Текст книги "Love, in English"
Автор книги: Karina Halle
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 26 страниц)
Chapter Seventeen
I don’t know how anyone got through the rest of the night. It was a shitshow of emotional carnage, just pure tear-soaked chaos worse than any Grey’s Anatomy episode.
It all started with the performances after dinner. With Manuel on guitar, Nerea gave a solo flamenco performance, the dress and shoes and everything, with Jerry singing another song. Soon, Sara and Beatriz joined in, and Antonio, Froggy Carlos, and Jorge stood behind them, clapping loudly on beat with the music.
There wasn’t a dry eye in the house after that, though there were some laughs after Angel distributed a tiny bronze pig figurine, with the words Acantilado carved on it, to each Anglo. He shook my hand, shook everyone’s hand, telling us all individually—and with tears in his eyes—that every Spaniard thanked us for our hard work and that we would be missed terribly.
I held the cold metal of the pig in my hands and looked up at Mateo sitting beside me, about to totally lose it.
He smiled down at me. “Something to remember us by.”
My lower lip trembled. I looked across the table at Claudia and Ricardo who were smiling at me with tears welling in their eyes as well.
As I said, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. It only got worse as the night fell and sangria started to flow. Everyone was drunk. I saw Lauren and Tyler making out and crying at the same time (which was really disturbing), big Antonio was hiding in the bathroom and drying his tears on Froggy Carlos’s sweater, Angel was wasted and publicly declared his love for Sammy—thank goodness she reciprocated with a very big, albeit sloppy, kiss.
I had people coming up to me, telling me that they were sorry they didn’t get to know me better, and I had others telling me they’d never forget me. The more sangria and beer I drank, the more I started saying the same shit. It was just one big red-nosed, mascara running cry fest. We should have all been committed.
As much as it was breaking my heart to stay there with everyone, my heart deserved to be with Mateo. When I couldn’t take anymore, I went over to him by the door where he was making polite conversation with Ed and Jorge.
“You wanted me to tell you more about the stars,” I said brightly to Mateo.
He suppressed a smile and nodded at Jorge and Ed. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”
We walked together into the dark of night then disappeared into the dark of my bedroom.
We collapsed onto the bed, our passion untempered by our sorrow, our mouths and hands seeking pleasure and joy, getting what we could from each other. I put all tears aside, all thoughts aside, and decided to just exist. We were pure, primal sex.
“Are you seeing stars yet?” I asked as he slid in and out of me, his thumb rubbing my clit in slow, building strokes.
“Only you,” he moaned in my ear. “My Estrella.”
Hours later, when we were finally satisfied, our bodies sweating and exhausted and overrun by the day, we settled under the blankets. I put my head on the crook of his arm, my fingers teasing the soft treasure trail of hair that led down toward his beautiful but overworked dick. I tried to live in the moment but the moment was passing us like the hands on a clock, and I knew that tomorrow night I wouldn’t be doing this; I would be sleeping on a plane.
I wouldn’t ever have this, this exact same wonderful thing, ever again.
The tears started flowing again, silently and steadily, until a sob escaped me. I was wrecked through and through.
Mateo gently kissed my tears away and brought me into his chest, his strong arms encompassing me. I could hear his heart beating loudly, smell his scent of ocean and musk. His rubbed his hand along my back and kissed the top of my head.
“There will be nights where you will feel alone and lost,” he murmured into my hair. “Where I will feel alone and lost. When that happens, I want us both to remember this, right now. Bring our thoughts back to this room, this moment. Where we aren’t lonely. Where we are both found.”
I swallowed a lump in my throat. “I hope it will be enough.”
“It will never be enough,” he said.
I drifted off to sleep in his arms.
* * *
The dry countryside rolled past the window, golden fields speckled with old stone barns and crumbling walls. Little by little, there were more gas stations, more houses, more yards, more fences. More traffic, more people, more concrete. The city of Madrid was getting closer and my love and life were getting further away.
I was at the very back of the bus, my head on Mateo’s shoulder. I had realized no one cared about anyone else anymore. Everyone on the bus, every Anglo, every Spaniard was either trying to deal with their own emotional distress or their own raging hangover. Some people, like tear-streaked Eduardo who had already puked into a bag, seemed to be dealing with both. The Spaniards were so passionate, wearing their emotions on their sleeve. I was going to miss that about them.
There was nothing I wouldn’t miss.
