Lessons in Gravity (Study Abroad #2), page 8
I blink. The possessiveness that prickles inside my skin takes me off guard.
Maddie isn’t mine. Never was and never will be.
Still, I find myself staring down Leo as he touches her.
“Oh!” Maddie says, looking down at his hand on her hip. Her lower, almost-lady-groin-area hip. “Oh, aren’t you, um, friendly. Mucho gusto, I guess?”
I quickly untangle Maddie from his grasp, keeping her close beside me lest Leo is feeling especially ornery this afternoon.
“Ha-lo, Maddie,” he says. “I have enchanted to meet her. You have a yearning for doing it together?”
She blinks. “A yearning? To do—do what? I don’t know—um—”
“Doing it!” Leo gestures at the guitar hanging from a strap at his pelvis. “Together! The music. I have played guitar, and you do the singing? The songs!”
“Oh!” she says again, letting out a small trill of relieved laughter. “No, no, I’m not part of the band. I’m just here to watch. To see the monastery.” She waves her hand above her head, gesturing at the ornately frescoed ceiling.
Leo, clearly having understood none of what she just said, smiles and nods. He gestures to his pelvis again. I wince. “Watch my part? Yes!”
Maddie looks at me. “Help.”
“There is no helping him,” I say, shaking my head as I angle my body between the two of them. “I can, however, protect you from that weird Elvis thing he’s doing with his…you know.”
I explain to Leo that Maddie is a friend of Rafa’s, which means she’s a friend of mine.
I speak Spanish, Leo, Maddie says in that cute accent of hers. Would that be easier for you?
“I am the need practice the English,” he replies. “If good to you, we speak it together, vale?”
“Sure.” She glances at me, a grin playing at her lips. “Of course. I’m happy to help you with your English. So you play the guitar—do you guys write your own music? Are you classically trained, too?”
Leo smiles and nods again. I let out a bark of laughter and quickly translate what Maddie is saying into Spanish.
Vale, Leo laughs. The Spanish is better for this, yes. I help Javier write a little bit, but right now he has not been writing much. He is very good at writing hooks—
Maddie looks at me, brow furrowed.
“Hooks,” I translate. “It’s the part of the song that makes it catchy. It could be a turn of phrase, a riff, a chorus—whatever has you singing it in the shower.”
She nods. “So basically Taylor Swift is the queen of writing hooks.”
“Absolutely,” I reply, trying—and failing, quite miserably—not to imagine Maddie singing “Shake it Off” while lathering up in that shower we never got to take together. She’d be all long legs and slippery skin, hot to the touch.
I swallow, hard. Why the hell am I thinking about Maddie when I want to find forever with Carmen? I need to get a grip. Now.
With no small effort, I shove the glistening shower image from my head. “T. Swift is a genius in that regard. I’ve actually studied her songs a great deal.”
“I thought you said you didn’t like country.” Maddie cocks a brow.
“Taylor went pop a while back, didn’t she?”
“Point taken,” Maddie says. “I’m so excited to hear what you’ve come up with.”
You should be more excited about the acoustics of this place, Leo says. We’re going to sound a lot fucking better than we actually are.
“Do you guys have a name?” she asks. “The band, I mean.”
Leo and I look at each other.
“Yet no,” Leo says. “Javi, he has four or six bad ideas.”
“They’re not that bad,” I say.
Leo looks at Maddie. “They are very bad. For example, there is the Gods of the—”
“Nope,” I say. “Nope nope nope. It’s bad luck to tell people our band name before we’ve officially decided. We have plenty of time to come up with—uh—other options, if we don’t like what we have.”
“Chicos, chicos,” Carmen is saying from the first row, I only have you booked for two hours, then the next performers have the stage.
It’s two hours we can’t afford to waste. Yes, we’re paying for the practice time—not even the really famous bands get to practice at the monastery for free. But what really matters is the fact that we would’ve never been considered for the slot if it wasn’t for María Carmen. She did me a solid by putting my as-yet-unnamed band on the schedule this month and next. We have a lot of ground to cover in that small bit of time.
