In this new reality, Zach can barely even look at me. He puts as much space between us as he can, and he barely seems to notice that I’m dying with every century-long second.
I feel frozen in place. Equal parts of me scream that I need to back off and give Zach the space to process and move past it before we cause irreversible damage, but also that I need to beg Zach to notice me, and talk this through with me, and see what this is doing to me. I can’t do both, but it feels as though if I pick the wrong approach, I could lose him forever.
A desperate, terrified twisting in the pit of my stomach warns that maybe I already have.
Right now, we’re rolling through the darkened streets of Madrid post-concert, on our way to try some authentic tapas. It wasn’t on our schedule, but Pauline, along with the Spanish guards, convinced Erin it was a low risk—and much needed—downtime detour. We’re in Spain, the place my parents were born. I should be ecstatic to be here, surrounded by the culture that formed such a big part of my upbringing, and standing on the same ground my ancestors once trod. Instead, I can barely process the sights and sounds over my racing, fearful thoughts and the aching misery clamping down on my chest.
I’m wasting my chance to appreciate the country I’ve been tied to by blood, and I can’t seem to snap myself out of it.
Zach’s two rows ahead of me, chatting with Angel like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Like he does that all the time. Like he hasn’t sat in the back with me every trip we’ve ever taken, from Saturday’s conception through to that night in Paris.
Jon’s my seat buddy instead, and he’s not trying to make conversation. My face is probably so cloudy it’s scared him off. But I do appreciate that he climbed in beside me. I’m sure he knows something’s up, but he doesn’t press. Just gives his company.
The bus pulls to a stop and Erin lets us pile out. I’m surprised by how cool it is here in March. When I listened to the stories my abuela used to tell me when she was still alive about her life in Spain, I always pictured heat and humidity, an oppressive blanket of warmth. Not temperatures dipping to the low forties, woolen coats, and boots. But here we are.
I’ve heard people do things a little later in Spain, but if I’m honest I didn’t expect it to be this busy at eleven p.m. It’s practically bedtime for us, but the city’s sprung to life here like six in the evening does back home. The paved, narrow streets are filled with people heading out to eat or drink, and the restaurants and bars we pass are buzzing with people and warm light. Instead of heavy drinking like I’d expect to see this late, though, it’s much more casual. More groups of friends sitting at outdoor tables, sipping red wine and picking at tapas, fewer stumbling drunks knocking back beer after beer. The sound from inside the buildings isn’t thudding music or raucous laughter and shouts, but the hum of social chatter. In a weird way, it feels familiar. Like, down-to-my-bones familiar. Is it possible to inherit memories through your genes, or am I just overtired? Probably the latter. We’ve been awake for eighteen hours now.
The smells of garlic, oil, and tomatoes waft through the air as we enter a dimly lit restaurant. It’s crowded, and usually an extra group filing in past tables wouldn’t attract attention. But Pauline standing by the table with one of the Spanish Tungsten guards while the other guards station themselves closer to the entrance apparently gives us away. If that doesn’t, the growing crowd of fans gathering outside to gawk and scream at us through the windows sure does. It feels like every eye in the restaurant is fixed in our direction right now.
I move to slide into the seat at the back at the same moment as Zach. We both halt, and I give him an awkward smile. “You go,” I say.
He nods, and I realize too late it places me right next to him at the table. Despite myself, my stomach flips. Pathetic, to be exhilarated by the thought of my elbow bumping against his right now, but here I am.
He grabs his menu to study it the second I sit down. I’m way too engrossed to talk to you is the obvious message. But I try anyway. Despite his weirdness over the past few days, a hopeful part of me is still kidding myself that he’ll soften if I keep trying. “I’ll make sure no one orders any fish,” I try. Zach’s never been able to stand the stuff. The first night I met him at camp we had fish fingers for dinner and he dry retched so hard I gave him my fries out of pity so he wouldn’t go hungry.
His eyes flicker up. “Thanks,” he says. For a breathless moment I think he’s going to smile, or say something else. But he just goes back to his menu. When I look at mine, I’m struck to see familiar dish after familiar dish. The kind of food that I ate all the time growing up but have never seen on a restaurant menu before. There’s a sense of belonging in this. A shared experience with a country of strangers, whom I could’ve lived among in another life. An alternate timeline, when my grandparents never immigrated to the United States.
I look back up from the menu. “I can’t make any promises about shrimp, though. It’s in about every third—” I trail off as Zach gives me a tight smile. “Yup, okay, cool,” I murmur.
“Ruben, what should we order?” Jon asks as he sits on my other side.
“No idea. I don’t know what you feel like eating.”
“That’s okay. If it comes with a Spaniard’s recommendation, I trust it.”