That morning, Mateo and I crawled out of bed and missed breakfast because we both had to pack. There was barely even any time for that. By ten o’clock, we were all piling into the bus and looking at Las Palabras for the last time. Well, unless we returned again. But even Becca had shining eyes—each time she came here, she was faced with saying goodbye again and again. I could come back to Las Palabras, too. But there would only be new people to miss.
And there wouldn’t be Mateo Casalles.
When we got closer to the city, the driver, Manolo, decided to put on the radio to try and perk people up. Unfortunately, Lana Del Rey’s “Summertime Sadness” came on. Totally not the right song for this bus.
“Kiss me hard before you go,” her dulcet voice sang. The lyrics were too real, hitting too close to home, the strings cutting deep. Tears were falling again from my eyes, another dam bursting.
I stood up. “Turn this sad shit off!” I yelled down the bus at Manolo, then sat back down in a huff. I think someone clapped. The radio went off and all you could hear were sniffles all around.
I could hear Mateo chuckle softly. I raised my head to look at him, hoping I hadn’t soaked his suit jacket too much. “What?” I asked.
“I’m going to miss your fire,” he said with a small smile.
Soon the bus was making its way down past a university and into the crowded, bustling, hot summer streets of the city. Traffic was swallowing us, and even though it could mean I would miss my plane, I relished each second we were at a standstill, like we were granted extra moments to steal away and put in our pocket.
Eventually though, we were moving again.
Time slipped by with each turn of the wheel. Panic slipped its claws into me, around my fragile neck. There would be no second chances.
I made sure no one was looking back at us. I quickly grabbed Mateo’s rough jaw and put my lips on his. A hard, closed-mouth kiss in which I could barely breathe. A tear flowed down my cheek and crept through the cusp of our lips. Salt and sadness.
I pulled back, my hand still on his jaw, trying to tell him everything I could before I wouldn’t have a chance. His eyes were wet and glossy, trying to tell me the same thing. We stared at each other like that until the bus pulled to a stop in front of the familiar entrance of the Las Palabras office.
We were here.
The month was over.
Everything was over.
We got off the bus and got our bags, and everyone went through the long process of officially saying goodbye to each other. Some people, like Dave and Polly and Becca, had time to kill and headed off to the bar for lunch. Others did a quick nod and hurried off to their loved ones who had come to pick us up. A few, like me and Mateo and Claudia and Ricardo, lingered around the bus. Only, they were more or less already home. Ricardo would go to Claudia’s apartment, Mateo would go to his house. I didn’t quite know where that was, but I knew who would be waiting for him.
And I was going home. I kind of wanted to die.
“When is your flight?” Claudia asked gently.
I talked through the pain. “In about two hours or so. Which means I guess I better get a cab, pronto.”
Mateo walked to the roadside and did that two-fingered whistle that nearly blew out your eardrums. When he walked back to me, he said, “Speaking of Spanish, I guess I never did teach you all the bad words.”
“Puta cona, vete a la mierda, punta, tonta, bastardo, pendajo, chinga tu madre,” Ricardo gleefully rattled off.
“Ricardo!” Claudia admonished him, smacking him on the chest.
I somehow managed to laugh, but it sounded like a hollow mask, a temporary band-aid. Then the cab pulled up to the curb and Mateo quickly gestured to the driver to wait a minute.
And there you had it.
This was it. This was the end.
Holy fuck.
I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.
I’d never be ready to say goodbye.
I stood there, looking at these three people in shock, afraid that if I moved, it would end. If I just stood there forever on that busy Madrid street full of workers heading to lunch, I wouldn’t have to say goodbye. We could just keep going and I could keep being happy, keeping feeling understood and loved. If I kept standing there, I’d never have to feel alone again.
Claudia came to me first, bringing me into a hug. She hugged hard and pulled away, smoothing the hair on my head, a waning smile on her lips. “You write to me, you text me, every day. Facebook, phone calls, I don’t care. I love you, girl.”
I clenched my jaw, trying to keep it together. I could only nod and try to smile. My eyes burned.
Ricardo came next. He didn’t say anything. He gave me two pecks on each cheek, patted me on the back, and that was it. But I caught a tear in his eye and that was enough to set my chin trembling.
He went back to Claudia, put his arm around her, and led her away to give me and Mateo privacy.
By now, the tears were spilling down my cheeks, my nose running. I quickly wiped it on my arm and almost smiled at how much of a mess I must have looked, my hair sticking to my wet face, my nose all red and snotty.
