“Was I snoring?” I ask, my voice even throatier than normal and thick with sleep.
“Snoring?” the girl repeats in a Nordic accent, turning to face me. She folds her thin arms across her chest and leans against the bed. “No. More like yelling.”
I swallow, feeling shame wash through me. I ignore it.
I slowly sit up and give her a wry grin, the room seeming off-kilter. “Sorry about that. Night terrors.”
“It’s four in the afternoon.”
“Day terrors, then.”
“You must be jet lagged,” she points out.
That explains why the minute I got into the hostel and claimed my bunk bed this morning, I crawled into that bed and passed out. Everyone had warned me about the jet lag, but because I actually slept for most of my flight from Houston to Lisbon, I thought I would be spared. Guess not.
“I feel like ass,” I mumble, sucking my tongue through my teeth. Gross. “My mouth tastes like ass, too.”
I glance up at the girl who is staring at me with a very serious expression on her face. She’s super pretty, fairly tall and thin, round face, high cheekbones, straight blond hair that I can tell has never seen a lick of dye or a straightening iron. Though she’s got a tan, freckles are scattered across her face and arms.
“I’m guessing you’re my roommate,” I tell her.
“One of them,” she says. “Should I be concerned you know what an ass tastes like?”
Her expression is so serious, I can’t tell if she’s joking or not. Finally, there’s a hint of sparkle in her eyes. Good. I know I’m not for everyone.
“I’m Ruby,” I tell her, extending my hand.
“Elena,” the girl says, stepping over and giving mine a very firm shake.
“Wow, good grip,” I tell her.
She shrugs. “Same to you. Is this your first time in Lisbon?”
A simple question but that’s when it hits me.
That I’m here.
That I did it.
I’m finally free.
I break into the widest grin and let out a loud laugh. “Yes! Yes. Sorry, it’s just this is the first time I’ve been anywhere. I can’t believe I actually did it.”
“You’ve never been to Europe before?” She frowns, as if the idea is preposterous.
I nod. “I know. Typical American, right? Never leaving their soil. But hey, now that I’m here, I have zero intentions of going back. I never did. I’m here to stay.”
Another quizzical look follows. “You’re on a university break or round the world trip?”
I shake my head. “I’m here to live. Period.”
Elena stares at me for a moment, probably figuring out if I’m nuts or not.
“Okay,” she says. “Cool.”
“And you?”
“I’m also here to live,” she says, a small smile on her face. “But just for a couple of weeks. Then I’m heading down to Algarve. My aunt has a house there.”
“Where are you from?”
“Helsinki.” She pauses. “Finland,” she adds, as if I don’t know where Helsinki is. “I’m in between jobs at home and thought I would get some sun while I’m at it. It’s been a cold, wet spring back home.”
She’s not boring me, but I can’t help but yawn, my body shuddering with exhaustion.
“Sorry,” I apologize for yawning. “I feel all out of sorts.”
“You’re going to feel that way for a while. I’d let you go back to sleep but it will only mess you up even more. Did you want to grab a drink or a coffee?”
“How about coffee first, then a drink?” I say. I get along with a lot of people, even though I’ve always kept my social circle small. But even so, I’m grateful that I’ve already made a friend and I only just got here. Seems what everyone was saying about the backpacking lifestyle was true—you’ll never be alone if you don’t want to be.
I slowly swing my legs over the side of the bed. My bad leg feels like lead, as it often does when I’m tired, and I don’t think I’ve ever felt this exhausted. Well, not counting the months and months after the injury.
I’m still wearing the clothes I wore on the plane, since I just crawled into bed immediately after checking in, and one sniff of my pits lets me know I stink.
“I’m going to do us both a favor and have a quick shower,” I tell her, carefully getting to my feet.
“Good idea,” she says. “Not that I can smell you from here, but it will wake you up. I’ll be in the lounge.”
Elena grabs her purse and walks off and I pull my backpack out from under the bed and start rifling through it for clothes. Everything seems like a dream at the moment and I have no idea what the weather is even like. I go over to the windows that overlook a narrow street and glance at the people passing on the cobblestones below. It’s May, but it seems like May in Houston, hot and sunny already.
I grab a pair of jean shorts, an artfully distressed Rolling Stones t-shirt, plus tennis shoes, and head to the communal bathrooms. It should be weird sharing a bedroom and bathroom with people, but this just reminds me of college whenever I’d go and stay with Julie at the dorms for a few days. Which reminds me, I should message her on Facebook and let her know I’m all right. She’s gone to New York for an internship and is super busy, so we don’t talk as often as we used to.
After I shower and get changed, I pull my hair back into a wet braid, too lazy to blow-dry it, I swipe on some mascara and red lipstick, and head out into the lounge to meet Elena.
She’s sitting alone on a giant couch across from a TV that’s playing a show about Lisbon sightseeing, flipping through a magazine when she looks up at me.
“Where’s your passport?” she asks.
I blink at her for a moment and then pat my crossbody bag. “In here.”
She shakes her head. “You won’t need it out there. I’d ask the front desk to put it in their safe for you. Lisbon is fairly safe, but tourists do get mugged. One swipe of a knife and they’ll cut your purse clean off of you.”
