Spanish Lessons (Study Abroad Book 1) Read online

  “I did. Why?”

  He looks down at me. I can see the outline of his eyes through his sunglasses. His eyelashes cast long, boyish shadows across the skin beneath his eyes. The sun has darkened his freckles. “It is not safe. You should have told me to meet you on the other side. I would have walked with you if I knew. Always use the crosswalk, vale? Unless you are with me.”

  “Vale,” I say. I’m taken a little off guard by his concern—it’s nice, to have someone care like that. Too nice. “Should we get started?”

  “Yes. I thought we could go over there, on the grass. There’s some shade, where it’s not so hot, yes?”

  I walk beside him, our elbows brushing once, twice. We both move to apologize at the same time. His laugh sounds as nervous as mine. There’s no way he’s nervous, too?

  Rafa veers off the gravel path onto the grass, steering me with him. The grass sighs beneath our feet as we make our way across a wide, shady green. Couples stretch out on blankets for as far as the eye can see.

  At first I think they’re all having very intimate conversations. But then I realize they’re actually—wow—making out. I’m talking full on public displays of ardent affection, no one bothering to hide gropes, tongues, wandering fingers. Some couples are so close to each other, someone could just throw out an arm and start an orgy, but no one seems to really care. It’s like a slow-rolling ocean of long, languid French kisses.

  My heart squirms inside my chest.

  Rafa and I pass a couple making these little newborn-kitten noises as they try to swallow each other’s heads. It is so, so awkward.

  “Sorry,” Rafa says, gruffly. “For young people in Spain, it is very normal for us to live with our parents until we get older. Much older. Like thirty years old. Apartments are just too expensive for us to afford on our own, pues…we do not have privacy, and there is nowhere to go to be with your girlfriend except the park. It is a nice afternoon, too, so I forgot how crowded it is.”

  “Very crowded,” I say, picking my way around a girl straddling her guy. Part of me is grossed out; the other part is jealous. This reminder of the things I did with Rafa—of the things I want to do—is making me dizzy.

  We spot a couple who’ve finished up swapping spit for the day. The moment their blanket leaves the ground, Rafa settles ours in its place. I bend down to grab a corner, smoothing the blanket over the grass’s prickly surface. It’s a shady spot, thank God. The sounds of the park surround us: rustling trees, laughing couples. Gravel crunches as people pass by on the path. On some distant playground, children scream with pleasure.

  Retiro is a beautiful place. Although it’s TBD if I’ll learn anything here—although it’s apparently where people come to hump each other—it sure as hell beats the library.

  Rafa toes out of his Eurotastic sneakers, digging a hand through his hair as he moves. I try not to stare. Instead, I turn and sit on the edge of the blanket, unbuckling my gladiator sandals carefully, lest I disturb the passionate couple next to us.

  “So, um.” I dig my giant Economics textbook out of my bag. “D’you mind if we start with Econ? I think that’s the most pressing thing I need to work on.”

  “Por supuesto,” he says.

  I look up. The sun is blinding; so is Rafa’s gorgeousness. I blink back the neon spots and streaks that dot my vision. “What does that mean?”

  “Of course,” he replies, sitting beside me. He crosses his legs. “Another good expression to know. Although not as good que te folle un pez.”

  “That one might be my favorite.”

  Rafa smiles. “No favorites yet, Vivian. I still have a lot to teach you.”

  “And I have a lot to learn. Like, a lot. I’m not even joking.”

  “Not so much to learn as you believe.” He looks down and clears his throat, sliding his sunglasses into his hair. “Things are better, I hope? School is going well, and your señora, too?”

  “You mean have I stopped wandering around San Pedro, looking like a hot mess while crying my eyeballs out?” I scoff. “Yeah, I’d like to think things are better.”

  “You weren’t a hot mess.”

  “Oh, yes, I was.”

  He’s grinning at me again, only this time I can see his eyes. Oh, those eyes; in this light they are more green than blue. “Okay. Maybe a very little bit of hot mess.”

  “I’m proud to say I’ve only cried three times since then.”