Mateo’s eyes crinkled, that beautifully soft look, and he came over to me with open arms. He swept me to him, embracing me as hard as he could. I gripped the back of his jacket like a lifeline, not caring if I was wrinkling it, and held on tight. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t feel my heart beat. I felt like I was stuck—trapped in panic, in pain, and the only reason I wasn’t falling to the ground and shattering like glass was because of his arms.
And then it all came out in a wet cry, the emotion unleashed. I needed to hold it together but my body was in a war of being so overcome with grief and sadness that it was locking up with the need to let everything go.
But I couldn’t let it all go. Not here. Not now. Not with him anymore.
That time was over. That little life I had for a month—that was over.
It was just a memory.
“Vera,” Mateo said gruffly into my ear, squeezing me tight. “Don’t give up on us.”
Then he relaxed, releasing me, and took a step back.
I caught my breath, gulping the air down. I stared at him, seeing the sorrow on his brow and in the tightness of his jaw. And I still couldn’t speak.
He raised his hand to wave.
I managed to wave back.
Then, using every ounce of will and energy I had left, I turned around and headed for the cab. The cab driver took my backpack and threw it in the trunk and gestured for me to get in the backseat.
I told myself not to look back.
But I did.
Mateo was still standing there, his hand raised. He then put his hand on his heart.
My breath hitched painfully and I forced myself to get in the backseat. The door closed, a barrier between me and the man, the love I would never see again.
We pulled away from the curb and I watched behind me, craning in my seat, until Mateo disappeared from view.
Part Two
Vancouver
Chapter Eighteen
I’d gone crazy.
Absolutely assfuck crazy.
After eighteen hours, no sleep, three layovers, and abused tear ducts, I finally landed in Vancouver as a complete zombie, drained of emotion and numb to the world. Though it was a nice change from the hours of crying into my shitty airline food and downing beers in an attempt to drown my feelings, it didn’t help my mental stability whatsoever. I kept feeling this pain that wanted to come out; my brain kept wanting to dwell on things I was too afraid to embrace.
The culture shock, though, was immediately jarring. And surprising, since I had lived in Vancouver my entire life. Suddenly I was looking at things written in Mandarin and hearing Canadian accents spoken at a rapid pace. Everything was sterile looking, modern and boring. People barely smiled and they didn’t make eye contact. When I grabbed my pack from baggage claim and stepped outside to wait for my brother, I was hit with damp air and dark grey skies. It was July. It was raining.
Thankfully it didn’t take long for a black VW Golf, just as my brother had promised, to come roaring up to the curb.
Josh got out of the driver’s seat and raised his arms. “I’m here!”
And finally, I had my first smile in what felt like a very long time. Josh. Despite everything, I had fucking missed him.
“Shit, you’re tanned,” he said, coming around the car to hug me. When he got closer he grimaced. “You also look like shit.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I said, giving him my backpack. He threw it in the trunk then gave me a big bear hug.
For some reason I thought he’d look different after six weeks, but he looked the same as always. Josh had been a fairly awkward teenager until he was nineteen. Then he stopped growing (thank God, cuz he was 6’2” at sixteen), gained muscle, his face cleared up, and his stutter disappeared. He had my dad’s ice blue eyes and my mother’s dark brown hair which he died black. He had a lip ring that he sometimes wore, and full sleeves and a ton of other tattoos, thanks to my influence. I knew Jocelyn thought he was a total “bad boy hottie,” but that description of my brother honestly made me want to barf. Josh, in some ways, was a bad boy, but the hottie thing was beyond what I was willing to admit.
“Good to have you home,” he said. He pulled away and frowned. “I’m guessing the feeling isn’t mutual.”
“I’m really tired,” is all I managed to say.
I didn’t speak much during the forty-five minute car ride through the city to our house. I couldn’t speak. My chest felt empty, everything felt hollow inside me. It was like I was suffering the worst emotional hangover of my life. In fact, it was like a life hangover. Is this what it felt like to die? When our lives were over, did we feel this same loss, this same ache for all the experiences we had just gone through?
Josh talked though, conscious of how I was feeling and needing to fill the car. He was good at that, picking up on other people’s feelings. I didn’t listen, I just stared out the rain-splattered window of his new car. The buildings here looked so plain and boring, no history to them at all. Everyone was rushing to get somewhere, stomping through puddles. Though Vancouver was beautifully green, it looked dark and gloomy under the skies. Even the sight of the North Shore Mountains, normally breathtaking above the shiny glass high rises of downtown, didn’t stir anything in me. I was just a shell.
