SPANISH LESSONS (Study Abroad #1) Chapters 1 & 2

Chapter 1

August

Madrid, Spain

I clutch the scrap of paper with trembling fingers. The address I’ve scrawled on it in purple felt-tip pen is smeared with sweat; the paper feels fuzzy, worried by my hands as I’ve stumbled through Barajas International Airport.

The taxi driver, a nice looking dude with stringy blond locks that stream from a receding hairline, glances at me in the rearview mirror.

“Um,” I say, tears stinging the backs of my eyes. Years of Spanish go out the open window as I struggle to remember how to say fourteen and street and I’m so sorry I’m an idiot. I’ve practiced saying my señora’s address a hundred times on the plane. I’ve even coached myself on the proper Spanish accent, perfecting the soft hiss of c and s.

Sweat trickles down the gutter of my spine. Spanish words and phrases dart through my head like blinking fireflies, going dark just when I think I’ve caught one.

For the first time, I wonder what the hell I was thinking when I decided to study abroad for a semester in Spain. I am not ready for this. While I’ve managed to slip through high school and college classes on the strength of my written Spanish, it’s obvious my speaking skills are gringo-level—and that is being generous.

I’ve always wanted to study in Madrid, mostly because I’m a huge art history nerd and the museums here are some of the best in the world. Seeing, in the flesh, the masterpieces of my favorite artists—Goya, Dalí, Picasso—along with the country that inspired them is going to be the coolest thing ever.

But even though art history is my jam, I have yet to discover any real jobs you can land with a major like that. Considering mom and dad kindly but firmly told me I’m off the payroll the day I get my diploma, I needed a more practical major with good job prospects.

So like most Meryton University students, I am an Economics major. Along with a solid GPA, it will help me nab internships that will lead to a well-paying job after I graduate—consulting, maybe, or investment banking. I also chose it because, let’s be honest, peer pressure is a bitch, and I don’t want to be left behind by my super smart, and super competitive, classmates.

Unlike most Meryton students, however, I’m not very good at Econ. In fact, my GPA has tanked ever since I declared it as my major last year. Which is why I plan on getting a tutor through the Meryton in Madrid program this semester. I’m hoping they can help me slay the business classes I’m taking, and maybe the one or two art history classes I’ll sneak in before I settle into my I-banking track for good.

But if I can barely mumble a coherent word in Spanish, how the hell am I going to pass, much less slay, classes that cover sophisticated economic theory— classes taught in one hundred percent Spanish? I doubt even the best, most dedicated tutor can teach me to speak an entire language in a handful of months.

The taxi driver is waiting.

“Um,” I say again, my voice wavering. “Por favor, voy a…um…quatro, no, no, catorce…”

The driver turns around and offers a small smile of sympathy. He nods at the scrap in my hand, and with a sigh of relief I pass it to him.

“Gracias,” I say. “Muchisimas, muchisimas gracias.”

He turns back, looks down at the address. “Ah, vale. Veinte, veinticinco minutos con el trafico.”

That I understand. Twenty, twenty-five minutes with the traffic.

Okay.

I settle back in my seat, let out a breath. Okay. I look forward to twenty-five minutes of relative peace, before I face the second trial of my study abroad adventure: meeting my señora. I have been warned she speaks “little to no English.”

Just the thought of it makes my stomach clench. Social situations can stress me out—I’m an introvert—and I know interacting with my substitute mom who can only communicate in Spanish is going to take my anxiety to a whole new level. I want to be gracious, and kind; I want her to like me. None of those things will happen if I can’t speak her language.

The driver fights our sputtering taxi into gear. We lurch into traffic, the driver zipping in between cars and mopeds with stupid speed. A tiny blue lighter slides across the dashboard. He snatches it, tucking it into his shirtfront pocket; the pack of cigarettes he keeps there crinkles as he does it.

He does not put on his seatbelt. I take that as a sign that I should definitely put on mine.

My first sight of Madrid is disappointing. We pass through dreary suburbs at lightning speed, faceless building after faceless building whizzing past, a blurry weave of grey and beige. Between buildings, I catch glimpses of the countryside. It is arid, desert-like with pops of intense, eucalyptus green—exactly how I imagined it when I read Don Quixote. The sky is hazy with heat.

The wind, warm, blares through the window. It feels good. Growing up in the South, I am used to hot weather. But I didn’t realize how much I took air conditioning— sweet, sweet air conditioning—for granted.

