Lessons in Gravity (Study Abroad #2), page 6
Taking your coffee to go is a relatively new concept in Spain. We’re big believers in sitting down to enjoy a meal, whether it’s a quick espresso and croissant in the morning or ten rounds of tapas and vino de la casa—the house wine—at a restaurant at night. Meals are never rushed, and they are usually shared with people you love—friends, family, significant others. It’s one of the things I missed most while I was on the road. Who wants to slurp a lukewarm latte from a paper cup while running off to work in the morning? Call me old school, but I find that idea a bit depressing.
“As much as I hate to say it, it’s probably a good idea to get it to go,” I reply. “I’m supposed to be at the monastery at one.”
Maddie and Viv slide out of the booth and head for the espresso bar.
Once they’re out of earshot, I lean across the table and pin Rafa with the nastiest glare I can muster. “Listen, mate, what the hell do you think you’re doing? You know I’m supposed to meet María Carmen at the monastery.”
He shrugs, like it’s no big deal he just ruined the day I’ve been looking forward to for months. “Carmen has a boyfriend, yes?”
“Yes, but—”
“And Maddie, she is hurting, Javi. She drinks all these cappuccinos because she can’t sleep. She is too sad over her parents. You don’t like it when people are hurting—”
I scoff, so loudly the couple at the table next to us look up from their mugs.
Rafa looks at me. “You know what I mean. You hated seeing your mother hurting after your father passed away. I know you hate seeing Maddie hurting, too, even if she did not treat you very well last weekend. You’re the only one who can help her right now, Javi. Please.”
“I can’t help her help her,” I say. “I have no idea what’s going on in her head. Yeah, I can help with her thesis. But isn’t that a superficial sort of help? Her pain seems…it goes really deep, Rafa.”
He shrugs again. I swear to God, if he shrugs one more time I’m going to launch out of my seat and tackle him. “Maybe. But you must begin somewhere. Her thesis is very important to her.”
“I’d really prefer not to get involved,” I say.
“You should prefer not to be involved with Carmen. She is your past. Time to look for your future.”
I’ve got a few choice words for my tit of a nephew about my future foot in his future ass, but then the girls are back at the table, and Rafa is saying something about having to go get tickets for the football match from his friend.
I look at Maddie.
Maddie looks at me, her lovely eyes hopeful, almost translucent in the bright morning light.
Goddamn it.
Chapter 6
Maddie
Javier looks down at his watch, the embossed leather strap shining dully in the light of the windows. It’s a simple watch with a large round face, the color of the clock itself slightly muted, like an old newspaper; the dial is marked in three different colors, two smaller circles set into the larger one. A vintage aviator’s watch, from what I can tell; a watch that’s ridiculously cool without even trying.
“We should get going, too,” he says a little gruffly, standing. “I told the guys I’d meet them at one.” He looks at me. “Are you ready?”
“Yes,” I say. “Ready. They didn’t have coffee to go, so one cup’ll have to do.”
I turn around in my chair to grab my puffer jacket, but it’s gone. I look up to see Javier holding it open for me, the faux fur of the hood poking up between his enormous, blunt-edged fingers.
Of course. I should’ve known Javier would help me with my coat.
“You Montoya men,” I say. “I don’t know if I’ve met two more polite dudes in my life.”
Although there was definitely nothing polite about Javier’s deliciously dirty talk in bed last weekend.
“My uncle, he takes after me,” Rafa says with a smile as he helps Viv into her coat.
“Thanks, Uncle Javier.” I turn around and awkwardly work with him to put it on. Guys in college don’t help you with your outerwear—underwear, yes, but outerwear? no way—and I’m not quite sure what to do with myself.
“Just Javier,” he says. His fingers brush the nape of my neck; a pulse of heat moves through me. “The uncle part is a bit creepy, don’t you think?”
Tugging up my zipper, I look over my shoulder and grin. “Depends what you’re into.”
“I’m into a lot of things.” He steps through the door and holds it open for me. “Vamos. I’m parked just up the lane.”