I really needed to sleep.
When we pulled down the alley toward the back driveway of our house, Josh told me our mother had planned a surprise that wasn’t really a surprise. She had ordered in sushi. Now, my mother didn’t cook and never had, so ordering in was nothing new, and we often ordered in or got sushi for take-out several times a week (you, like, have to eat sushi in Vancouver or they’ll boot you from the city). I knew he was just trying to make me feel better about being home, so I gave him a quick smile and then brought out my phone again. Now that airplane mode was off and I wasn’t roaming, I was desperate to see if I’d gotten any texts or emails from Mateo.
I hadn’t.
I sighed and put it away. Josh noticed as he parked behind the house and nodded to my purse. “I never saw you update very much on Facebook. I thought you would have been all over that. No drunk photos of the Spanish flag wrapped around you or drinking sangria. Nothing.”
I shrugged. “There wasn’t really any time to go on Facebook.” And besides, this life here didn’t exist at all when I was at Las Palabras.
Our house was pretty nice—a narrow three stories with a small front lawn and a tall solid fence for privacy—but the lot it was on was worth an absurd amount of money. My mother, being a real estate agent and all, planned on sitting on the lot so she would “really make a killing.” With the way the real estate market kept rising, then stalling, then rising again, it looked as if she’d be trying to make a killing for years to come.
Josh got my pack out of his trunk and swung it up on his shoulder with ease. Guess he’d been upping his workouts at the gym. “You never said a word about Herman.”
I raised a brow. “Herman?”
“My car. He’s German, ya?”
“Aren’t cars supposed to be chicks?”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re so sexist.”
“Look, do you really want to say, ‘I’m going to go take Herman for a ride,’ or ‘I love filling up Herman?’”
He shrugged as we walked through the single-car garage where Mom’s Volvo was kept. “I’m not a homophobe. Besides, Kit, Hasselhoff’s car in Knight Rider, that was a guy. Shit, so was Herbie in the Love Bug.”
“All right, all right,” I said, waving him away. We walked up the stairs to the main landing. It looked the same as before but the familiar was now foreign to me.
My mom was in the kitchen, nursing a glass of wine and on the phone with someone. Once she saw me, she gave me her beautiful and genuine happy-to-see-you smile but then turned her back and continued to talk on the phone. From the tense way she carried herself, I could tell she was talking to a client.
My mother was a gorgeous woman, even for her age. Though she was tiny and she’d gained a lot of weight on her lower half over the last few years, her face was unlined and her eyes behind her square glasses were youthful. She had long, dark brown hair that she always kept tied back in a bun. I knew she did this because she thought it made her look more professional and polished, but it also showed off her high Hungarian cheekbones.
She was dressed well as always, too—she had a closet full of sharp suits, and she was wearing a slick navy one at the moment. This realization made my mind conjure up an image of Mateo, standing in the dining room at Las Palabras, wearing a silver grey suit that fit him like a second skin. In my head he smiled at me, a wide stretch of white teeth against golden skin.
So breathtaking.
And just like that, the bereft feeling encased my heart. All of that, all of him, felt so far away. Impossible to get back.
“Are you all right?” Josh asked, putting a supportive hand on my shoulder.
I nodded, noticing that my eyes were welling up again. “Jet lag.”
And jet lag became my new excuse. I used it again during dinner when my mother noticed the glum expression on my face. For some reason my mother still insisted we all eat together at the dining room table, even though in the pre-divorce era everyone scattered to their rooms with their meals.
“I’m sorry Mercy couldn’t be here,” my mother said as she daintily put a piece of maki tuna in her mouth. She finished chewing it completely before she swallowed. “She and Charles had a fundraiser to go to.”
Of course. Mercy’s future husband, Charles, was an English ex-pat and worked for one of the city’s biggest developers. His company was always putting on a fundraiser or another, supposedly for charity, but I think it was just an excuse for a tax break—or a party.
I shrugged. It used to sting when Mercy would throw me aside for her fiancé, but I didn’t care anymore. Funny, I think six weeks away made me realize who in my life was worth caring about.
When dinner was over, I went straight to my room and told Josh and my mother I was going to bed. It was only seven o’clock, but again, jet lag. Actually, this time it wasn’t an excuse. I could feel my sleep deprivation catching up to me, making each step I took down the hall toward my room feel like I was moving through Jello.
