Lessons in Letting Go (Study Abroad Book 3) Read online

  “It is. But I don’t think I have the time—or the energy—to find a new guy to do said exploration with in the next few weeks.”

  “What if you don’t find a new guy? What if you explore with Rhys?”

  I shoot her a skeptical look. “Explore with Rhys? Didn’t you just say my relationship with him is keeping me from becoming my own Monica Cruz?”

  “I said your current relationship with him is keeping you from becoming Monica. But what if you changed the terms of that relationship? It’s clear you don’t like him like him, which means you’re not in danger of getting hurt by him. Rhys wants to keep things casual, and now you want to keep things casual, too—I mean, why wouldn’t you try to cross off that bucket list item with him? Tell him what you want. Demand it. If he doesn’t want to give it to you, then so what? Kick his ass to the curb. But if he does, think about all the orgasms you can have between now and the end of December. You wouldn’t need to go through the whole rigmarole of finding a new guy, getting comfortable with him, getting STD tests…” She shrugs. “If you’re never going to see Rhys again, what the hell do you have to lose? Let him make you come.”

  “That isn’t on the list—coming with a guy,” I sniff.

  “Yeah it is,” Em says. “Listen, I’m all for masturbating your clit off. But I think this new and improved ‘I-don’t-give-a-fuck’ Laura would also like to get off with a guy. She’d like to loosen up and let a studly soccer player do what he does best.”

  “What’s that?”

  She grins. “Scoring. On said clit.”

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  Even so, I know she’s right. Maybe I can take charge of my non-relationship with Rhys. Maybe I can make this fucked up situation work in my favor.

  I sigh in resignation. Emily smiles. She’s a genius, and she knows it. Which makes the idea that she can’t see how seriously hard she’s crushing on Kit the Prince all the more baffling.

  Of course it’s a harmless crush; she’s been head over heels in love with Luke for years now. It kinda worries me, actually, how invested she is in him, considering how young we are. I mean, Luke is literally her everything—not only her boyfriend but also her future. If things go bad between them, Em will be left with nothing.

  Luke does seem to make Em happy, but there’s something…I don’t know, a little off about their relationship. He’s a nice enough guy, but he can also be a little controlling. They hit a rough patch about a year or so ago; I don’t know the whole story about what happened—Em can be pretty private about the inner workings of their relationship—but they seemed to have fixed whatever the problem was.

  Then again, who I am to judge? I’ve obviously made less than stellar decisions about my own love life. Maybe I’m just projecting my fears and insecurities onto Em and Luke’s relationship. Who knows.

  “God,” I say. “Why are you always right? Fine. Yes. I’ll give Rhys a chance to…you know. I’ll try, at least.”

  I laugh, but the knot that has suddenly appeared in my stomach tightens. Not giving a fuck and taking ownership of my sexual destiny sounds all great and empowering. But now that I’m staring down the barrel of actually doing it, I’m kinda terrified.

  Chapter 17

  Laura

  Madrid

  A Few Days Later

  I shut my laptop—I was doing a little last minute research on florists for Santa Caterina’s upcoming auction—and survey my dorm room. My giant suitcase lies half-opened on the floor, my clothes strewn around it like it projectile vomited them all over the place. I still haven’t unpacked from London.

  I have to say it’s good to be back, to have a little space. After Rhys and I landed in Madrid on Sunday night, I knew I needed some time to think.

  I knew I needed to get going on the promise I made to myself (and to Em) that I’d give coming with Rhys an honest try.

  I’m still scared out of my mind. But I figure if I can get up on stage with a Flamenco band at a seedy bar tonight—I’m checking off another bucket list line item, “Go see flamenco guitarist/learn how?”, thanks to Maddie, who dates a pretty famous (and pretty hot) Spanish guitarist—I can probably try to have a real orgasm with another human being present.

  I grab my phone from my desk. For several beats I just stare at it. My plan is this: get a good buzz going at the bar, go on stage, and then meet up with Rhys for some orgasmic good times afterward. You’d think this was a good plan, but really, it’s not. Mostly because it’s Thursday night, and Rhys never does anything on Thursdays, least of all me.