Looking out the window, I notice that everything is a little different here. The cars, for one thing, are tiny, dinged up and dirty; not a shiny SUV in sight. The people driving them have slightly different haircuts, they wear a slightly different style clothing; their expressions of road rage are startlingly vibrant to my American eyes. The highway itself is clean and orderly, the pavement several shades darker than at home.

The suburbs eventually crowd into a city. My heart pops around in my chest. Mostly because we are getting closer to my señora’s apartment, and I’m already stressed about what I’m going to say.

But my heart also works double time because excitement is peeking around the great mass of my anxiety. Madrid is huge— and this part is beautiful. The taxi slows down as we run into traffic, giving me a chance to gawk as we inch further toward city center.

It’s not gritty, like New York, or shiny and new, like Atlanta. Madrid is gorgeously old; I can see its age in the zigzag of its streets, in the mishmash of Gothic and Mediterranean and Belle Epoque architecture. The mid-afternoon light softens corners and gilds trees. Beautifully dressed people stroll along the sidewalks, puffing on cigarettes or chatting on their phones. My eyes move over the trim, broad-shouldered profiles of the guys we pass—Madrileños. They are the “holy shit” variety of gorgeous.

But as delicious as they look, I wouldn’t touch these dudes with a ten-foot pole. After suffering through my first real heartbreak last semester, followed by a string of disappointing hookups that I hoped would lead to something but never did, I need a win. And falling for a hot Spanish dude who, if he even likes me back, I’ll have to leave in five months’ time is definitely not a win.

I’ve been so close to romance, to that happily ever after, before. And then I had to let it—let him—go after one semester. It hurt like hell.

I definitely don’t want to go through that again.

I want a guy who’s going to be around for coffee in the morning and dinner dates at night.

I want a guy who’s going to be around for a long, long time. Maybe forever. And by virtue of their hotness, their geographical location, and their seriously superior Spanish skills, these Madrileños are definitely not forever material.

It’s intimidating, Madrid, but already I’m picking up on its easy energy, the sense of promise that hangs in the air. If I can ever manage to utter a complete sentence in grammatically correct Spanish, I think I’ll like it here.

After weaving in and out of traffic, we make a turn and zoom up a smaller street. I strain my neck to look up at the stately white apartment buildings we pass. The neighborhood looks nice. Very nice. The bustle and noise of the city recedes the further we move up the street, until at last the driver darts into an open parking spot in front of a blue paneled door.

I brace my hand on the back of his seat to keep from lurching forward.

“Aqui.” The driver points out the window. “Calle de Villanueva, numero catorce.”

Oh God.

I’m here.

My home for the next six months. Whether I’m a gringo or not, I’m here, four thousand miles from home. There is no turning back.

The driver motions to the meter, and I dig my monopoly-sized Euro bills out of my wallet. My mind races as I try to calculate the tip. Shit, there are no single bills; I’d forgotten the Euro dollar is a coin.

Shit shit shit.

My hands are shaking again, and I end up shoving an enormous tip into the guy’s hand because my brain isn’t working and I feel like I’m about to burst into tears. He grins and hops out of the car, helping me with my enormous suitcase.

He drops it at the door. I say thanks in halting Spanish, and he speeds away, muffler coughing in protest.

I glance down at the scrap of paper he placed in my palm. Calle de Villanueva, 14, second floor. I look up at the door. I am so nervous I feel sick.

But the sun is hot on my head and shoulders, the heat from the pavement radiating up my legs. I probably look like a hot mess, and smell like one too. I can’t remember ever being so exhausted; I need a siesta, stat.

I push the door open, dragging my suitcase behind me. Its wheels clack against the marble floor. The air in the small, shadowed foyer is cool; it feels like jumping into a pool after that sweaty cab ride.

There is a quaint, fragile-looking elevator in the middle of the room. I slide back the Titanic-esque gate, and barely manage to squeeze into the elevator beside my suitcase. I press the button; after a minute the elevator jerks into motion, moving slowly, slowly, to the second floor.

And all of a sudden—three airports, four awful airplane meals, and eighteen hours after I left home—I am staring down my señora’s door.

Swallowing my heart, I knock.

I hear the rut-tut-tut of a dog’s nails against the floorboards; a bark, a woman’s voice; and then the door opens, revealing a petite blond woman with kind brown eyes. There’s a frazzled look about her, or maybe I just think that because she’s trying—and failing—to hold back a giant German shepherd by his collar.

“Chiquitin!” she implores. “No, Chiquitin, no!”

But Chiquitin gets the better of her, wrangling from her grasp. He pounces on me, teeth nicking my chin. I let out an embarrassing sound, something between “hola” and a strangled cry for help.