It’s stupid, I know—she’s got a serious boyfriend, for God’s sake—but I can’t help but wonder if she went so far out of her way to help me and my band because she still has feelings for me.
A man can only hope.
Chapter 8
Javier
I quickly introduce Maddie to the rest of the band—Sergio, Martín, and Pablo, who, for reasons I don’t want to know, insists on being called Ricky B.—before I take off my jacket and flip open my case and duck under my guitar strap, settling it over my right shoulder. A semicircle of chairs is set up in the center of the stage. We sit. My fingers find the strings, moving over them with mindless ease as I tune the guitar. Since this is just practice, the guys and I aren’t plugged into any amplifiers or speakers; we’re one-hundred-percent acoustic this afternoon.
But even without all that power, I think Leo may be right. The church is going to make us sound lovely.
I look up, searching for María Carmen in the gaping vastness of the church.
Instead I meet eyes with Maddie.
She’s sitting in the front row beside Carmen. Maddie smiles, offering a little wave. A beam of light from the stained glass windows above stretches across her row, coating her dark hair in a halo of violet. She glances up at the window, that look of disbelieving awe softening her features as her eyes move up, up, always up. There is so much to see here at the monastery.
I’m smiling now. I adore her curiosity.
María Carmen clears her throat. My gaze snaps to her face. She smiles, too, that high-wattage, movie star smile of hers that is so beautiful it once upon a time kept me awake at night. She’s a gorgeous girl, no doubt about that. But looking into her wide, thickly-lashed eyes, I’m surprised that I don’t feel that heady rise in my chest like I used to.
It’s probably just that I don’t feel things as potently as I did as a teenager. Everything is a big deal when you’re that young. And Carmen was my first—well, she was my first everything.
I’ve missed her. For months now I’ve fantasized about coming back home after the tour, and settling down with a girl like Carmen. I know she wants what I want. She wants to commit to someone, to make a home in Madrid with him.
“Estás listo, Javi?” Leo asks. Are you ready?
Ready, I say. Let’s start with “The Girl”.
It’s my favorite song that we’ve written so far. I’m still working on the lyrics, but I think I’ve got the riff down. I ease into the first notes, a complex bit of toque—in flamenco, it’s the guitar component of the song, in addition to the singing, clapping, and dancing—and the guys join in a beat later.
The music sprawls through the church. Timidly at first, as if the notes are trying the space on for size. But as the song gains momentum, it swells around us, a throaty echo that makes my blood sing. I close my eyes, reveling in the sound; reveling in the feeling of being here, now, playing my song with my band.
It feels right.
It feels like home.
Finally. Finally. I’m here.
I open my eyes. I open my mouth. I start to sing, smoothing out the lyrics as I go. Leo meets my eyes and grins, going to town on his guitar. This, being surrounded by old friends, an old stage, and even older art, is exactly what I needed.
Our nameless band’s sound is still evolving. We’re not flamenco, exactly; there are no gorgeous dancers twirling in front of us, or old men with big voices trilling about the grief of thwarted love. I’d like to think we’re two parts classical Spanish guitar, one part pop, one part rock. I listen to all kinds of music—except, of course, country—and our sound (hopefully) reflects all those different influences.
I’m aware of Maddie’s eyes on me as I tap out the beat with my foot. I can’t help but get into the song, rocking in my chair, ducking my head in time to the tune. It’s impossible for me to hide my passion, especially when I’m on stage. It’s one of the things that landed me a spot in Juan’s band.
Now, witnessing the way this venue’s wildly beautiful acoustics amplify my music, it’s all I can do not to leap from my chair and wiggle my butt all over the place.
I’m glad I possess some semblance of self-control. I don’t want to make a fool of myself in front of Maddie, even though I think she wouldn’t hold my dancing against me. She starts to clap to the beat, a smile splitting her face. Carmen reluctantly joins her a few moments later, her claps contained and ladylike.