  “Three times! I should have brought some cava for a celebration. Next time maybe. What did you cry about?”

  “Stupid things. Once, because I got off at the wrong stop on the Metro and was late to class. Another time because my señora’s dog ate not one, but two pairs of my favorite underwear.”

  “Lucky dog.”

  Wait, wait. Is it just me, or did that sound flirty?

  I swallow. “He is the worst dog ever. And the last time was at lunch today, when I accidentally dipped my scarf in gazpacho and got it all over myself.”

  “You cried about gazpacho?”

  “If you haven’t noticed, I cry about a lot of stupid shit.”

  “It is not stupid. Gazpacho stains!”

  “So I’ve learned.”

  “Well. I am very glad you are feeling better.” He takes the book from my hands, opening it in his lap, scoots a little closer. “Vale. I am going to speak in Spanish from now on, and so are you, okay? Stop me if you have questions. Me entiendes?”

  “Yes, I—”

  “En Español, Vivian.” There’s an authoritative edge to his words. I kinda dig it in a way I shouldn’t.

  “Por supuesto, Rafa,” I tease.

  It takes me a minute to get over how sexy he sounds as he speaks delicious Spanish. I just look at him from behind the safety of my sunglasses, marveling at the sound of his voice, the way it makes each word feel like a caress.

  There is a very distinct tightening between my legs. He is so close; our bent knees almost touch. I blink, willing myself to focus on the words themselves; willing myself to separate the things I’m feeling from the things he’s saying.

  I get there. Eventually. Only when I start to focus on economic theorems instead of Rafa, I lose interest. Then I get frustrated with myself for losing interest. I get even more frustrated when I can only muster the most halting, elementary Spanish in reply to Rafa’s questions.

  I take notes. I have him repeat things. We discuss important points over and over again. Focus, Vivian. I need to focus. This is important. I need to get this, or my GPA is going downtown Charlie Brown.

  Rafa is more patient with me than I am with the material. He must sense my rising frustration, because he puts the book back in my lap and leans in close. He trails a finger beneath the words on the page, speaking slowly. The woodsy scent of his aftershave surrounds me.

  Focus.

  His finger stops at that word—renacimiento.

  What does that word mean? I ask in boxy, uncertain Spanish.

  “Pues.” Rafa narrows his eyes in concentration, rolling his hand as he tries to think of the word. “Ehm. Renaissance. Yes, like a new birth. A rebirth.”

  I sigh. What I would give to be studying the Renaissance masters we covered in Art History this morning instead of this stuff.

  What I would give to be reborn as someone who was actually interested in Econ.

  Five more minutes, Rafa says in Spanish, reading my thoughts. Give me five more minutes and then we’ll move on to something else.

  Those five minutes feel like an eternity. When at last we reach the end of the chapter, I slam the book shut with a thwack that sends the birds in the tree above us flying from their branches.

  “No offense,” I say. “But that had to be one of the longest hours of my life.”

  Rafa plants his hands on the blanket behind him and leans back. His shirt pulls against the muscles in his shoulders and chest. “This is your major, yes? Economics?”

  “Believe it or not, it is.” I sigh again. “I just really hate studying it
lately. I, like, dread it the way I dread going to the gym. I’m so relieved when it’s over. It’s frustrating, because I’ve always been a good student. I like to study. Like, I love to study art history, I just wish I was interested in something more specific than that. Something I could actually make a career out of.”

  “But you don’t like to study your major.” He looks at me. Really looks. The kind of look that turns my stomach inside out.

  I hunch over, settling my forearms on my crossed legs. I pick at the grass. “Not a good sign—I know. I get scared, sometimes, that I’m doing it all wrong. My major, especially. Life. Jobs. That the decisions I’m making aren’t the right ones. Round peg, square hole kind of thing.”

  “Round peg, square hole,” he repeats, a small smile tugging at the edges of his mouth. “I like that saying. It is good for people our age. Lots of big decisions we make in these years. But perhaps if you hate Economics, you should think again about making it your life?”

  When he says it like that, I wonder why I haven’t thought more about making Econ the center of my universe.