I struggle not to dwell on what, exactly, Javier means by I’m into a lot of things as we say our goodbyes to Vivian and Rafa. Hands tucked into our pockets, we make our way down the sidewalk. Javier makes no attempt to talk; awkward silence stretches between us.
I feel like a dick, frankly, for running out of his apartment the way I did on Sunday morning. Definitely not cool of me. But I was a teary, hungover mess, for one thing, and Javier’s kindness only made me want to cry harder. For another, I thought I’d never really see him again, so an explanation would be a waste of time anyway. Viv did say he isn’t in town that often. Why would he care why I ran?
But here we are, Javier and I, together again. I don’t think he wants to spend the day with me any more than I want to spend the day with him. I don’t care to revisit the whole crying-in-his-bed-while-I-yelled-at-my-dad bit, and I certainly don’t want to revisit my frankly childish escape from his apartment. The impulse to tuck tail and run is strong for me today, too, but Javier has the connection that just might make my thesis work. Enduring the awkwardness between us is worth it if it means acing the most important assignment of my college career.
I fight a very pressing sense of “who the fuck am I” as I climb into Javier’s truck. It’s a black Range Rover Defender, the kind I imagine the Queen drives while hunting prize pheasant or whatever on her Scottish estate. Like Javier’s watch, the Defender is beautifully vintage, the dings and scratches only enhancing its rugged appeal.
He closes the door behind me and makes his way to the driver’s seat; in true British fashion, it’s on the right hand side of the truck. I watch him move from behind the safety of my opaque sunglass lenses. There’s no two ways about it: he is cute as hell. His stride is long, unhurried. Restrained, even, like he’s holding back his strength; strength that ripples just beneath the surface.
Stop it, I tell myself. Javier was a one time hookup. I haven’t gone back for seconds this semester with anyone, and I don’t plan to start anytime soon.
Who in their right mind would want to take me on for more than a one night stand, anyway? I don’t think it’s any secret that I’m a fucking mess. A high functioning mess, sure, but still a mess. I mean, I’m no therapist, but I’d have to be an idiot not to know that feeling this way has a lot to do with my dad’s betrayal. He betrayed my mother. He betrayed me by making me feel like I was the one who blew up our family; he betrayed my sense of security, my trust in who he was and how he felt about me.
I loved my dad. I still do, as much as I hate to admit it. I thought he loved me, too. But you don’t treat someone you love the way he’s been treating me lately.
I feel like shit about it. I feel like shit all the time, actually. About my family. About myself. Nursing a painfully unrequited crush on Rafa—then again, what unrequited crushes aren’t painful?—certainly didn’t help. But the sex does sometimes. It may be a quick, stupid fix, but it’s a nice distraction from a pretty depressing reality.
Sometimes, when it’s late and I can’t sleep, I start to think that maybe I don’t deserve anything better than a hookup. If my own father treats me so badly, what does that say about me as a person? Am I not worthy of love, of respect?
I take a long breath through my nose, let it out in a puff of white cloud. I’ve started taking yoga classes to help me cope with—well, everything that’s gone wrong this semester. The deep “warrior breath” that I learned seems to calm my pulse a bit when nothing else does.
Inside the truck it smells like guy, a mix of shampoo and leather, a hint of cinnamon gum.
Needless to say, my calming yoga breath has the opposite of its intended effect. I shiver just as Javier opens his door and climbs in.
“Give the heat a moment—it doesn’t take long to warm up,” he says, turning the key in the ignition. The engine blares to life. “Christ, but it’s cold enough to freeze the balls off a brass monkey.”
“Ha!” I let out a bark of laughter. “I’ve never heard that before.”
“It’s a good one, isn’t it? One of my favorites I picked up from my time in England.”
“Is it always this cold in the winter here?”
Javier shakes his head. “This is quite cold for us—unusually cold.”
He reaches up and pulls down the sun visor, revealing a pair of gold-framed aviators he slides onto his head.
He shifts the truck into gear. Oh, dear Lord, it’s a manual.