No one told me there would be a dog. A mean, employed-by-the-department-of-corrections dog.

My señora starts to holler, and eventually she manages to wrestle Chiquitin away from me. He barks, she slaps. I wonder if I’m going to faint.

Then she turns to me.

“Vivian?” she asks, smiling. It sounds like Vee-vee-an when she says it. I kinda like it. I wonder if I can ever hope to live up to this exotic version of myself.

I manage a smile. “Si. Me llama Vivian. Um. I’m. Uh. Encantada, Senora.”

I think that’s how you say “nice to meet you.” I think.

I hope.

She manages to wedge back the dog, and steps out into the foyer to give me a hug. A quick kiss kiss on each cheek, and she pulls away, introducing herself as Stella. She picks up pretty quickly on the fact that my Spanish isn’t so great. She speaks slowly, using hand gestures. I appreciate her kindness.

The following hour is a blur. After locking Chiquitin in a bedroom, Stella shows me around her apartment. It is lovely, dressed up without being stuffy. The floor, wood parquet lovingly marred by generations of use, creaks as we move through each room: a small kitchen—no oven!—a pretty bathroom, a well-worn living room with couches huddled around a TV.

There is no air conditioning in any of the rooms. It’s got to be close to one hundred degrees outside.

I try to engage Stella in conversation. I want to let her know how much I love her apartment, how much I appreciate her hospitality. But I’m really feeling the jet lag now, and my brain seems to short-circuit anytime I need to say something. Either I can’t think of anything to say at all, or I do but I can’t remember how to translate it into Spanish.

I end up using dumbed-down phrases that make me sound like a total tool. “Que bella!” (I’m pretty sure that’s Italian, but whatever); “muchas gracias”; “es preciosa” (“it is precious” or maybe “it is pretty”) Gah!

By the time the tour ends and Stella shows me to my room, I want to die of embarrassment. Exhaustion, too. She asks if I’m hungry, if I’d like anything—maybe a glass of wine to celebrate my arrival?

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?

 

Chapter 2

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 see 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.”

I don’t know if he mentions JT on purpose, but I appreciate the common cultural reference nonetheless. It helps me get my bearings, helps me feel a little less lost.

I bite my lip. “Justin Timberlake. Really?”

“Really.” He meets my eyes. His spark with mischief. “Justin Timberlake. It has been confirmed by people I trust.”

I don’t think Rafa needs much sangria at all to dance well. He’s one of those guys you can just tell knows his way around a dance floor.

One of those guys you can just tell is good in bed. Not that I have much practice. But still. There’s something so…quietly virile, confident about him. He would know what he was doing, and he would do it well.

“Well then.” I tip back my glass. “I definitely have some catching up to do.”

“I have a lot of practice with sangria,” Rafa says. “I am telling you the truth. I am very confident in this—that you will be speaking perfect Spanish by the end of the semester. Not only that. I think you will dream it, too.”

“That’s a tall order,” I say. “You have to be pretty fluent to dream in a different language.”

He smiles. The curving lines around his mouth deepen, making him look boyish. Cute. “I think you can do it.”

“I think your confidence is misplaced,” I say. “But I could use all the motivation I can get, so thanks.”

“Vale,” he says, using that quintessentially Spanish word with a thousand meanings I have yet to tease out. I’ve heard it described as “okay” or “cool,” but it seems like neither of those words fully capture its nebulous spirit. “You just need a little bit of courage, and you will figure it out.”

“Vale,” I reply. I’m teasing him now, flirting. Openly. It’s fun.

“See?” He nods at the glass in my hand. “Already, the sangria is working.”

“Hardly. Words are easy. But sentences?” I shake my head. “I need a lot more liquid courage for those.”

Over the rim of my cup, I notice Al is talking to some of the other guys from Meryton, his back angled away from Rafa and I; we’re cut off, secluded in our own little corner. The sounds and smells of the alley crowd around us, but it feels like we’re alone, somehow, the space between our bodies vibrating with silent warmth.

At least I feel it vibrating. I wonder if Rafa does, too, or if my sudden interest is unrequited. My crushes are usually—no, they’re always unrequited. No one ever looks twice at me. Ever. It’s like I’m always the bridesmaid, never the bride; I can make out with a guy, but he never seems to feel the fluttery things I do.

“You came to Spain to learn our language,” Rafa says. “But what else will you study while you’re here?”