  But I’ve got to try while I still have the courage.

  I type out the text. Taking a deep breath, I hit send and close my eyes.

  Hey, it says. I know this is a weirdly timed request. But do you wanna bone tonite?

  It takes him all of three seconds to reply.

  Haha. Would love to. I could maybe sneak something into my schedule. What are you doing right now?

  My heart skips a beat. He’s trying. He’s actually considering my proposal.

  I’m actually going to play with Javier’s band in Chueca. You know, Maddie’s boyfriend? And I’m gonna need an outlet for all that adrenaline afterward. You free later, maybe around 10?

  Three dots appear at the bottom of my screen. They stay there for several beats, as if Rhys is typing a text, erasing it, then retyping it. My heart is in my throat. I have to put the phone down and curl my fingers into fists to keep from tapping out a quick, spineless apology—never mind, just kidding, know how busy and tired you are, bye forever.

  Sorry love, he replies. That’s a little late for me. Going to pass this time. But your friends will be there, right? You won’t be out alone?

  My heart falls. That’s a bummer.

  Whatever. Tonight is going to be fun, and I won’t let Rhys piss on my parade.

  The Madrileñas will be there, I say, my fingers shaking as I type. Not sure who else.

  The “Madrileñas” are the girls who went to that first football match with me—Rachel, Vivian, and Maddie. The four of us have become pretty close over the course of the semester. I didn’t know any of them very well back in the states, but we’ve bonded over the challenges and triumphs of living in a foreign country. We meet for glasses of vinto tinto de la casa (house red wine) and tapas at a cute little restaurant every Wednesday night.

  Yeah, Rhys may not be coming tonight, but I’m lucky my girls will be there. I need all the moral support I can get.

  Have fun, Rhys replies. Tell them I said hello.

  ***

  Later that night

  I’m sitting at the bar, nursing a deliciously frosty Spanish beer, when I sense someone standing behind me.

  “Hey girl,” a familiar, rumbling voice murmurs in my ear. “If I could rearrange the alphabet, I’d put U and I next to each other.”

  My heart skips a beat. There’s no way. It can’t be…

  I spin around on my stool to see Rhys standing half a step behind me, hands shoved into the pockets of his jeans. The clean, masculine scent of his cologne makes my blood jump.

  “Holy shit!” I say, feeling a bit lightheaded with shock. “You came. How did you—I mean—the bar, how did you find it? How did you know I was here?”

  “I Googled it. The band, I mean. Javier’s band. He’s sort of famous, you know, so it wasn’t difficult to figure out where he was playing.” He lifts one shoulder. “I wanted to surprise you. I was serious when I said I want to make my good luck charm happy.”

  “That’s sweet,” I say, unable to meet his eyes.

  “I want to convince you to stay in Madrid next semester,” he says. “I want you to be happy, Laura. I’ll do anything to make those things happen.”

  I roll my lips between my teeth. “Well.”

  “Just think about it,” he says. He looks away, like he’s not quite sure what to do next. His eyes flick around the bar, landing on a discarded cocktail on the counter beside me, sweating in its grimy glass. I know it makes h
im uncomfortable, the dinginess of this place. It’s a dive bar, and Rhys doesn’t do dive bars.

  But he’s here. He came. I’m not quite sure what to make of it. There’s a fluttering in my chest, just beneath my breastbone; though I can’t tell if it’s nerves or something else.

  Something better.

  Rhys is wearing what he usually does when he’s trying to fly under the radar: jeans, a white button down, heavy scruff, and a white baseball hat embroidered with the logo of his favorite rugby club from back home.

  It always takes me by surprise, how lethally handsome he is, especially after not seeing him for a few days. Even though he’s trying to fade into the crowd, he stands out. He’s just…he’s more than the other guys here. More handsome. More magnetic. More blond and tan and fit.

  “You know the ‘hey girl’ still isn’t working,” I say.

  He shrugs, a grin tugging at the edges of his lips. “Law of averages. The more I try, the better chance I have. Or something like that.”