Is there anything sexier than a guy in aviators who drives stick?
No. No, I don’t think there is.
I look away, focusing my gaze on the road ahead.
Javier glances over his shoulder and nudges the Range Rover into traffic. I feel his eyes on me. “You all right?”
I’m not sure what it is—the rumble of his voice, maybe, or the sweetness of his concern—but I shiver again.
Javier holds his palm up to a vent. “It’s getting there.”
“Thanks.” I tuck my chin into the collar of my jacket. “Yeah. Yes. I’m all right. You don’t have to be so polite with me all the time, you know.”
He doesn’t answer.
I look out the window. We’re crawling towards a big intersection, the buildings around us crowding out the sun. “So who’s this contact Rafa said you have? The one who works at the monastery?”
“An old friend.”
“An old friend?” I say, glancing at him with a smile. “That sounds interesting.”
“It’s not.” He changes gears. “She’s an acquaintance—someone I’ve known for a very long time.”
I cock a brow. “She? Wait, wait. This is the girl you were telling me about last weekend at Ático, isn’t it? The one you want but can’t have because she has a boyfriend.”
He shifts gears again, an authoritative thrust. The muscle along his jaw twitches. “Maybe,” he says at last.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Javier, relax.” I tuck my hands between my legs. “I won’t burst your little love bubble. If you want this chick, then by all means, go after her. I’ll even help you. Maybe distract the boyfriend while you work your suave Spaniard thing—”
“No,” he clips. “I can handle this on my own, thanks.”
“Have it your way,” I say. I look out the window again. The sound of the engine accelerating fills the space between us. “I really meant it when I said I appreciate your help. My thesis—it’s going nowhere. I’ve lost a lot of sleep over it.”
Javier glances at me. “Don’t you ever sleep?”
“Not really. I’ll be the first to admit I don’t handle stress very well, especially when it comes to my grades. So much of my future depends on my thesis. It’s hard not to worry about it when I’ve been stonewalled again and again by every palace and museum I reach out to. And I really do want to come back to Madrid for graduate school. It’d be so much easier to do that if I already have a solid foundation of research done—research I hope to do this semester.”
Rafa nods his head. “For a big city, Madrid can be a very small place. Sometimes it’s a good thing. We are protective of our history, if not always proud of it. But other times? Not so much. I’m sorry you haven’t made much headway. Perhaps today we might change that—in the end, Madrid rarely disappoints.”
I look at him, my gaze tracing the slopes and angles of his profile. Sharp nose, square jaw, shapely, full lips. “You really love it here, don’t you?”
“I do,” he replies. “It’s home. I was on the road for close to a year. I missed my city. I really missed my bed.”
“Yeah,” I say, the words coming before I can stop them. “I miss my bed, too. A lot.”
“Nothing like your own bed, that’s for sure,” he says. He looks at me. “Are you homesick?”
I look down at my hands, my chest tightening with a familiar ache. “Yes and no. Some days…some days, I guess, are better than others. I really love Madrid, and so far it’s been an awesome experience. It’s nice to get away for a while, you know, a change of scenery. But yeah, I definitely miss some things.”
Like my family. Not the family I have now—broken, angry, sad. I miss the family we were. Things were always good with us. Better than that. I used to think they were perfect. But now I know that perfect doesn’t exist.
“Where is home for you?” he asks.
“Atlanta,” I say.
“Georgia,” he says. “I’ve play—I’ve been there. I remember going to a concert at the arena where the basketball team plays.”
“Philips Arena. I know it well.”
Very well. Mom, Dad and I used to go to concerts there together all the time. The memory of us together, singing along to our favorite country star at the top of our lungs as mom snuck me sips of her beer, makes my chest hurt.
“It’s a cool spot,” I say.
Silence settles between us again. I twist my hands in my lap.
“Speaking of your home,” he says at last. “Are you going to tell me what happened last weekend?”
A knot tightens in my belly. I really, really don’t want to talk about this right now. But really, it’s awesome of him to help me out like this; the least I can do in return is explain why I ran out of his apartment like a lunatic.