  I shrug. “It’s the most popular major at Meryton. It will help me get a good job when I graduate. It’s safe.” I swivel my head and see he’s still looking at me. “It’s what everyone else is doing. It’s what I should do.”

  “But is it what you want to do?” His eyes search mine. “That is an important thing to think about, too.”

  Oh dear Lord. Not only is Rafa ridiculously good looking, charming, and foreign. He also gets it. He understands.

  I swallow for what feels like the hundredth time. “What are you studying, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  He shoots me a look. “You’re changing the subject. Why?”

  “You’re asking the right questions,” I say. “Which means they’re questions I don’t want to answer. So we have to talk about something else.”

  “Vale. But one day, I would like to hear your answers.” He stretches out his legs. “I majored in journalism and Spanish literature. Not safe things. But now in my graduate studies I am working with a newspaper here in Madrid. I have always loved the sports, and so I write articles about fútbol—in America you call it soccer, yes?—pieces on the matches, the players, news out of the leagues. In Europe, fútbol is like a religion, so there is much to say. The articles are part of my thesis. One day I would like to be a sports writer and a professor.”

  I blink. “Wait. You’re a sports reporter for a newspaper?”

  “Yes.” He squints an eye against the fading afternoon light that streams through the trees. “Do you think it is stupid, what I do?”

  “No,” I say. “I think it’s awesome. It’s very Clark Kent of you.”

  He grins. “I am missing the glasses though.”

  “You would look good in the glasses.” I sit up. “But the cape? Not so much. That’s cool, though, that you’re doing something you love. Something a little off the beaten path. It seems like everyone at Meryton wants to be a lawyer or a doctor or a banker, and that’s it.”

  “Writing is my passion. So I chase after it. The way I chased after you on Wednesday.”

  I roll my eyes. “So dramatic. Now I know where you get it from—all those fútbol players rolling around the field in agony after someone taps their shin.”

  Rafa shrugs, his eyes dancing with mischief. “I like to chase you.”

  Maybe it’s something in the air, the pheromones put off by the couples making out around us. But Rafa is flirting with me. And I can’t help but flirt back.

  “I’m very hard to catch,” I say.

  “I’ve noticed. Good thing I’m fast.”

  “You really do like to brag, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “Is that a Spanish thing?”

  “It’s a me thing. Just like you talking with your hands is a you thing,” he says, nodding at the offending appendages.

  I glance down at my hands. They’re poised mid-air, fingers crooked for emphasis. “Yeah,” I laugh, dropping my hands into my lap. “I guess so.”

  It could be my imagination, but I think Rafa’s leaning close. The way he leaned when we were sitting on the curb, eating churros. Maybe I’m leaning a little bit, too. The air between us twists, tightens, thrums with anticipation. The bird inside my chest is going nuts.

  I want. Oh, how I want.

  I jump when the textbook slides off my lap.

  “Glad we’re done with this,” I say, tossing it across the blanket.

  As I move I pull my dress up my legs, revealing more than a little thigh. I worry I’ve flashed Rafa; but just as I think to tug it back into place, I catch Rafa looking at me—his eyes sliding up my legs—his lips parting. His gaze darkens.

  Flashes with something sharp.

  I freeze. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t like looking at him looking at me. It might as well be his hands moving over my body; the sensation is just as poignant, just as immediate. My skin breaks out in goose bumps.

  I watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, hard. “Dios mio, tía,” he scoffs, his eyes raking up the length of my legs—ankles to hips and back again. “You are killing me.”

  He reaches across the blanket and grasps the hem of my dress between his thumb and forefinger. He whips it back over my legs. “I don’t want you to kill anyone else, vale?”

  As he covers me up, his thumb knuckle glides across my thigh. I bite my lip against the pulse of desire between my legs.

  He lets go of my dress, but his hand stops on my bare leg, just above my knee. He pauses.

  Lingers.

  Waits.

  I’m too curious, too turned on, suddenly, to stop him. I know I should to tell him to stop, stop, please, before we do something we shouldn’t, but I can’t. The feel of his hand on me—it’s like heaven on earth. It’s too much. It’s not enough.

