Spanish Lessons (Study Abroad Book 1) Page 11

  “Actually.” Maddie sits on the blanket beside him. “Why don’t you join us? I’d love the lesson in tapas.”

  Rafa glances at me. Going to dinner with the two of them—watching Maddie parade her Spanish and her C-cups in front of Rafa—is the last thing I want to do. But I can’t say no without looking like an asshole. Besides, this is the first time I’ve seen Maddie smile since our dinner with the girls on Wednesday, and I’m not about to ruin that.

  “Sure,” I say, my voice high with forced cheerfulness. “That would be great. Maybe we can finally discover what this mysterious albóndigas is about.”

  “Balls,” Rafa says.

  Maddie scrunches her nose. “Balls?”

  “Yes. How do you say—balls of meat?”

  “Meatballs!” She laughs, tossing her long hair over her shoulder. “Well. This is going to be a fun night.”

  “So fun,” I say.

  Chapter 10

  But it is fun, despite the knot in my stomach that tightens every time Rafa smiles at Maddie; every time she smiles back, and speaks Spanish in her cutesy Colombian accent.

  Rafa takes us to a crowded restaurant in the basement of a nondescript building. Inside, it looks like a cave, with arched stone ceilings and lamps fitted with trendy Edison bulbs. It’s early by Madrid standards—a little past nine o’clock—but the place is packed with well-dressed Spaniards, laughter and conversation echoing across the cramped space.

  Of course Rafa knows the waiter, who assures us we have come to the right place for the best tapas in Madrid.

  So, I’ve never really had tapas. There are a couple places in Charlotte that serve them, but I have a feeling it’s not the real deal. From what I understand, tapas are basically just appetizer-sized portions you share with everyone at the table. It’s definitely a departure from how we eat in America; here, there’s no such thing as a big, satisfying main course. But I’m willing to keep an open mind.

  “It’s all about the picar,” Rafa explains. “How would you say it in English? Ehm….like, picking. Picking at the food, a little bit of everything. Nibble, maybe, is the better word? Snack? You will see when the food comes.”

  Dishes come in waves whenever, it seems, they are ready. First we get bowls of olives and potato chips with our glasses of vino tinto de la casa. Then a platter of manchego cheese—it’s good, like white Cheddar, but better—and jamón íberico.

  “You guys seem to really like your ham,” I say, spearing a paper-thin slice of cured meat with my fork. “What’s that about?”

  Rafa chews, swallows. “We are very much lovers of pork in Spain. I don’t know why, really. Except that it’s delicious.”

  “It melts in your mouth,” Maddie says.

  “What do you think, Vivian?” Rafa asks, meeting my eyes across the table. In the semi-darkness his seem to glow, pools of fluorescent blue-green.

  “It’s incredible. I love salty things, so jamón is right up my alley.”

  “Wait ‘til you try the albóndigas,” he says.

  “The balls,” Maddie giggles. “Who doesn’t love those?”

  It’s all I can do not to roll my eyes.

  The albóndigas are next, along with gambas—shrimp sautéed in olive oil and garlic—and pan con tomate, crusty pieces of bread spread with a tomato-ish tapenade.

  Rafa explains each dish to us, pointing as he goes. He says gambas are his favorite, but nothing beats his mom’s albóndigas; pan con tomate can be hit or miss, but here it’s awesome because they get their bread from a bakery down the street; he cracks a perfectly off-color joke about meatballs.

  He lights up as he speaks. Maybe it’s my second glass of red wine, but I’m entranced. It’s obvious he loves his food, almost as much as he loves bragging and that little frayed bracelet. Ever the flirty gentleman, Rafa is a total charmer, flashing his smile to great effect. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. He makes us laugh; he tells us stories; the three of us talk about our families (he’s an only child, his parents are lawyers), our favorite food. There are no awkward pauses, even though we’re all stuffing our faces.

  He’s the kind of guy I’ve always wanted for a boyfriend. Handsome. Charming. Funny. Too bad he lives an ocean away from my life back in North Carolina.

