My face suddenly flares with anger. She did not just say that.
“Yes! It does! That’s what getting divorced means!”
“I just don’t understand why you couldn’t have made it work with him.”
“Oh my god!” I exclaim, making a fist around the phone, seconds away from chucking it in the river. “How dare you fucking say that to me!”
She makes a scoffing sound. “Oh, Thalia. Your language. Grow up a little, huh? You don’t have to speak like the men you work with. I’m just trying to make a point.”
“That you think Stewart can cheat on me and I’m supposed to ignore it?”
“For better or for worse. This is the worse.”
“He’s with another woman!” I cry out, not caring that people walking past me are staring. “Even if I got hit in the motherfucking head and went crawling back to him, we are divorced and he’s with someone else.”
Silence. Except for my heart, which is pounding in my head like a drum.
“You shouldn’t have gotten divorced,” she says. “That’s just my opinion.”
“And it doesn’t count. Okay? It’s my life.”
“Sheesh, the last time I talked to you everything was fine and you weren’t throwing tantrums over the phone. What’s your problem?”
“I don’t have a problem,” I say through a clenched jaw. “You’re the one who brought up Stewart. What’s done is done and there is no turning back.”
“Okay, fine. So are you just giving up on dating all together? You’re not getting any younger.”
Give me a fucking break.
“My divorce was finalized almost three months ago. I’m taking all the time I need to figure myself out.”
“I’m just saying, it doesn’t hurt to get out there and look.”
“Well, for your information,” I say, and I’m powerless to stop the words from coming out because I’m so hell-bent on shutting her up. “I am interested in someone.”
“Oh yeah? Who?” she asks brightly.
“Uh, well, he’s a nice guy.”
“What’s his name?”
“Manuel…”
“Oh, very Spanish. What does he do?”
“He’s…on the team.”
Oh shit. I need to shut up. Now she’s going to go look for Manuel on Real Madrid and he doesn’t exist.
“Thalia,” she warns. “Did you not learn anything with Stewart? You can’t get involved with someone from your team. It’s going to get messy.”
“It’s not like that.”
“I don’t care what it’s like. You’re a smart woman, usually. Grow up and look at the big picture. You only get one choice here; you get your career, or you get love. You can’t have both, and you especially can’t mix the two. Believe me, it’s one or the other, and I know you know it, too.”
I don’t know what to say to that.
She sighs loudly. “Look, I’m glad you found someone you like but you have to look elsewhere. Madrid is a big city and there are plenty of fish in the sea. Go out there and meet someone who has nothing to do with your job, and then I’ll be happy for you, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Promise me you won’t do anything stupid.”
“I won’t.”
“Are you coming home for Christmas?”
Now it’s my turn to sigh. “I don’t think so. There are a lot of games around then.”
“That’s what you say every year. Same goes for Thanksgiving.”
“And every year it’s true.” Kinda.
“All right, well, see if you can make it work. And call me with good news next time, okay? Love you.”
She hangs up before I can say I love you back, before I can remind her that it was her that called me.
I close my eyes, pressing the heel of my palm into my forehead, and take a deep breath. Dealing with my mother can leave me so rattled. It’s no wonder I took off for LA as soon as I had the chance.
I turn around onto the path, trying to put my phone back in my armband, just as someone big bumps into me from behind.
My phone goes flying to the ground and it clatters alongside another dropped phone. I look up to see a big burly Spanish man, dressed in jogging gear, staring at me in horror.
He starts mumbling something in Spanish that might be an apology, or it could be that he’s blaming me for running into him. It’s hard to tell.
“I’m sorry, I don’t speak Spanish,” I tell him, waving my hands like I’m making an X, before I go to bend down and pick up my phone.
Just as he does the same.
Bam.
Our heads knock into each other, and we both stumble back a bit.
I’m laughing, because it’s just so silly and embarrassing and funny, and he’s laughing too.
“Now this would be a serious meet-cute,” I tell him, stepping back as he quickly ducks down to get both phones.
“A meet-cute?” he repeats, handing my phone back to me.
“Yeah a…oh sorry. I don’t speak Spanish.”
“Yes, I know, you’ve said that twice already,” he says.
“Oh, you speak English,” I say, feeling sillier by the moment. “I thought you were just repeating it back to me.”
He’s a pretty cute guy. Maybe a few years older than me, some grey hair at the temples, dark skin, kind eyes. “I do speak English; I just don’t know what a meet-cute is. Is your phone okay?”
I glance at it and nod. “No cracks.”
“I’m not so lucky,” he says, showing me his. It’s a Google phone with a crack in the corner.
“Well, it’s not an iPhone, that’s your first problem,” I tell him.
“Very funny. I suppose that was my fault for running into you.”
“I should have been watching where I was going.” I pause, feeling bad. “I can help pay for that screen if you want.”
“Nonsense,” he says. “It’s not a big deal.” He gives me an unsure smile. “But, if you want to learn Spanish, I might be your man.”
I cross my arms, feeling coy that this man is flirting with me. “And who said I needed a man for that?”