Probably one of the things I should have prepared for before I came here. Lord knows I’d done nothing but look forward to this trip, and I’d briefly thought about investing in one of those money belts you wear. But planning things isn’t really my strong suit, I prefer to figure things out as they happen and go with the flow.
So we drop off my passport with Sonia, the Croatian girl who works the front desk, and we step outside into the streets of Lisbon.
I have to admit, I don’t remember much on the cab ride in from the airport. My brain was already in a dream, and I was taking in the sights like I was underwater. Now that I’m a little more awake (the shower definitely helped me feel like a new woman), my senses are paying attention.
The hostel is located at the top of a hill in the Bairro Alto area, which I picked because it’s supposed to be a hip and edgy neighborhood, and I can see that they were right. The air is filled with cigarette smoke from twenty-somethings passing by, and loud music from cafes where people are drinking along tiny tables on the sidewalk. The buildings are done up in soft shades of yellow, interspersed with intricate tile work, but every now and then there’s a dash of graffiti, which brings a gritty edge to this pretty city.
Elena seems confident in where she’s going, so I follow, happy to just be out and about, even if things seem a little swimmy. Eventually she finds a cool café across from the tracks where the yellow trams trundle past, and we grab a seat outside.
“I take it you’ve been to Lisbon before,” I tell her as we sit down.
“A couple of times,” she says. “This is the first time I’ve been alone. I used to come with my boyfriend, but we broke up a few months ago.”
“At least when you’re single you can do things on your own time, your own way.”
“Yes, that’s true,” she muses as the waiter comes by. He’s about my age, maybe older, super cute with curly black hair and a nice smile.
We order coffee and I guess Elena catches me checking ou
t his ass as he walks away because she goes, “I take it you don’t have a boyfriend.”
I laugh. “Was it that obvious? No. No boyfriends for me.”
“Just be careful with Portuguese men,” she says after a moment.
“Why?”
“Because my ex is a Portuguese man,” she says knowingly. “They’re a lot of fun, but they do bring the drama. And heartache.”
I give her a dismissive wave. “I’m not looking to date anyone, believe me. I’ll have my fun here, but if anything, the men are the ones who have to watch out for me. I’ll break their hearts before they even have a chance to break mine.”
She smiles. “That’s a very proactive approach.”
“I’m just here to have fun, not get attached. I have a job to do.”
The waiter brings us back our coffees, winking at me while he gives me mine.
Shit. Okay, I know what I just said about not getting attached, but I could definitely be down with some random hookups with hot Portuguese men.
“And what job is that?” she asks, taking a sip of her latte.
“I’m a sports reporter,” I tell her.
“Really?”
I nod. It feels weird to say it. In fact, this is the first time I’ve said it out loud. “I started my own blog last year and decided to come to Europe where I could really cover the games and be immersed in the sports culture. I don’t have a lot of readers yet, but I’m working on it. Then, when that happens, I can use my blog as a stepping-stone to on-camera sports reporting.”
“What games?”
“Soccer. I mean, football. You know.” I pour two packets of brown sugar into my black coffee. “It just isn’t that big back home, not like it is here, so I figured I might as well get the hell out of Dodge and further my career at the same time.”
“And is Dodge where you lived?”
I laugh. “No. Born and raised in Houston. Texas.”
“I figured. Your accent.”
“That’s going to be a dead giveaway here, isn’t it? No wonder you thought I’d get mugged. Also, my dad raised me and he’s from Boston, so I do this weird thing where my accent cycles.”
“And what did you do in Houston? Other than the blog?”
“I just graduated college,” I tell her. “Okay, technically we haven’t had our ceremony yet and I don’t have the diploma, but I’m done and that’s all that matters.”
“What did you study?”
“Journalism. But I got there on a multi-year equivalency scholarship for soccer. Had a good run too until I fucked up my leg. Doctors took one look at me and told me I’d never play again.”
I stick out my left leg and point to the massive scar that runs along my thigh. I know she noticed it earlier, everyone does, but I don’t really give a fuck, which is why when I want to wear shorts or skirts, I’ll wear them. The scar tells a story. It’s just not a particularly good one.
“What happened?” she asks quietly as she eyes the scar.
“Have you seen the Horse Whisperer?” I ask. “Well, it was like that movie, except the horse is okay and nobody died except my dreams.” I make sure to laugh, so that I don’t bum Elena out. “Anyway, I should have known better and it is what it is. Now I’m here and I’m making the best of it.”
She nods thoughtfully, though she manages to look a little melancholy despite my shrugging it off.
It’s then that the waiter comes by again.
“How are your coffees?” he asks in his accented English.
“Perfect,” I tell him, leaning back in my chair and grinning up at him, hoping I don’t have red lipstick on my teeth. “What’s your name?”
“Jorge.”
“Jorge,” I say. “I’m Ruby. I have a question for you. Which football team should I be cheering for, Sporting or Benfica?” I ask, listing the two main teams in the city.
“Sporting, of course.” He looks aghast that I even asked that question.