  I notice the beautiful people at the tables around us are chatting away, too, gesturing with their hands as they burst into laughter. I’m starting to think conversation is an art, one that Americans aren’t very good at; one that Spaniards have down pat, Rafa included.

  He was right. I love the balls of meat so much I order another porción of them.

  I’m full by the time the water sets tortilla on the table. But I eat the potato-omelet-deliciousness anyway, along with patatas bravas, which I’d describe as breakfast potatoes drizzled with spicy mayo. Like everything else, both dishes are a little different, but oh so good. The three of us practically lick the plates clean. My stomach hurts from so much food and so much laughter. It feels good to be this full; I haven’t realized how hungry I’ve been since I got here.

  Maybe this won’t be a hungry semester, after all.

  We finish the meal with these little shots of apricot-flavored liqueur. Rafa calls it a digestif, because it’s supposed to help us digest the meal. They’re a nice way to end the night; the liqueur gives me a nice, sleepy buzz.

  “That was really great,” Maddie says as we climb the stairs and make our way through the door. It’s still hot out, a little humid, even though it’s after midnight.

  “Really great,” I add. “I was worried there for a minute I wouldn’t like Spanish food. Thanks for proving me wrong.”

  Rafa puts his hands in his pockets and grins at me. “You are very welcome, Vivian. I told you before, es un placer.”

  It is a pleasure.

  Our gazes meet in the darkness, lingering one wine-lazy heartbeat, then another. I’ve seen the way men look at the women they like—the women they want. No one’s ever really looked at me that way.

  Not until now.

  There’s a flutter in my belly, a sensation of falling, of surrendering to gravity. What I would give for the courage I had that first night, when I had nothing to lose and I stood on my toes and I kissed hi—

  “So, like, you’re a student liaison for Meryton in Madrid.” Maddie turns to Rafa; Rafa turns to Maddie. “Does that mean you’ll be traveling with the program?”

  “Yes,” he says, a bit gruffly. “I’ll be on the autobus with all of you to Toledo next week.”

  “Vale,” she replies. “I’m glad we get to see you again.”

  “I’ll be around all semester.”

  I look away, my sleepy buzz devolving into irritation.

  “You two should head home. I know it’s been a very long first week, and you are probably tired,” Rafa says. He glances down the street, looking for a cab.

  How does he do it? I wonder. How is he always so in tune with what I’m thinking or feeling?

  “Yeah, we should get going,” I say. “Our apartment’s not far from here, so we’ll walk.”

  “Really?” Maddie pouts. “I was hoping to share a cab—”

  “We’re walking,” I say. I guess it’s my turn to be gruff. “Thanks again for everything, Rafa. I’ll be in touch about our next tutoring session, okay? Maybe on Monday?”

  He turns back to me. “Okay. I can do any day, really. I will make the time.”

  “Monday is good.”

  “Vale.”

  And then he’s leaning down, pecking each of my cheeks. The scent of his aftershave hits me, hard, and my heart clenches. I want. Even though I can’t have, I want.

  It could be my imagination, but I think he pauses for the tiniest half-second, his cheek brushing mine. A bolt of desire moves through my body. I don’t want to feel this way about Rafa. I can’t feel this way about him.

  “Buenas noches,” he says, and then he kisses Maddie, too.

  I don’t know where it comes from—if I’m trying to make Maddie
jealous by flaunting this inside joke I have with Rafa, or if I just want to flirt with him because it’s fun—but the words are out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  “Buenos días,” I say.

  He grins. “You’re right. It is after medianoche, isn’t it? Buenos días, Vivian.”

  He hails a cab, and Maddie and I begin our short walk home. For the first few minutes, neither of us says anything. I’m too dumbstruck, too confused, to attempt conversation.

  I have a feeling I’m not the only girl Rafa laid out tonight with his smile and his wit and that handsome face.

  “What’s up with you guys?” Maddie says at last. “You and Rafa.”

  “What do you mean, what’s up with us? He’s my tutor.”

  “That whole good morning, good night thing. It sounded kinda flirty. What was that about?”

  “Oh.” My stomach feels queasy; maybe that digestif had the opposite of its intended effect? “It’s just a little thing from the other day. Rafa can be a flirty guy I guess. That place, though—the food was great, right?”