“No one. But since you wanted to pay for the screen…”
I laugh. “I said help pay. And how is that making up for it? I break your screen and you have to teach me Spanish?”
“Believe me, it would be my pleasure. Here.” He motions for me to give him my phone. I hesitantly hand it over.
He opens the notepad app and types his phone number. “If you need to practice, give me a call. I’m Sergio, by the way.”
“Okay,” I tell him as he gives my phone back. “Well, nice meeting you, Sergio.”
“Meet-cute, right?”
“Yes. Meet-cute.”
He gives me a little wave and then continues on his way jogging.
I watch him go and then turn around and head back to La Latina. I’m not sure if I’m going to call him or not, but I’m feeling particularly emboldened after running into him. Maybe my mother was right. There are plenty of fish in the sea, plenty of the right men to hook up with, good ones who don’t jeopardize my career.
I just have to keep my eyes open.
Or not.
Otherwise, I won’t bump into them.
* * *
The next day I’m silent as Manuel drives me to work, though I find it amusing that he has no idea I pilfered his name when I invented a fake guy.
After the jogging fiasco, I went back to my apartment and spent a good, proper day exploring Madrid. I had lunch at an outdoor café, drank too much sangría, went shopping at Zara and Mango, and spent an hour in an English bookstore. I had dinner by myself at a charming little restaurant by a square where I watched street performers and drank even more sangría. Then I strolled around a bit, watching the world go by.
I tried to conjure up that independent woman I once was, the one I know is buried inside me. I tried to bring her out, to make being single and alone an adventure. After all, when you’re recently divor
ced you’re supposed to take the time to do all the things you weren’t able to do when you were coupled up.
But it just sort of made me sad.
I saw couples.
I saw families.
And when I saw pregnant women and babies, I got even sadder, the ache inside me returning.
Then I started getting angry at myself for being so sad.
I drank more wine.
A stupid amount.
I went to a bar hoping I could find someone, anyone to hook up with. The more random, the better. I didn’t care if I got fucked in a dirty bathroom or in the alley with the garbage, I just needed someone to fuck these feelings out of me. I just wanted to get lost and wild and let myself truly be free, in the way I can’t quite seem to.
My past has such a hold on me, like I’m stopped at a red light that never changes, waiting for that green light that never comes.
I wish I could just go.
I even thought about calling Sergio.
He was good-looking. He would have been up for it.
Maybe it would have been a quick lay, maybe it would have been something more.
Hey, we would have had a great meet-cute story.
But I didn’t.
Something stopped me.
Maybe fear.
Maybe something else.
Like a hand reaching out and pulling me back.
I ended up going back to my apartment and passing out on the couch.
So, suffice it to say, I’m silent this afternoon because I kind of feel like I’m going to throw up in the back seat of the car. I slept through my alarm, missed the morning’s therapy, rushed like mad to get here.
I’m also silent because I’m going to see Alejo today, and I really don’t know how I’m going to deal with that. I guess I don’t really have a choice but to sweep it under the rug. Maybe enough time has passed and we can pretend we don’t remember.
But I remember.
I remember exactly what it felt like to be kissed by him.
It was a kiss that erased my past.
Maybe that’s why I never ended up finding anyone last night.
I knew they wouldn’t even compare.
Manuel drops me off at the building, and after waving my pass through a few security checkpoints, I make my way into the first team building.
Yeesh.
I’m not a hippie-dippie kind of person, but I do believe in energies, and I can definitely feel the energy in the air as I walk down the hall.
It’s not good.
There’s an undercurrent of anger and hopelessness, a tension that seems to come from the walls. Bad vibes all around.
It’s also pretty quiet, even for siesta time. Usually there’s some noise somewhere.
I walk past Mateo’s office, but the door is closed and I don’t hear him inside. Maybe he really is sleeping. I want to apologize for missing this morning, but I don’t want to push my luck.
I then make my way to the physical therapy room, glad that I’m ten minutes early so I have enough time to prepare and get this hangover under control.
Except Alejo is already there.
Sitting on the table, his back facing me.
Wearing the light blue shirt he uses for training, the same shirt that makes his eyes look icy cold.
I breathe in deep through my nose, ignoring the queasiness in my stomach, and walk over to him.
“I didn’t think you’d be here so soon,” I tell him.
“I’m always here early,” he says without turning around.
“No you’re not. You’re always late.”
He finally looks at me, and for a moment, the breath is knocked out of my lungs. Shit, I didn’t think looking at him would feel so vibey.
He frowns. “Are you okay?”
“Do I not seem okay?”
“I heard you weren’t here this morning and” —he gestures with his finger at my face— “this isn’t the face of someone who is okay.”
I give him a funny look, wondering what the hell kind of face I’m making, then go straight to the mirror.
Okay. I’m not sure how I managed to miss it this morning, but I have last night’s mascara smudged under my eyes. I thought I’d washed it off, but I didn’t even put on makeup after to make up for it.