I stumble on a note, and like dominoes the guys behind me fall flat, too. But looking around at their faces, I can tell they’re having a good time. We laugh it off and start in on the next song, loosening up as we go, having fun.
Looks like Maddie’s having fun, too. She’s standing now, hands clasped at her chest. Her smile is still there, bigger than ever. She sways to the beat, moving her hips in a slow circle, shimmying her legs.
Those legs. Long, lithe, shapely legs. They go on for days and days, curving into hips that are just—gah. They are everything.
Maddie digs her phone out of her pocket and holds it up, meeting my eyes. She’s asking if she can take some pictures. I nod, glad to see that smile of hers stay in place. Before—when she talked about being homesick—I caught a flicker of sadness in her eyes. Deep sadness, the bottomless kind.
I know Maddie has some not so awesome stuff going on in her life right now. I don’t need to dig into that stuff; she said she didn’t—couldn’t—talk about it. But I’m glad I can light Maddie up for a little while at least.
I’m glad I can make her smile. Maybe because her enthusiasm for my band and my city—well, the monastery, at least—makes me smile.
***
Maddie
The second Javier puts his hands on the acoustic guitar, I can tell he knows what he’s doing.
His fingers move effortlessly, knowledgeably, along the neck of the guitar, the veins in his forearms and biceps bulging against his skin as he smiles and the band begins to play.
I snap a few pictures of Ricky B. singing; of Leo crooning as he plucks a beat on his guitar. They sound great, if a little rough around the edges, their music a mishmash of rock and pop and more than a little of flamenco. It’s impossible not to bob your head to the beat; their enthusiasm is nothing short of joyous.
Leo was spot on about the acoustics. There may be just four guys and their instruments on stage, but the church makes it sound like there’s twice as many guys up there, playing twice as many instruments. It’s mind-blowing, listening to a local flamenco-rock-pop band in a five hundred year old venue. Definitely one of those “I’m so glad I studied abroad this would never happen in America” moments.
I aim my phone at Javier last. He comes into focus on the screen, the blurry outline of his shape sharpening, suddenly, into a whole that makes my entire being pulse with awareness. His body sways ever so slightly to the beat while he plucks a complex, flamenco-esque tune. Between notes, his fingers slide up and down the strings, making them gasp.
For several heartbeats I don’t take a picture; I just watch him on the screen, my heart working double time, my blood dancing. The features of his face tighten, unfurl, tighten again. It’s like he feels every note, feels the song in a way the other guys on stage don’t. I’ve never seen someone look so passionate or absorbed in what they’re doing.
And he’s good. Like, really good.
During the chorus, Leo sings along with Javier. Their voices intertwine, rising and falling as they sing about a girl who left, or maybe it’s about them leaving a girl? I’m too distracted to translate the Spanish.
The guys play a slow song, a fun song. A song about the moon and a song about being on the road. I dance, I clap, I take pictures and videos. Beside me, Carmen stands but doesn’t dance. Maybe the heels of her boots are too high, and she’s worried she’ll break her ankle if she tries. Whatever. She’s missing out—I don’t understand how you could not dance to this music. It’s sexy and fun, just like the guy who wrote it.
Javier leads the band into a pretty song about a pretty girl (I think). I lower my phone to get a look at the picture I just snapped, lit up on my screen. It’s actually all right. Grinning, I look up.
Javier is looking at me. He’s grinning, too.
The moment our eyes meet, something inside my chest twists.
His gaze is tinged with teasing heat. Desire warms between my legs; it squeezes my heart.
I clear my throat, shake my hair from my shoulders. Stop stop stop. This is ridiculous. I came to the monastery to work on my thesis, not to ogle cute Spaniards I’ve already slept with.
I don’t want Javier. And even if I did, he isn’t mine to have. It’s obvious he wants María Carmen.
He wants a gorgeous girl who is stable and Spanish. A girl who is capable of giving him el amor—the love—he’s looking for.