  “It was fucking amazing,” Maddie says. “And so is Rafa. I mean. Not only is he gorgeous. He’s excellent, too.”

  Maddie and I reserve that word—excellent—for only our most favorite people; it’s basically code for “bow down before them and beg for their sexual blessing because they are creatures from a more perfect realm.” Between the two of us, we’ve identified four, maybe five excellent people in the three years we’ve known each other—one of them being Mindy Kaling, because she’s just the best.

  So, yeah, when Maddie says Rafa is excellent, I know the well-oiled wheels in her head are turning.

  “Yes,” I say. “He is excellent. Totally.”

  Even though I’m not looking at her, I can sense Maddie narrowing her eyes at me. “You sure there’s nothing between you two? You don’t like him, he doesn’t like you?”

  “I’m sure.” I don’t know why I’m saying it, but I do. “I mean. He’s cute, and maybe I had a little crush on him when we first met Saturday night. But like I told the girls on Wednesday, I couldn’t hook up with him even if he was into it. Which he’s not.”

  I’m pulling a Lizzie Bennett, I know, probably complicating things by not being honest with my best friend about how I’m feeling. I should tell her the truth. I should tell her how I feel about Rafa, about my fears that he’ll just break my heart.

  That he’ll make a fool out of me the way Keith did.

  But maybe if I keep denying the things I feel for Rafa, those inconvenient feelings will eventually go away altogether. Maybe if I keep telling my friends that there’s nothing going on between the two of us, I’ll start believing it myself.

  I don’t think I can bear the pain of another heartbreak at the end of this semester. So instead I’m choosing for my heart to break now. It will hurt less.

  “Why do you assume it would be just a hook up?” she asks

  “Because, Maddie, it’s always just a hook up for me.”

  She loops her arm through mine and pulls me close. “Your time is coming, Viv. You’ve built up the best damn boyfriend karma out of anyone ever. Don’t let that dickweed Keith make you lose the faith. It’s gonna happen—I have a feeling it will be soon.”

  “Let’s hope not,” I scoff. “I don’t have time for that ish this semester. C- in Econ, remember?”

  “You and I both know you’re gonna be fine,” she replies. “So, hey. If you’re not interested in Rafa, do you mind if, um, I have a little fun with him?”

  I close my eyes, take a deep breath. This is silly. I’m being silly. I told Rafa no. I have no claim on him. I have no right to keep him to myself. With all the stuff going on with her parents, Maddie deserves a little fun. She deserves the distraction.

  There is no right choice here. Either way I lose. But there is a way that Maddie can win.

  “Of course not,” I say.

  “Awesome,” she says. “I think he’s going to be a good time.”

  I was prepared to give Rafa up because we could not be together. Because it wouldn’t have worked, not the way I wanted it to.

  But if I’m being honest, I was not prepared for the possibility of Rafa being with someone else.

  Especially my best friend.

  ***

  I’m just about to turn off the tiny bedside lamp when my phone lights up. My heart skips a beat when I see it’s a text from Justin Timberlake.

  Everything ok?

  I furrow my brow. Yup. Just about to go 2 bed. Why do u ask? U ok?

  That little blinking ellipsis appears at the bottom of our conversation, letting me know he’s typing something. Then it disappears. A few seconds later, it appears again, like he can’t decide what to say.

  It’s kinda cute.

  U were a little bit quiet at dinero. Now I am awake wondering if u are upset about what happéned at Retiro.

  A pause. Then he sends another text: Sorry, I meant to type dinner. My phone is set in Spanish so getting the English right is tricky.

  I really, really wish Rafa would stop being so damn excellent. Then I wouldn’t have to fight the squidgy rise in my chest as I read his text once, twice, five times.

  I have to be real with someone tonight. I feel it’s my duty to the universe.

  Thx for checking in. I am ok. Feel confused about what happened, 2 b honest.

  The wait for Rafa’s ellipsis to turn into words is excruciating.

  I understand u are scared. I will respect that. But I am having really great times with u. It is difficult for me not to like u more than just mi student. Also u have very nice legs.

