Royal Ruin Page 24

  I decline as politely as I am able, which is to say, not well at all. Stella leaves me to unpack, closing the door quietly behind her.

  I look around the small guest room. It is spare, but cozy. A pair of huge casement windows are thrown open onto a silent courtyard. It is so damn hot in here I can hardly stand it.

  I dig my phone out of my backpack and fall onto the trundle bed. I call my parents, and when my mom answers the phone—she sounds relieved, excited to hear from me—a lump forms in my throat. She asks about my flight, and about Stella. I rush her off the phone, telling her I need to unpack; telling her yes, Mom, really, I’m okay, just tired.

  I set the phone on the desk beside the bed and fall back onto the pillows. I should unpack, I should set up my computer to proofread my econ take-home before I turn it in tomorrow, I should take Stella up on that glass of wine.

  I cry instead. I turn my head away from the heat of the window and let the tears roll down my temples, soaking the pillow.

  I let the homesickness roll over me, a great stone weight that settles on my chest. Even though I’ve been away at college for the past two years, I’m pretty close with my family. I love going home for breaks and holidays; love not having to wear shoes in my own shower; love sleeping in my own bed in my own room. Most of all I love hanging with my mom and my dad and my brother, the four of us slurping mom’s Sunday night spaghetti and meatballs around the well-worn kitchen table. Because home—we live in Charlotte—is less than a two-hour drive from campus, I rarely go more than a month without seeing my family.

  But other than Mom and Dad’s potential visit to Spain around Thanksgiving, I have no plans to see them the entire six months I’ll be here in Madrid.

  Six months.

  How in the world am I going to make it six months here?

  And how am I going to pass my classes if I can’t speak the damn language?

  * * *

  Later That Evening

  I crack open an eye. For a minute I forget where I am.

  I am sticky with sweat, the heat of the room swelling around me. I take it as a sign I had a good, PTFO-style nap.

  Light—less ardent now, more golden—slants through the windows. It is unfamiliar, this kind of light, and so pretty. I can hear the dull whine of a blow dryer through an open window across the courtyard. People getting ready to go out on a Saturday night.

  It’s Saturday, August 29. The Saturday I’ve been looking forward to for my entire college career.

  The Saturday I land in Madrid.

  It comes back to me in a rush—the flight, the fraught cab ride, Stella and Chiquitin, no! and the weight of my homesickness. I don’t know what to feel first.

  My hair rustles against the pillow as I turn my head to look at the mattress set flush against mine. Maddie, my roommate for the semester, is going to laugh when she sees it. Our marital bed. She doesn’t land until tomorrow morning; I can’t wait for her to get here. Not only because she speaks fluent Spanish—she spent a summer in Colombia during high school—but also because she’s one of my besties for the resties. We met freshman year, when we lived two doors down from each another in the same dorm. Mads is not only an excellent person, but she’s funny as hell, too. I have no doubt she’ll make me laugh off my homesickness over an enormous jug of Spanish wine.

  My phone vibrates on the desk beside the bed. It’s a text from my friend, Katie—a sorority sister who is also doing Meryton in Madrid this semester – asking if I’d like to meet up later tonight at a bar. A couple of people in our program are getting together for our first night out in the city.

  A spark of excitement catches in my chest. We’ve all heard about Spain’s ridiculous nightlife. The eight-level discoteca—sounds so seventies, I know—the clubs that stay open until six, seven in the morning, revelers rubbing elbows on the Metro with men in suits headed to the office. Our program director back at Meryton told us our señoras will not only tolerate us stumbling home at 6 a.m., they expect it. “It’s part of the Spanish cultural experience,” she’d said.

  A cultural experience I am all too glad to partake in. Being twenty years old in the States is kind of a bummer, considering I can’t even get into a bar. But here? I can get into a bar, and for the first official time I can order an official drink.

  Pretty exciting stuff.

  Besides. I’m sure seeing some familiar faces will help alleviate my homesickness. I can’t help wishing I were back home at my parents’ house tonight, grilling out in their backyard.

  I suck in a breath at a violent stab of longing. Oh, America, I’ve barely been gone a day and already I miss you like crazy! I will myself to blink back the tears. There are friends to see, and sangria to be had. No time for more crying.

