read the selections. Problem was, while I understood the words, I had no idea what the difference was between “Exotic” tea and “Traditional” tea.
“Dani?”
“Yes?”
My knee almost knocked over the little table. “What’s the difference between blue tea and black?”
“Oh, I’ll ask the waiter what he suggests.” She waved him over.
He bounded over and pulled a tiny notebook out of his pocket with a flourish.
“¿Algo para tomar?” he asked.
Dani began babbling in Spanish. “Mi amigo soldado quisiera pedir un té, pero él no sabe qué tipo.”
The word “amigo” meant friend, right? That was about all I understood.
“Tenemos té internacional, incluyendo marroquí, libio, turco, ruso, egipcio, y iraquí. ¿Quizás un té marroquí?” The waiter pointed at a Spanish-language menu.
/>
She gazed at me and then indicated her choice to the waiter.
“Esa es una buena opción para él. Y dos aguas del grifo, por fa.”
The waiter snapped his notebook shut. “Volveré pronto con las bebidas.” He gave us a quick smile and turned around.
I crossed and uncrossed my arms, then slipped my hands into my pockets.
“What did you do?”
“I ordered you some Moroccan tea.”
“I don’t think I’ve had anyone order for me since I was a baby.”
“Well, you have a lot to learn.”
I tapped my heel on the floor then looked at the tea in her glass cup. “What did you get?”
“An antioxidant tea from Tibet.”
“For real?”
“Yeah. It’s awesome.”
I sat back and observed the activity in the room. “This place is amazing.”
She cupped her tea in her hands and glanced around the low-ceilinged room. “Spain? Or this tetería?”
“Both.”
“Agreed.” Glancing around the room with appreciation, she sighed. “There isn’t any place like Spain. The way the culture is so relaxed. People enjoy life, you know? And the language is so romantic.” She pressed her palms to her cheeks. “How long are you here?”
“In Spain? Or this tetería?”
She chuckled. “In Spain.”
“At least for your class. Maybe longer.”
Her torso pointed directly at me as she reached out to brush my fingers. “How long are you staying in this tetería?”
My eyes lingered on her fingers, then followed them up the freckled skin on the upper part of her arms. “As long as you’ll let me sit by you.”
The waiter returned with a small pot of tea and a glass, as well as two cups of water. I reached for the teapot.
“Ah-ah-ah,” she said, holding up a finger. “Let me do it. Men aren’t supposed to pour tea.”
“Why not?”
She poured the tea and handed me the cup. As I went to take a sip, she said with wide-eyed seriousness, “It will get a woman pregnant.”
I sputtered, choking on my tea. My eyes popped open. “What?”
“It’s an old wives’ tale. If women allow men to pour tea, then it’s like, you know, they’re spreading their seed.” She turned pink and laughed a husky laugh. She stared at my forearms. I leaned back in the seat and set my ankle on my knee.
Sol (Love in Translation Book 1) Page 9