  I turn around to grab my beer. “I still can’t believe you actually came. I know a trip to a place like this isn’t on your schedule today. Or any day, for that matter.”

  “I told you I’d help you with your bucket list, didn’t I?” He doesn’t smile, but the skin at the edges of his eyes crinkles as he looks down at me. “Plus, you’ve never propositioned me before. I admit I am excited about the ‘boning’ part of the night.”

  I bite my lip. “I am, too. Thank you for coming.”

  “Of course. Wouldn’t miss it.”

  A beat of awkward silence settles between us. What is he thinking? What am I thinking?

  What the hell are we even doing?

  “So, uh. I’d better get going,” I say, pointing my thumb over my shoulder. The bar is getting crowded, and I’m getting nervous. “Javi’s going to give me a quick lesson before we go on.”

  “Of course,” he says. “Good luck, love.”

  Even after everything that’s gone down between us, my heart still skips a beat when he calls me that.

  ***

  Rhys

  I watch Laura as she makes her way through the crowd, my pulse thudding in my ears. I take a quick glance around the bar, making sure no one recognizes me. I really, really shouldn’t be here. If I’m caught at a bar two days before a match…well, suffice it to say I’d rather be dead. The team would go apeshit. So would my sponsors. And the parallels to my father’s love affair with pubs like this would be too juicy for the press to ignore.

  But none of that would even matter if I lost my good luck charm. I knew if I turned down Laura’s invitation tonight, there was a good chance I’d never hear from her again. I’m skating on thin ice; I’m lucky she’s giving me another shot, but that’s all I’ve got—one shot to make this right. Considering I have no idea what “this” even is, I feel like I’m walking on eggshells. Which is why I offered to come see her play—I want her to know that I meant it when I said I’d try.

  I want Laura to see that I’d go the extra mile for her.

  I can’t stop thinking about her. After that night at the Spread Eagle, I’ve felt a little…tired, to be honest. Not physically; this exhaustion feels more mental. It’s almost like those I hours I spent with her and Emily, laughing and drinking and not giving a shit about anything but having a good time, were so bloody fun and free that the rest of my life now feels restrictive in comparison. Repressive almost. Training is a slog. The bland food I usually eat is more flavorless than ever. The boredom and monotony of my routine are getting to me in a way they haven’t in a long time, not since I met Laura.

  It used to motivate me, working hard for my family and my fans. Everything I do is for them. When you come from a place like Splott, you grow up fantasizing about saving everyone you love, giving them opportunities they’d never even dreamed of. I’m doing that now—I’m working very, very hard to make that fantasy come true—but I’m starting to think that it isn’t enough. That taking care of everyone else’s needs at the expensive of my own doesn’t fuel my competitive fire like it used to.

  These days, it exhausts me. And it seems like laughing with Laura is the only cure—the only time when I feel excited about something. So when she texted me tonight, I jumped at the chance. I just have to keep praying that no one recognizes me.

  I look up at a nudge on my arm.

  “Hey,” Maddie says, grinning. “I didn’t know you were going to be here.”

  “Hey, Maddie,” I reply, pressing kisses into her cheeks. “Yeah, I didn’t want to miss it—she’s really making this bucket list thing happen.”

  Maddie grins. “Isn’t it so inspiring? How was London, by the way? Javier was telling me that jet you guys took was super luxe.”

  “We saw you guys at the airport on Saturday. That’s right,” I say, just now remembering it. I’ve been so preoccupied with training and chasing down Laura it’s a wonder I remember to brush my teeth. “London was…well. It was all right, I guess.”

  Maddie and Javier have recently started dating after what Laura called “a lot of drama and dirty sex.” Javier has a pilot’s license and keeps a small plane at the same airport I use when I’m flying private (which is ninety-nine percent of the time). He and Maddie were just coming back from a little joy ride on his plane when they ran into me and Laura boarding the jet to London.

  I like Maddie. She’s a lot of fun, especially now that she’s with Javier. You can tell how much he lights her up. How happy he makes her.

  I wonder what his secret is.

  “So how’s the band?” I ask, motioning to the stage.