I dragged my bag into the corner of my room, started up my laptop with the noisy fan with the intention of uploading photos, and looked around my room. Posters of Mr. Bungle, Deftones, Nine Inch Nails, Soundgarden, Pearl Jam, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, and Depeche Mode all stared down at me, as well as a few art prints I had ordered online. I had them all framed, so it didn’t resemble a teenage boy’s room. On top of my overflowing dresser I had my jewelry tree, lush with retro baubles and estate jewelry I had collected; on the tiny desk I had stacks of magazines, hardcover fantasy books, and my textbooks. On my ceiling I had stuck star charts and the stick-on stars that glowed in the dark.
My eyes were drawn to the constellations of Pegasus and Leo, and suddenly I was seeing Mateo again, hearing his rich accent as he gave the presentation with so much ease and confidence, the way he blushed when I applauded so loudly at the end.
This fucking sucked.
One minute we were a memory in the making, and in the next we were just a memory. Something to haunt me for the rest of my life.
I sighed, expecting the tears to fall again, and when I realized I didn’t have it in me anymore, I walked over to my bed, collapsed on it, and went straight to sleep.
* * *
When I woke up the next morning, I had a blissful few seconds of actually thinking I was back in Las Palabras before the reality hit me. I blinked a few times, feeling the dampness in the air. The rain spattered noisily on the windowpane, partly obscuring a slate sky.
I exhaled and lay there for a few moments, wondering what time it was. My purse was on the desk where I left it. At that though, I was suddenly struck with an extraordinary sense of euphoria. My phone. Who knew what texts I could have, what emails. I needed to hear from Mateo like a junkie needed their next hit.
I got out of bed and staggered over to the desk, still in the same gross clothes that I wore on the plane. That I wore when Mateo hugged me goodbye.
Stop that, I told myself. You won’t survive a day if you keep getting sad over everything.
I tucked my unruly hair behind my ears and dug out my phone. I had a text from Mercy that said, “Welcome home,” though it wouldn’t have killed her to put an exclamation mark at the end. There was one from Jocelyn asking how I was. That was it.
The disappointment was physical.
I brought out my wallet and the piece of paper Mateo had given me. He said we could iMessage. I suppose I could have texted him, but I was afraid that the phone wasn’t private. What if his wife was super nosy and was always rooting through his stuff? What if she was super paranoid that he’d been gone for a month and was keeping an eye on him?
What if she knew?
I felt sick to my stomach. With the emotional haze of Las Palabras slipping away by the minute, like waking up from a dream you wanted to keep going, the reality of what had happened between us was slowly seeping in.
I was a bad person. This wasn’t news to me, but now I really knew. I wasn’t the black sheep, I was a black hole. I fell for a married man…I had sex with a married man. He’d told me I made him forget his vows and that had made me happy. People like me were disgusting.
And yet, it still did make me happy. It made me more than happy. Being with him had fulfilled me.
God, I was looney tunes. To hammer that point home, I went into my phone and checked my email, hoping to have gotten something from him.
There was nothing. No sign that Mateo ever existed except in my head.
And so began the rest of my day. I slowly got ready, taking a shower, my hair happy to have new shampoo and conditioner on it. I put on fresh clothes that had been laundered recently. Even though the maid service at Las Palabras did your laundry for you once a week, you were still stuck wearing the same things over and over again. I put on makeup that I hadn’t seen for six weeks, going nuts with shimmery emerald green on my eyes.
Every spare moment I had, between the shower and the clothes and the makeup, I was checking my phone. I kept entering my damn passcode so often that my thumb was getting carpal tunnel. Finally, just as I was pouring myself a bowl of gluten-free cereal (my mom had a gluten intolerance and my Froot Loops had gone stale), I got an email. I nearly leaped for joy.
It was from Eduardo, and it was a group email to everyone at Las Palabras, telling us all what a great time he had. It was weird to see those names again while I stood in my mother’s sterile kitchen, my memories of heat and gold contradicting with the grey and damp. It was like the two worlds could never really mesh with each other.
Minutes later there was another email, this one from Wayne, hitting “reply all.” And then another person and another. I wasn’t all that interested in Froggy Carlos’s first day speaking English to his co-workers, I just wanted to hear from damn Mateo. But, it seemed, he hadn’t emailed them either.