I swallow my sangria. “Last semester I declared an Economics major, so I’ll be taking business classes, mostly. A literature class. And then I’d love to take some Spanish art history, but I don’t know if I’ll have room on my schedule for such a guilty pleasure. I don’t want to take too much on.”

“Guilty pleasure?” Rafa arches a brow. “Madrid has some of the best art museums in the world. There is nothing guilty about studying it, especially while you are here.”

“Have you?” I ask. “Studied art history, I mean.”

“I have. Quite a lot, actually. You, too?”

“Some classes. I love it, I do, but you can’t really do much with an art history major, so. Yeah.” I sip my sangria. “Who are your favorite painters?”

“I like all the Spanish painters. Goya. Velázquez.” He says the names in his perfect, succulent Spanish, and never in my life have I heard anything so sexy. I make note of his pronunciation, his accent; Goy-ja, Velash-quez; I will have to practice them later. “El Greco, even though he isn’t really Spanish. We still like to take credit for his genius. But my favorite? My favorite is Sorolla.”

I blink. Sor-roya. “Sorolla? I don’t think I’ve ever heard of him.”

Rafa grins. “You must take art history, then, if only to learn of Sorolla. There is a whole museum here just for his work. I think it’s the best museum in all of Spain. I’ll take you there—even if you don’t take the art history class, you must see it.”

I don’t know if it’s the sangria—it’s probably the sangria—or the way Rafa is looking at me, but the backs of my knees begin to tingle. It’s my first night in Madrid, and here I am, getting my buzz on, talking my favorite thing—art! —with an incredibly good-looking Spaniard. He’s probably only offering to take me to this museum because he’s drunk and trying to be polite, but I don’t care. However fleeting it may be, even if nothing comes of it, I am in love with this moment.

And that’s got to count for something.

“The Sorolla Museum,” I say. “I’ll have to remember that. Thanks for the tip.”

“You’re welcome,” he replies. “I hope you like it here, Vivian. I know coming to a different country can be hard. The language, the food, all the little things—I remember being so homesick in New York when I first got there I called my parents ten times a day.”

I look down at my cup—almost empty now—and slowly nod my head. “I admit I’ve cried a little bit today. And by a little bit, I mean a lot.”

“It will get better,” he says. “You are here for, what, five months?”

“Almost six.”

“That probably feels like a lifetime right now, yes?”

I scoff. “It does, actually. That’s what I was crying about.”

When I look up, he is standing closer—there are people behind him now, pressing him toward me—and my heart skips a beat. We meet eyes. His reflect the soft glow of the lamps outside the bar; it’s getting dark, the air around us velvety. That tingle behind my knees moves to a full-on rush.

“I’m biased,” he says, “but if you do it right, Madrid is an easy place to fall for. Mostly because I live here.”

I smile and he smiles and the look in his eyes is so lovely it makes my stomach hurt in the best, the best way.

“So where are you taking us tonight?” I ask. “I’ve heard pretty amazing things about the nightlife here. I mean, no pressure or anything.”

He glances at his watch, a simple round face on a well-worn leather strap. “The bars close in a few hours. Then we will head to the discotecas—on Saturdays the best is Ático. We can start there.”

“I hope Justin Timberlake will be making an appearance?”

He holds up his glass, lets it tilt in his fingers. “He’d better. Otherwise I’m going to embarrass myself in front of my new friends.”

I laugh. “Yeah, somehow I think you’re going to put us all to shame, with or without Justin’s help. I’m not proud of my white girl moves.”

“But you’re not afraid to show them off,” he says, eyes sparking as he grins down at me.

“Hell no,” I say. “Especially not after I’ve had a little—more than a little—sangria.”

“Excellent.” Rafa taps his glass to mine. “Welcome to Madrid, Vivian. I’m glad you’re here.”

What does that mean? It probably doesn’t mean anything. We’re just talking, drinking, maybe flirting, too.

Even if Rafa did mean something by that, I came to Madrid to work my ass off, pull up my GPA, and enjoy some art. I didn’t cross an ocean to start a relationship—a hookup, a romance, whatever—that inevitably won’t last. I promised myself no more hookups, no more heartbreak.

Still.

I find myself grinning back up at Rafa, wondering what his wine-stained lips would taste like.

Wondering if his kindness is a ploy to get in my pants, or if it’s genuine. It makes no sense, I know; guys this good-looking, guys that smell this wonderful, don’t need to be nice to awkward American girls like me to get some.

But there’s something about Rafa—something about his eyes, his calm, easy demeanor, that makes me think he’s different.

“Thanks,” I say. “I’m glad I’m here, too.”

And I mean it. I do.