“Ugh,” I say, going over to the shelves and bringing a kit down. I take out a cotton pad and some coconut oil and quickly wipe it under my eyes, then rub a bit of oil on my face for good measure, slicking some back in my ponytail too.
At least I remembered to brush my teeth.
I walk back over to him. “Better?”
He gives me a small smile. “I don’t think you could ever look bad.”
“You should have seen me when I first woke up,” I point out, happy that so far things don’t seem too weird.
“Why? Are you hung over? Is that what’s wrong with you?”
I nod. “Took myself on a date last night. Had too much sangría. I’m a cheap drunk but not a cheap date.”
“You couldn’t find anyone to take you on a date?” he asks, his voice quiet.
“I wasn’t really trying,” I say. I clear my throat, putting my hand on my hip. “Besides, it was fun. I had fun. But they don’t really serve sangría in single servings. It’s the whole pitcher or it’s nothing.”
“I’d be more than happy to share a pitcher with you,” he says. “So you don’t have to take yourself on a date.”
I open my mouth to say something dismissive but he keeps going. “In fact, I make a really good batch of sangría. The best in Madrid.”
“Oh, you do?” I raise a brow.
“At least the best on the team.”
“Okay.” I’m smiling at his sincerity.
“We could skip the session right now and I’ll go make you some. I can drive us to the store. Let’s go.”
He makes a move to get off the table, but I press my hand down on his thigh to keep him in place. Okay, maybe I’m a little too close to him now but…
“You’re awfully impulsive,” I tell him.
The corner of his mouth curls up in a sheepish smile and I know he’s thinking of our kiss.
And now I’m thinking of it too.
It’s hard not to when I’m touching his warm, muscular thigh and staring at his gorgeous mouth.
“Is that a bad thing?” he asks gently. “Sometimes it’s better to just do something than think about it.”
“Yes,” I say carefully, giving him a warning look with my eyes. “And sometimes you can get in trouble by acting without thinking.”
“Am I in trouble?”
My brow shoots up. Obviously we’re now talking about it.
“No.” I swallow, feeling caught in a million different feelings and a million different ways I could handle things. “But you could have gotten me in trouble.”
That has a sobering effect on him. His face falls, eyes growing serious. “I am sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry,” I tell him, biting my lip and looking away. I just don’t know what the right thing to say is here. “Let’s just forget about it. Put it past us.”
He pauses. “Are we talking about sangría right now?”
I burst out laughing and smack him across the shoulder. “You know what we’re talking about.”
He grins back at me, fucking cheeky devil. “I don’t know. You’re hung over. Maybe you’re not making much sense.”
“I’m making sense,” I tell him, putting on my serious business face. “Now, have you been doing the exercises every morning and evening?”
“Yes,” he says. “Of course. I just want to get better.”
“You’re getting there. Do you think the yoga helped at all?”
“In what way?”
I stare at him. “Your muscles. Your flexibility.”
“Maybe.”
“Well, I honestly think we should continue.”
“Is that a good idea?”
“Why not? Are you planning on kissing me ag
ain?”
And there it is.
He bursts into a smile. “Do you want the truth?”
I raise my hand in front of his face, blocking that devastating grin. “No. I don’t. Look, I think it’s a good idea. Come on, no one’s here. Let’s do it right here.”
He hesitates. “The…yoga?”
“Yes, the yoga. Okay, fine. Come here.”
I grab his arm and tug at it until he gets off the table looking bewildered, then I lead him all the way to the warm-up room.
It’s empty, except for the Croatian, Luka, who is using the basketball net.
“Hey, Luka. I’m teaching Alejo yoga. You don’t mind, do you?”
Luka grins at Alejo in such a way that I know it’s going to get under his skin. “I don’t mind.”
“Thanks a lot,” Alejo mutters to me under his breath.
“I’m sure your machismo can handle it,” I tell him as I head to the corner of the room and pull out one of the mats. The warm-up room floor is entirely made of turf, the same as the stadium, but he’s going to need the extra support.
For Alejo’s sake, I make him start off by facing me in the easy not-quite cross-legged pose, his back to Luka, who is watching us curiously.
I go through a few rounds of just focusing on his breathing, and to be honest, being under the bright lights, having Luka nearby, the door open to the hall, I feel like my old self, back into the role of therapist and patient.
I concentrate on healing Alejo the best that I can, and he responds by giving it his all, even with an audience.
We go through many modified, easy poses, getting into a natural flow, as I do the same moves beside him.
At the end, I tell him to lie on his back and close his eyes, imagining sinking into the floor. It’s only now, though, that I notice Luka had left at some point. I don’t blame him. Yoga is a pretty silly thing to watch if you’re not doing it.
“Bobo,” I say out loud.
“¿Qué?” Alejo asks, opening one eye.
“Keep your eye closed. I’m just remembering the word for silly.”
“Sí, Bobo. Are you trying to learn Spanish now?”
“Actually, I think I should start taking it seriously. I don’t want Mateo to keep translating shit when he’s talking to you guys or the doctor. I live in Madrid now. Spain is my home. I need to assimilate.”
The Younger Man: A Novel Page 14