  An hour later, I emerge from my room, dressed to impress. I have a feeling the clothes I wear for a night out in Durham are a lot different from what people wear to dance in a discoteca in Madrid, but I give it the old college try.

  I hear Stella in the kitchen down the hall. Just as I turn in that direction, a tut-tut-tut sounds behind me. I simultaneously break out in a sweat and into a run, but Chiquitin, that wily bastard, is already on me. He nips at my bare heels, causing me to teeter on my wedges. My hands scrape at the walls for balance as I make an awkward run for it. I must look like the too-stupid-to-live heroine from a horror movie, but I don’t care. The last thing I need right now is a prison dog taking a juicy chunk out of my ass.

  Stella must hear my distress, because she comes flying out of the kitchen, hissing admonishments at Chiquitin. He, in turn, merely nips at me harder, until Stella yanks him away and throws him behind a closed door.

  Wiping her brow, she turns to me and apologizes for her dog’s behavior. She is speaking quickly, and I only catch about half of what she’s saying. I focus so hard on translating that when it’s my turn to speak, I haven’t thought of a response in English, much less in coherent Spanish. So I resort to my dufus-like pantomime of her beautiful language, stuttering something about “un perro” (a dog) and “no te preocupes” (don’t worry about it).

  It’s traumatizing. Somehow I convey to Stella that I’m going out with friends. She smiles, and tells me not to worry about getting home too early; just use the key she gave me, I am free to come and go as I please. And, oh!, here is her cell phone number, in case I need anything or there’s an emergency.

  The second my feet hit the sidewalk outside, the hand that’s been squeezing my heart relaxes. I hate having nothing to say in a conversation; it’s like being caught with my pants down. I have to work on my Spanish. Otherwise I’m going to give myself a heart attack trying to say thanks for this delicious dinner to my señora.

  It’s still hot, but the afternoon has faded to a beautiful evening. This is my favorite time of day—these hours just before dark, when the air cools and the light is bruised shades of orange and purple and blue, potent with possibility.

  Sometimes I think the anticipation of the night ahead is even sweeter than the night itself.

  Maybe it’s the way Madrid smells. It just smells…different. I can’t explain it. It’s a combination of scents—the heat of the sidewalk, the yeasty smell of bread, diesel—that permeates everything. It’s not unpleasant; it just gives Madrid a very distinct sense of place. It’s a constant reminder that I’m in a foreign country, thousands of miles from home. There’s something very old-world about the smell, ancient, even. Occasionally, when I walk over a grate or manhole, it gets potently medieval.

  I try to play it cool and look like I know where I’m going, but I end up glancing at the map on my phone every ten seconds anyway. I grew up in the ‘burbs, and Meryton’s campus is in the middle of a medium-ish-sized town, so this city thing is new to me; I’m more than a little intimidated by the buzz of traffic and people that surround me. Eventually I manage to hail a cab. It’s easier this time around. I merely need to say the name of the bar and then we’re zooming through the city.

  The driver lets me out
at the mouth of a long, wide alley. It’s throbbing with people and sound. Young, attractive Madrileños, their skin glowing with a fine sheet of sweat, spill out from bars and gather around quaint café tables; I can hear the scrape of metal chairs against the cobblestones. The driver motions to the alley, and says something about a bar on the left.

  My heart is pounding as I move through the crowd. The sting of cigarette smoke hangs in the air, mingled with the sweeter, almost potent smell of sangria. People laugh, they chat in rapid-fire Spanish.

  “Vivian!”

  I turn at the sound of my name, and a second later Katie is jumping on me like a baby monkey, pulling me into a tight hug. I cannot describe the happiness I feel at the sight of a familiar face. I’m smiling so hard I feel it in my eyeballs.

  “Oh my God,” I say. “Oh my God, Katie, I am so happy to see you.”

  Katie pulls back. As usual, she’s got her laid-back boho thing going on, a strappy paisley dress hanging off her wiry frame. She’s adorable.

  “So?” she says. “How is it?”

  “How is what?”

  She smiles. “Everything.”

  “All right,” I say, looking around. “A little overwhelming, but all right.”