  That makes me smile, hard.

  I type the words, erase them. I type them again. And then before I can second (third?) guess myself, I hit send.

  Thx. U have nice everything.

  But?

  How do u always know what I’m thinking?

  I’m learning yoú, Vivian.

  Maddie turns over in the bed beside me, away from the light.

  Maddie, who wants to have a little fun this semester with a hot Madrileño so she can forget about her parents’ nasty divorce.

  “Sorry,” I whisper, and click off the lamp.

  She sniffles. She’s crying, I know she is; she’s cried every night about her parents since she got here. But when I ask if everything is okay, she pretends to be asleep.

  I need to learn Econ, I type. In Spanish.

  Ok. I told u I will help u get all A grades.

  My heart sinks. Thx again 4 fun time tonite. Balls were GREAT.

  Balls r always great. Glad u enjoyed.

  I’m tempted to reply, but I don’t.

  I recognize these things I’m feeling for Rafa—whatever they are—they’re not going away. But I can’t give into them. I can’t afford to give into them.

  Chapter 11

  Monday Afternoon

  I step into the café, the bell above the door jangling merrily. I glance around, the strong, stringent smells of coffee and steamed milk giving me an instant jolt. The low hum of conversation hangs in the air. I feel a twinge of disappointment when I don’t see Rafa amongst the crowd of young-ish Madrileños. It’s been a struggle, trying not to think about him; trying not to think about what he was doing over the weekend, who he was with.

  I make my way to the counter. There’s a tasty looking array of pastries in a glass case, along with an even tastier collection of bottled beer. I wonder if all cafés in Spain serve a side of beer with their cappuccinos. I could definitely get on board with this cultural tradition.

  The barista guy behind the counter looks at me expectantly, and my chest constricts with an anxiety I’ve become quite familiar with this past week. I still haven’t figured out, exactly, how to order things in Spanish; never mind the fact that my accent is cringe-worthy in the extreme. Whenever I open my mouth, I just seem to embarrass myself and everyone around me.

  “Um,” I say. It’s been a long day—three classes, plus a meeti
ng and some grocery shopping—so I really, really want a beer. But it’s only four o’clock, and Rafa and I have a lot of boring Econ to get through this afternoon. If anything, I should get a coffee the size of my head so I can study without falling asleep.

  “Sí?” the guy asks, brusquely.

  I take a deep breath through my nose. You can do this. It’s only coffee.

  “Un…uh, café, por favor?”

  The barista replies with a string of incoherent Spanish, something about espresso, a double, maybe; the world leche—milk—is thrown in there.

  My shoulders tense. All I want is a coffee. At this point, I don’t care if it’s one of those tiny cups of espresso or a ginormous latte that could fuel an eighteen wheeler. I just want to be caffeinated.

  “Vale,” I try.

  “No,” the guy says with an exasperated sigh. He tries to speak to me again, this time more slowly.

  The creep of tears tightens in my throat. I know if I try to talk again I’m going to cry for the nine hundredth time since I started my study abroad adventure.

  I open my mouth, determined to plow ahead anyway, when I hear the jangle of the bell above the door. I look over my shoulder and there he is—Rafa, his broad shoulders limned in a fuzzy line of late afternoon sun.

  My limbs flood with relief, as potent and immediate as the rush that follows knocking back a shot of vodka. He smiles and I smile, his blue eyes soft as he comes to stand beside me at the counter. Now that Rafa’s here, I feel safe; I feel confident.

  I feel better.

  Oh, Lord.

  “Hola,” he says, bending down to kiss my cheeks. “Como estás?”

  How are you?

  I glance at the guy behind the counter. “I’d be better if I could figure out how to order a coffee. How are you?”

  “Coffee? Bah, you want a cerveza, don’t you?”

  “No-o?” I say.

  Rafa holds up two fingers. “Dos cervezas, por favor.” He turns to me. “It will help the economics go by faster, yes? Easy to order, too. But next time if you want coffee, I will teach you how to order it. It’s very easy also, and with all the studying you want to do, I think you will need it.”