I take a warrior breath.
“I’m sorry,” I say, letting it out. “For the way I behaved. You have every right to be mad.”
“I’m not mad.” He looks away. “Well. Perhaps a bit put off. I’ve never had someone run out on me like that.”
“I’m sorry,” I repeat.
“I was concerned,” he says. “Maddie, you were crying. In my bed. And then you just took off. I called Rafa and had him call Vivian to make sure you got home okay. I understand you may not want to talk about it, but you can’t disappear on me like that. It’s rude, for one thing, and worrisome for another.”
I swallow. “I’m really sorry. I acted like such a shit last weekend, and you—you’re being so cool, letting me tag along like this today. I’m sorry, Javier, I am. But I can’t—I really can’t talk about it right now. The why, I mean—why I was crying. And even if I could, you wouldn’t want to hear it. So much bullshit…” I shake my head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have left like that.”
“It’s all right,” he says, gruffly. “I just want to make sure you’re okay.”
I’m not. I’m so not okay. And I think he knows that.
But I’m not about to spill my guts to Javier on the way to a super cool monastery that may save my thesis.
“Thank you,” I say. “I mean that, Javier.”
Javier shifts again, weaving our way toward city center. I keep the focus on him as the streets get narrower, a zigzag of what were once ancient footpaths and medieval alleys. He navigates his truck through them with knowledgeable ease.
Where did you study, I ask. Oxford, he says, Music Theory and Political Science (how cool is that?). He tells me he plays guitar in his band. Who taught you to play it? I say. I taught myself, he replies, until I was a bit older, and my parents got me lessons.
Around us the city is close and beautiful, bathed in strident afternoon light. We pass Puerta del Sol, one of my favorite squares in the city, its picturesque inner courtyard teeming with well dressed Madrileños out for a Saturday stroll. Its famous bell tower presides over the pretty buildings that line the square, each one painted a warm Mediterranean shade: dusty red, taupe, yellow, white. The tiled roofs—terra cotta, total Spanish perfection—burn orange beneath a wide open winter sky.
Back home in Atlanta, I’d drive past ugly strip malls, big-box stories, and gas stations on my regular routes through the city. Not all of America is a suburban wasteland, of course, but very rarely do you get to pass a place as lovely or inspiring as Puerta del Sol while you’re out and about on a Saturday afternoon.
“We’re passing into the old city now,” Javier says, making a turn. “ ‘Puerta del Sol’ translates into the ‘door of the sun’. It used to be the old city gate.”
“So cool,” I say. “I did a little research on it myself when I first got to Madrid. I haven’t explored much of the old city, though, to be honest. I’m glad we’re heading that way.”
I ask more questions, Javier gives me more answers. He’s so easy to talk to, the flow of our conversation natural, unhurried. For the first time in forever, I don’t think about my parents, their heartache, my own. It’s like a breath of fresh air after spending months underwater.
It doesn’t hurt that he’s freaking adorable. He loves olives, his mom, and Pirates of the Caribbean; the only type of music he doesn’t like is country.
“Whoa,” I say. “Wait a minute. Wait a minute. You don’t like country music?”
“I can appreciate it as…um. As someone who’s into music,” he replies, guiding the truck down a street so narrow the side mirrors nearly touch buildings we pass. “But listening to it? I’d rather not. Why? Are you a country fan?”
“Big time. In high school, it was all I’d listen to. I may or may not have gone through a phase where I’d only date guys who drove pick-up trucks. Seriously, Javier, you’re missing out.”
“We’re going to have to agree to disagree on that one,” he says, glancing at me. “How’d you end up liking that twangy cack so much?”
“I don’t know what cack is, but I’m assuming it’s not a compliment?”
“Definitely not. Como se dice en los Estados Unidos…”
Hearing him talk in easy, languid Spanish—how would you say it in the United States?—makes my pulse hiccup.
“Crap, maybe?”
“Vale, that would probably work. That twangy crap.”