I really didn’t know what to do with myself. I didn’t even want to unpack because that really meant it was all over. But I couldn’t keep living with a backpack of smelly clothes. I took everything out and my heart sank at the sight of the turron from Nerea and the bronze pig from Angel and the Spaniards. I brought them out, carrying them as if they were baby birds, over to a corner of my bedside table. I would make a shrine to Spain.
Yes. That wouldn’t be weird at all.
I’d been sitting on my bed for hours and going through the photos on my SLR when Josh stuck his head in my room. My mom had been out all day, so for once I was grateful for the company.
“You’re home!” I exclaimed.
He gave me a puzzled look. “Yeah, just got cut early. Slow day.”
I could smell him from where I was, a mixture of burgers and weed.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
“You keep asking me that.”
“You seem strangely happy to see me.”
I shrugged. I guess I’d become so used to having people around me twenty-four seven.
“What have you been doing?” he asked, leaning against the doorway. He eyed my backpack, the clothes strewn all over the floor. “Gave up already?”
Don’t give up on us. Mateo’s last words rang through my head. I hadn’t. So why hadn’t he contacted me? Maybe I had to email him. He did say it was private.
“Vera,” Josh said loudly. “Earth to sister.”
“Sorry,” I said absently, switching the camera screen off.
“Look,” he said, “I’m going to the Met tonight with some people. Why don’t you come with?”
Ugh. The Met. That skeezy bar was such a hit or miss. Still…I was up for getting out of the house, doing anything to take my mind off of things. I couldn’t believe I actually missed talking all day long.
A friendly Facebook message from Claudia and an email from Sammy later, I was shimmying into a pair of black skinny jeans and a tight Queen baseball tee that put Freddie Mercury’s eyes right on my boobs. Hearing from those two girls helped my mood, even though Sammy’s email contained a picture of a penis.
The Met was located in the bad part of downtown that resembled a typical episode of The Walking Dead. It was too far to walk, both of us were too cheap for a cab, and Josh wasn’t going to drive drunk, so we got on the bus. It was weird sitting on it and observing the people around me. Though Madrid had also been a bustling city, there was more life and friendliness there. More smiles.
“Why does it look like you’re plotting to kill everyone?” Josh leaned over and asked as the bus zipped down Broadway. “Is there something I don’t know about?”
“They were right, you know,” I said. “Whoever said Vancouver was a no-fun city.”
“Maybe, but…you know you can still have fun, right?”
“People in Spain were so…I don’t know…happy to see you. Friendlier. Talkative.”
“Vancouver has always been this way. It’s not that different from other big cities.”
“It’s changed.”
“No, Vera. You’ve changed.”
He was right. I’d been happy with my beautiful no-fun city up until now. This became more apparent as the night went on. We got a table in the corner of the dingy hipster bar, and while we waited for his friends to show up, I couldn’t help but notice the atmosphere. Oh, it was pretty much the usual—drunk chicks, cocky boys, $3 cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon on ice—but I was now noticing the differences between here and Spain. The men would stare, but only the really drunk or overly arrogant men would approach the women. There was a lot of lusty looks that eventually led to grinding by the jukebox, but no friendly smiles or flirty conversations.
Josh’s friends weren’t much better, I knew this, but at least when they were around me they talked and didn’t stare endlessly at Freddie Mercury. Well, not all of them. I’d known the lanky Brad since I was a kid, and body modification lover Phil had been my friend since high school. I was pretty much a sister to them.
Then there was Adam, a guy I had only met a few times before. He was pretty hot, I had to give him that—green-blue eyes, wide jaw, spiky dark blonde hair, strong build—which is why I normally didn’t mind when he stared at my breasts. Now, though, it just felt wrong. He was pretty much leering and I wished I could make Freddy give him the stink-eye.
“So, Spain,” Adam said. “Bet you partied pretty hard there. Did you go to Ibiza?”
I shook my head, turning the can of beer around and around. “No, I was just in one place. Acantilado, teaching English.”
“That sucks.”
I gave him a sharp look. “Believe me, it didn’t.”
He leaned back in his chair and gave me a wry look. “I don’t know, teaching? That sucks. That’s, like, totally not a vacation. You should have seen some culture or something.”
I exhaled in a hard puff. “There was plenty of culture.”
“So who were you teaching? Were they kids?”
“No, adults.”
“Were they, like, retarded?”
I glared at his choice of word, feeling very defensive. “No, they were professionals. They all had a basic level of English. This was just for conversational English. To build their vocabulary and confidence in business situations.”