  “They’re awesome. Javi is ridiculously talented, and so is his guitarist, Leo. Though he’s got, like, this errant pelvis thing that’s a little intense. Oh, wait, it’s Viv and Rafa—guys! Hey guys, we’re over here!”

  I say hello Viv and Rafa, another couple that met and fell for each other in Madrid. Vivian is Laura’s friend from Meryton, and Rafa was—still is, I think?—her Spanish tutor. Even now, months after they became a couple, they still look at each other like…like I don’t know what. Like they can’t get enough.

  It kinda makes me uncomfortable. Or jealous? No, definitely not jealous. That wouldn’t make sense.

  Everyone grabs a beer at the bar—well, everyone except me, I don’t drink on school nights, remember?—and when Javier murmurs a greeting into his microphone, we all turn toward the stage. He introduces the band in Spanish, but then he gestures to the girl waiting in the wings and switches to English, his gaze focused on our little group at the back of the bar.

  “We have a very special guest joining us on stage. Please welcome our good friend Laura Bennet, who will be helping us with some—uh—percussion stuff tonight. Please welcome Laura!”

  The crowd erupts in whistles and claps as Laura appears on stage. Her long hair, straight tonight, is tucked behind her ears. She’s wearing jeans and a loose black shirt, a far cry from the slinky red dress I bought her in London. But it’s sexier somehow, this casualness. Maybe because she wears it with confidence. She’s not tugging at it the way she does when she gets dressed up for my events.

  I can tell she’s nervous—her eyes are wet, and she moves stiffly—but when Javier hands her a tambourine, laughing, and she laughs, too, her nervousness seems to melt into bubbly joy.

  “I’m the tambourine girl?” I hear her say. She’s just close enough to Javier’s microphone that it picks up her voice, just barely. “Really?”

  “Hell yes you are,” he replies. “Time to get your Stevie Nicks on, mujer!”

  Mujer. It’s a word that men in Spain use to refer to their significant others in a possessive way. Literally translated as “woman”, they say “mi mujer”, or “my woman” when talking about their wives or serious girlfriends.

  My relationship with Laura definitely isn’t serious. And I know Javier doesn’t mean anything by it. Still. Hearing him, a good-looking Spanish guy, call Laura “mujer” makes my pulse spike. My hand tig
htens around my water, the plastic bottle crunching as the top pops off and rolls across the floor.

  Up on stage, Laura is looking at the tambourine in her hand like it’s a grenade.

  “What do I do with it?” she says.

  “You play it!” Javier replies.

  A shorter guy with pale, close cropped hair and a guitar hanging low on his hips steps forward. He wraps his hand around Laura’s on the tambourine.

  “Yes!” he says. “Shake it! Shake it with the passions of your heart!”

  He starts shaking it while thrusting his hips, guitar and all, against Laura’s backside.

  I hear the crunch of the water bottle in my hand again before I realize I’ve completely flattened it.

  “That’s the guy with the errant pelvis,” I grind out.

  “Yep,” Maddie says, sipping her beer. “That’d be him. His name is Leo. He’s really harmless once you get past the horny Elvis moves.”

  “He looks like an epileptic monkey,” I say.

  “Yep,” Maddie repeats. “It’s kind of endearing, actually.”

  “Is it?” I say.

  Javier counts out a beat, and then the band bursts into a loud, throbbing, up-tempo song. The bass vibrates through the floorboards, reverberating through my sternum as Javier starts singing, his voice clear and strong and perfectly suited to the pop-rock-flamenco vibe of his music.

  At first Laura looks a little lost. Her eyes are glued to Javier as he nods in time to the beat, encouraging her. She raises the tambourine and taps it against the heel of her palm, once, twice, three times, totally off beat.

  My heart clenches. I hope she doesn’t get upset—

  She laughs, a giant smile spreading across her face as she keeps trying to catch the beat. She starts shimmying her hips, just a bit, and Javier and that guy Leo shimmy along with her, all of them smiling as the music rises to a deafening crescendo. Even the crowd has started to help Laura; they clap, several people holding their hands above their heads.