  “A little overwhelming?” Katie laughs. “Girl, fifteen minutes ago I was sobbing outside a head shop in the Spanish hood. I took the wrong train on the Metro and got totally lost.”

  “Oh my God.” It seems I’ve started repeating dumb phrases not only in Spanish, but in English, too. “Are you okay?”

  “Better, now that you’re here.” She loops her arm through mine. “C’mon, mujer, let’s get our bebida on. We’re right over there.”

  She leads me around the corner to another alley, this one slightly smaller but just as crowded with bars and beautiful people. A few guys check Katie out as we pass. No one looks twice at me, though. I’m used to it; I’m never the girl that gets the guy.

  Still, it stings.

  I hear snatches of English as we draw up to a long table surrounded mostly by guys. I recognize a few of them from Meryton; others I haven’t seen before. Mismatched pitchers of sangria crowd the table, along with a couple pints of half-finished beer.

  “Viv Bingley!” a familiar voice calls out. I turn my head to see Alberto Montoya gesturing to the empty chair beside him. I bite my lip against my smile; it’s really starting to hurt.

  Al is in a fraternity my sorority mixes with a lot back at Meryton. He is cute, charming, and hella smart; to say he is excellent is an understatement. Considering the fact that nobody dates—our campus is very much dominated by a hookup culture—Al is something of a legend for making the very first chick he met at freshman orientation his girlfriend. They’ve been together ever since.

  Al stands to give me a hug, and that’s when I see the guy sitting next to him.

  For a split second our eyes meet over Al’s shoulder. My stomach does a backflip. This guy is cute; like, one-look-and-I-feel-my-face-go-up-in-flames cute. His eyes are slate blue, and warm with laughter; they are a handsome foil to the freckles that dot his nose and cheeks. He’s got a movie star jaw and deep, shapely smile lines that frame his nose and mouth.

  I don’t know, but there’s something about him—the wild licks of his dark hair, maybe, or his crisply pressed white button-down shirt, undone at the neck—that makes me think he’s Madrileño. Guys at Meryton don’t dress like Prince Harry.

  And they sure as hell don’t look at girls like this. Like they want to say hello and make you laugh.

  A slow, tingling wave of awareness moves up my spine, trailing goose bumps in its wake. It’s strange, this feeling, and new. The physical sensation echoes in my head, causing my thoughts to scatter in a starry rush.

  “Viv,” Al says, turning to the Madrileño beside him. “Meet my cousin, Rafael. He’s from Madrid, so he’s going to show us all the good spots tonight. Rafael, this is my friend Vivian. We’re in the study abroad program together.”

  I swallow, hard, and venture another glance in Rafael’s direction. I can’t think of anything else to do, so like an idiot I wave. “Hi, Rafael.”

  Rafael stands—oh, dear Lord, he’s tall, a head taller than me—and before I can so much as blink he’s leaning over the table and pressing a kiss onto both my cheeks.

  I blink, my body ringing with the pleasant shock of such an intimate, unexpected gesture.

  The kisses themselves are killer. But it’s the way he smells that really gets me. He smells delicious, like just-showered boy, a hint of woodsy aftershave. If it was socially acceptable, I would lick his neck.

  “Mucho gusto,” he says, his Spanish as crisp and intimidatingly perfect as his shirt. “And please, Vivian, call me Rafa.”

  Rafa. It’s like a Spanish pirate name. A sexy Spanish pirate name.

  I like pirates.

  I feel my stupid smile tugging at the edges of my lips. “Rafa,” I say, trying it on for size. I dig it. “Nice to meet you.”

  A split second of silence settles between us as Rafa looks at me. And keeps looking. I can’t tell if it’s awkward, the silence, or if I like it. All I know is I feel warm, a little giggly even.

  All I know is I got a lot less homesick all of the sudden.

  Al glances from me to Rafa and back again, a smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “Vale.” He claps his hands together. “Viv, the sangria is amazing – we’re all on our second, so you gotta catch up.”

  “Thanks,” I say, tucking my hair self-consciously behind my ear. “Make it a heavy pour, if you don’t mind.”

  Al arches a brow as he fills a glass to the brim. “Long day?”