I am most definitely not that girl. Nor do I want to be.
I refocus my gaze on the screen on my phone. Javier is standing now. He rolls his hips, a sassy little smirk on his lips as he works this stripper move. The guy can dance, I’ll give him that.
The band plays for a solid hour, but I’m having so much fun it goes by in the blink of an eye. As they step down from the stage, I give them a round of applause so rousing I should be embarrassed—I mean, I’m this close to shedding a tear like a pageant mom whose toddler just won her first crown—but I don’t care. Javier and his fellow “Gods of Whatever” were awesome.
María Carmen crosses her arms. No clapping for her I guess.
“You enjoying our making music, yes?” Leo asks.
I smile. “You guys were great.”
“Photos.” Leo points to my phone. “To me show please?”
I slide my thumb across the screen and pull up my photo albums. Leo watches as I scroll through the photos.
“Dios mío.” He digs a hand into his hair. “I look like…how do you say? Un pendejo.”
“Oh, come on,” I say. “You don’t look like an asshole. You’re adorable.”
A shot of Javier appears on the screen. Then another. And another. I scroll a little faster; I didn’t realize I’d taken so many pictures of him.
“Speaking of assholes—that guy is the biggest one I know.”
I jump at the sound of Javier’s voice. I look to see him hovering at my shoulder, pointing to the picture of him on the screen. Heat returns to my face with a vengeance. I click off my phone, stuffing it in my pocket like I’ve been caught red-handed.
“Hey,” I say, running my sticky palms down the front of my jeans. “Hey, Javier. That was an amazing set.”
“We need a lot more practice,” he replies. “And a lot more songs. But I’m glad you enjoyed our little jam session. This place is unbelievable, isn’t it?”
“I can’t get over it,” I say. “It’s beyond.”
His forehead is covered in a glistening sheen of sweat. The memory flashes through my mind: him ducking between my legs, my thumb wiping that sweat from his brow as my body rose to meet his mouth.
I bite the inside of my cheek. Stop.
I seriously need to stop. Hearing the monastery’s otherworldly acoustics solidified my complete and utter fascination with the place. I’ve been all over Madrid—all over Spain, thanks to a travel class required by our study abroad program—and no palace, garden, or walled city has spoken to me the way The Monastery of the Humble Royals has. I even have the goose bumps to prove it.
I’m also running out of time. In less than two months I’ll be heading back stateside, and it will be too late to find the architectural inspiration I came looking for in Spain. I need to focus on my research, not on Javier’s toe-curling oral sex skills.
Leo and the other guys trickle out a side entrance, leaving me with María Carmen and Javier.
“Really,” I say. “Thank you both for having me here today. This place is just...there are no words to describe how much I love it here. It sounds kinda cheesy, but I feel like it has so much to say—the monastery. This room. Everything.”
Javier sets his guitar case on a nearby seat and ducks into his bomber jacket, flipping up the collar before giving the brass zipper a good tug to get it going.
“It casts a spell on you, doesn’t it?” he replies. He looks up, meets my eyes. “I’m glad you were able to come, Maddie.”
I look away. That’s certainly a change of heart.
“Yes,” Carmen says. “We always enjoy welcoming new visitors.”
“So, Carmen,” Javier says. “Maddie is working on putting together some information on historical preservation for her thesis. I understand the paperwork to apply for research here is something of a bear, but I wonder if we can’t help her skirt some of that mess? Perhaps introduce her to your colleagues at the foundation, get her familiar with the work they’re doing?”
“Claro.” Carmen meets Javier’s gaze. “I am happy to help Maddie. I’m the foundation’s youngest employee, yes?, so I don’t have very much influence. But I will see what I can do. Let me make some calls, talk to a few people.”
“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you so much. I really appreciate your help, María Carmen. Please, let me know if you need anything from me—I have recommendations, term papers, copies of my transcript—I’m happy to hand over any paperwork the foundation wants to see.”
Carmen finally looks at me. “I will let you know.”
“Awesome.” I say.