  In the space of a single heartbeat, I know it will never be enough.

  I don’t say anything. I meet his eyes, and that is all the permission he needs. His gaze never leaving mine, his fingers start moving again, finding purchase in my skin; curling slowly, slowly, around my thigh, sliding up to the place where my legs meet. His touch is gentle but sure. Not a boy’s touch, but a man’s. Possessive. Naughty. No one has ever touched me like this. It’s intoxicating.

  He’s definitely leaning in now, eyes flicking to my lips. His hair flutters away from his face in a breeze. The breath leaves my lungs and the world blurs around us and the rush of my pulse in my ears is deafening. I’m terrified.

  I am overwhelmingly, acutely alive.

  From the look in Rafa’s eyes, so is he.

  Just when our mouths are about to meet—just when I think I’m about to burst—he sucks a breath through his teeth, like he’s in pain, and pulls back.

  “Vivian,” he says, breathing hard. He rests his forehead against mine. The gesture is so sweet, so pained, it makes my heart clench. “You said no.”

  For a second I’m too stunned to think of anything to say. My mind is mush.

  “Yes,” I blurt. “I mean no. Yes. No—yes, I know I said no before.”

  “I am not going to do anything you don’t want to do,” he says. “You said no before. But now…God, Vivian, you’re confusing me.”

  I swallow, the sound embarrassingly audible. “I’m confusing me.”

  His eyes fly open to meet mine. “You said you didn’t want to start something. That you got hurt before and you didn’t want to get hurt again. I don’t want to do something that’s going to hurt you, Vivian.”

  He’s right. This is a bad idea. No matter how badly I want Rafa to kiss me the way we kissed Saturday night on the sidewalk, I need to protect my heart, as cheesy as that sounds. It’s been through enough this past year. The last thing it needs is to suffer through another disappointment, another relationship that won’t last.

  Rafa can’t give me the enduring romance I’m looking for. The kind that lasts, that really means something. Even if he is being
incredibly, frustratingly sweet right now.

  “Right,” I say. Falling back is an agony. I look away, embarrassed. “You’re right. I’m sorry…I, um. I think I got carried away.”

  Rafa spears the same hand that was on my thigh through his hair, mussing the waves. The apples of his cheeks are bright pink. “Please, no apologizing,” he says. “I shouldn’t have let it go so far.”

  “It’s not your fault,” I say.

  “It is good we stop,” Rafa says. “If we kiss, then we cannot judge all these kissing people around us.”

  I grin. “It is fun to judge.”

  “Almost as fun as capes and crying footballers,” he says, grinning back. The friendly lines of his face take the edge off my embarrassment. God he’s cute. “Want to take a look at Art History? I hope you are liking it. I spoke with the profesora about you—she is excited to have you in her class.”

  “She is?” I say.

  “She is.”

  I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Thanks for doing that. I appreciate you looking out for me.”

  “It is no problem.” Rafa shrugs. “I am your tutor. I want you to do well, Vivian. And I think you will.”

  ***

  We’re finishing up Art History, the light fading around us, when I turn to see Maddie making her way down a nearby path.

  The prickle of annoyance I feel takes me totally off guard. Not five days ago, I was so happy to see Mads I almost cried. Now I’m annoyed?

  What the hell is going on with me?

  “Hey,” I say when she arrives at our blanket.

  “Hey! Sorry to interrupt, but there’s no food in the house, and Stella is MIA. Thought I’d come find you so we could grab a bite to eat.”

  “Oh,” I say. “Oh, yeah, sure.”

  Maddie turns to Rafa. It’s barely noticeable, the glimmer of interest in her dark eyes, but I know her too well to miss it. You’d have to be blind to not be interested in Rafa Montoya.

  “I’m Maddie.” She holds out her hand. “You must be Viv’s tutor, Rafael.”

  Rafa offers her one of his heady smiles. “Nice to meet you, Maddie. Please, call me Rafa.”

  “It’s very nice to meet you, Rafa,” she says. “How goes the tutoring?”

  “We’re almost done. I can give you some ideas for restaurants, if you do not have one in mind already?”