  “Very.”

  He presses the glass into my hand. Pieces of fruit float on the sangria’s inky surface. The sweet scent of brandy fills my head. This is going to be good.

  I start when Rafa taps his glass against mine. “Salud.”

  “Salud,” I say, meeting his eyes. It’s like a sock to the gut. They are so damn pretty.

  I surreptitiously check him out as I sip my sangria. His perfect white shirt is tucked into a perfect pair of dark jeans; he’s rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, revealing tanned, muscular forearms. One hand is in his pocket, an appropriately Prince-Harry-ish frayed bracelet wrapped around his wrist. His understated brown belt doesn’t match his shoes—tan suede—but somehow it works.

  Oh, how it works.

  I look away, my face burning, and catch Katie staring me down from across the table. There’s a knowing gleam in her eye.

  Talk to him! He is hot! she mouths, fanning herself.

  I sip my sangria. It’s delicious, not too sweet, not too strong, refreshing in the heat. I sneak a glance at Rafa. He’s still standing next to me, the smell of his aftershave tickling my nostrils. My cheeks burn with the memory of his kisses.

  I’m usually pretty shy around guys. Which probably explains why I don’t have many notches in my belt—and why, at twenty, I am still in possession of my v-card. I was ready to “do it,” as Maddie says, with the last guy I was with. A guy I thought I loved, a guy I thought loved me. But when I told him I was ready, he told me about the girlfriend he had back home. You know, the girlfriend he’d been dating the whole time he and I were together.

  The girlfriend he was in love with.

  Needless to say, the sex didn’t happen; apparently he didn’t consider oral sex cheating, but sex sex was where he drew the line.

  After that, along with some seriously unsatisfying hookups, I swore I wouldn’t allow myself to get burned again. No more casual dating, no more booty calls. I want respect, I want real, and I want romance—the forever kind.

  The kind I definitely can’t get with this guy—this ridiculously handsome Spanish pirate. He is way hotter than any guy I’ve ever been with or talked to. I should be intimidated. I should be crawling back into my shell.

  But I don’t. He is so far above my pay grade it’s laughable. He is some random Madrileño dude, and chances are I’ll never se
e him again. If I do, I can order a bucket of sangria and drown myself in it.

  I have nothing—absolutely nothing—to lose. Which makes me feel a hell of a lot less shy.

  I look back at Katie and lift my shoulder, grinning. Okay.

  “So, Rafa,” I say, turning to him. “You and Al are cousins?”

  He nods, swallowing. “You know Alberto’s father is Spanish, yes?”

  “I do,” I say. “But Al was born in New York.”

  Rafa nods again. “Our fathers are brothers. My uncle moved to the United States to marry a woman he met at university there – those are Al’s parents. I went to live with them one summer to take classes at NYU. And now Alberto comes to live with us in Madrid while he studies.”

  I sip my sangria. “Is that how you learned to speak English so well? Yours is very good. Way better than my Spanish.”

  He grins, and oh, God, it tears a hole in whatever stuff my heart is made of. “Thank you. Students in Europe, we learn a lot of languages. Alberto definitely helped with my English, though. My family goes to New York to visit them—Al and my aunt and uncle—a lot.” He drains his glass. “Is your Spanish really so bad?”

  I scoff into my sangria. “It’s abysmal. I can read it, and I can write it, but I can’t speak it. I get, like, flustered, trying to translate everything in my head. And my accent— yack.”

  Rafa reaches for the pitcher on the table. “Yack?”

  “Um,” I say, rolling my lips between my teeth. “You know, like. Throw-up? Puke? Just…totally gross.”

  He laughs as he refills his glass. He looks up, his eyes meeting mine; there is a question there. I nod and hold out my glass. He fills it.

  “Totally gross?” he says, setting the pitcher back on the table. “I think you are exaggerating. But it will help if you practice. All of the time, practice. Don’t think so much. And one night, when you have too much sangria, your Spanish will come.”

  “I didn’t know sangria had such magical powers.”

  Rafa shrugs. He takes a pull from his glass. “If it can make me dance like Justin Timberlake, then it can make you speak perfect Spanish.”