“Perfect. Thank you, Jorge,” I tell him. “Can I get a glass of your house white wine?”
He seems a bit confused at my jump in subject but nods. “Of course. Anything for you?” he asks Elena.
“I’ll take a cider,” she says.
He walks off and she gives me a curious look. “I figured you would know who to cheer for already.”
I shrug. “I’ve watched both teams play a lot online, but I never really had a pull to either one. It’s different in Spain, which will be my next stop after this. There I’m a Barcelona fan, all the way.”
“So why did you pick Lisbon?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. It sounds dumb, but it was closest. Then when I started reading about it, it looked like a good place to have my first step into Europe.”
“You’re right about that. It’s a pretty special place and if you like football, the games are easier to see and the fans really passionate.”
I take another sip of my coffee, feeling strangely woozy from the jet lag, despite the sunshine and heat, and yet I’m excited at the same time. Over and over again it’s occurring to me that I’m here. I made it. All that dreaming of what it would be like to set foot in Europe, in Lisbon, and now it’s happening and I’ve got so much space and time ahead of me, it’s…well, daunting.
And now, thanks to Jorge, I have a bit of purpose.
I have picked a team, Sporting.
Next thing to do will be to see if I can interview anyone from that team and put it on my blog. Of course, I’ll also go to a few games and write it up, but that comes with the job. But an interview with someone important on the team, perhaps a rising star, well, that could put my blog in the right direction. It’s all about making contacts, I know that much.
When Jorge comes back with our drinks, I ask him to stay a minute. I can tell from the way he’s looking at me that he thinks I’m hitting on him. I’m not, not really, but I don’t mind if he thinks that way. He’s pretty to look at.
“Jorge,” I say to him sweetly. “Since you’re such a big fan of Sporting, who is your favorite player? And who do you think is the one to look out for? You know, someone with potential.”
He smiles. “It would be the same person for both. Luciano Ribeiro.”
My mind quickly flicks through the players until I remember who Luciano is. He’s handsome. Hot. Often smiling. Plays centre back. Awfully fast.
“Hasn’t he been out for a while because of an injury?” I ask.
Jorge sighs despondently. “Yes. His shoulder. Since January. We had hoped he would play this season, but probably not until August. They say he is better though.”
Hmmm. If Luciano isn’t even playing right now, it’s probably easy to get an interview with him. Then I can cross that off my career bucket list, and spend a few weeks in Lisbon enjoying the games until I head up to Porto for a bit until I go to Spain.
I finally have a plan.
Two
Luciano
When I was a boy, my father used to tell me the story of the maiden who came from the sea. I don’t have that many clear memories of my father these days; I think most of them have slowly dissolved, like the smoke that lingered after his cigarette had burned out. But I do remember he’d sit me down every so often, and he’d open his book of Portuguese folk tales, and he’d read me a story or two.
The maiden that came from the sea was about a poor fisherman on the Cantabrian coast. My father described the scent of the salt air and freshly-caught fish, he described the callouses on the man’s hands, and the sense of loneliness that clung to his meager life. When the man was about to throw his line out in hopes of getting one last catch of the day, he looked out at sea and was blinded by the sun glinting off the water. Through that blinding light, he thought he saw the shape of a woman walking out of the surf. Long dark hair, a shapely figure, she glowed like an angel so much that when he closed his eyes to the brightness, he saw the image of her imprinted on the back of his eyelids.
He threw the line out anyway, hoping to catch her.
<
br /> I don’t remember how the rest of the story goes, if he ever caught her or not, or what the moral of the fable was. Perhaps my father lost interest, just as he lost interest in me.
At any rate, I’m sitting in the fourth row of the stands at the training complex, staring out over the pitch when movement brings my eyes over to the aisle. The sun is low, just about to dip below the opposite side of the stadium, when I see what I think is the maiden of the sea.
I wince at the light, the shape of a woman walking toward me. Long dark hair. Small waist, wide hips. She’s backlit and glowing and I’m brought back to that fable, like being visited by an old friend from the past.
But then I pull my aviator shades down off the top of my head and the light is put at bay and the world comes into focus.
There really is a woman walking up the stairs toward me, although as she gets closer I see she’s quite young. Maybe twenty.
She staring at me with a big smile on her face, the kind of smile that might take your breath away if you’re not too careful.
“Luciano Ribeiro, right?” she says to me in an American accent. “Your brother said I’d find you here.”
I blink at her, as if in a dream. My brother, Marco, had told me I had an interview with someone from some sports magazine. I don’t really ask these days because the articles are always the same, they talk about my injury, they talk about what my next step is, and if I’ll stay with Sporting, and the answer is always: I don’t know.
The last thing I expected was to see some girl with impossibly full lips and dancing blue eyes coming toward me.
“That’s me,” I tell her, slipping into English and giving her a smile. It’s easy to smile at her. “And you are?”
“Oh, sorry,” she says, standing a few feet away and twisting her body slightly so that the sun is no longer behind her and I can get an even clearer look. “I’m Ruby Turner,” she says, holding out her hand. “I’m a writer.”
The One That Got Away: A Novel Page 2
