Love in English

Chapter Twelve
___
I didn’t talk to Mateo at all the next day. He wouldn’t even meet my eye.
He owed me two questions. I only felt guilt that I didn’t understand.
* * *
On the morning of the grand soccer match, we found out all the day’s activities were cancelled. We were to pack our soccer clothes with us in the vans and all of us would be driven out to Acantilado for a day of sightseeing with an English-speaking guide. After the tour around town, then we would walk over to the elementary school field where the soccer match would take place. Later, the winners would return to town for their victory dinner.
This should have pleased me, the fact that we were all getting out of Dodge for the day, but the truth was nothing was making me happy. My whole life felt strained and weird and uncomfortable, like a wet bathing suit. I wanted nothing more than to go back in time, listen to what Mateo was going to ask me and avoid sleeping with Dave.
But there was no such thing as a time machine. I couldn’t undo any of my mistakes, because if I could, believe me, I wouldn’t have started with Las Palabras. I would have gone back a very, very long time ago.
As we all piled into the three vans, I made sure I was sitting with Claudia, Eduardo, Becca and Sammy, and not in the same one as Dave or Mateo. The driver was this older Spanish man named Peter, whom we called Peter the Everything Man since you could find him working the bar sometimes, cooking the dinner, unclogging the toilets, and—according to Sammy—showing up at your apartment with a bottle of wine. I didn’t want her to elaborate on that.
Once we got to the cobble-strewn town square of Acantilado, we sat around the edge of a fountain, waiting for the rest of the vans to show up—Peter drove like a madman. Claudia gently nudged me and leaned in. “Are you okay?”
I nodded and gave her a tight smile. I hadn’t talked to her since the party, since she saw me with Dave. For a moment I wondered if she thought of me as a big ol’ slut, then I looked at Ricardo on the other side of her, his hand on her knee, and realized she was the one who wanted me to go for it.
Only, there was nothing to go for anymore. There never had been.
“It will be okay,” she said softly so that the others didn’t hear us. “You will see. Spanish men are very territorial.”
I frowned, not sure what she was getting at. Before I could ask, the other two vans pulled up to the edge of the square, with Jerry hoping off and immediately launching into a story about the fountain we were sitting around, an apparent fountain of youth.
No thanks, I thought. I apparently had too much youth at the moment.
I stiffened when I saw Mateo step out and immediately turned to Claudia to busy myself as everyone gathered. Then the guide, whom Jerry introduced as Luiz, a supremely tall man in shorts with socks and sandals, waved us all over to follow him.
I lagged at the back of the group with Claudia and Ricardo. It was cute to see him hold her hand, even though there was a part of me that was raging with jealousy because I couldn’t have that, not with the man I wanted.
I sighed to myself, totally despondent. Sleeping with Dave didn’t help me get over Mateo at all. I wasn’t sure at this point anything would—not his wife, not the age difference, not our citizenships. Nothing. The only good thing I had going for me was that he was leaving in a week. It was going to suck, but at least I’d start getting over him faster.
We walked through the winding streets of the town and I started snapping photos to take my mind off of things. It was so damn cool and so different from what I was used to. The streets were crooked with a line running through the middle of them that acted like a gutter during the Middle Ages, when people would just throw shit out their windows. Literal shit.
The buildings were mostly granite on the first floor, with dark wood beams and finishings on the floors above. I caught snippets of Luiz telling us that the buildings were all preserved as they were and all new buildings must match the look and not be higher than three stories. Upstairs it seemed more residential, with narrow iron balconies and potted plants. The occasional rusted gaslight lantern gave it a gothic quality. I started imagining what it would be like to live here, to go to the market each morning to buy vegetables, to spend nights on the patios of the tapas bars, drinking sangria. Everything about Spain just seemed so much more real, so much more alive than back home.
As we walked along, we stopped by a few shops that had their doors open to the summer breeze. It was actually my first chance to buy some Spanish souvenirs. The choices were overwhelming—there was daintily painted pottery, large rustic barrels lined with burlap and overflowing with a million varieties of nuts and powdered spices, bottles of olive oil and jars of figs. Eduardo came running toward us with a t-shirt that said “Spanish Triathlon: Eating, Drinking, F*cking” with the corresponding stick figure pictures.
“You must buy this!” he said to me, his round cheeks red with amusement.
I managed to laugh. “I do like all those things. Glad I was the first person you thought of.”
Next, blue-haired Nerea came over to us with a bulging shopping bag and handed me a small bag filled with what looked like white chocolate bark.
“It is turrón,” she said with her heavy accent and graceful smile. “I buy for all the Anglos. It is special to a place like this.”
I thanked her profusely for her kind gesture and while she went to go distribute the rest, Claudia told me it was a Spanish delicacy made from egg whites, honey and almond. As much as I wanted to tear into it and started eating, I knew I had to save it as a memory of this place.
When we were done with the shopping, we continued following Luiz down the narrow street until it opened up at an ancient looking church. In front of it was a huge bronze statue of a pig with abnormally large balls. While Luiz led everyone inside the church, telling everyone it was built in 1300s (which was mind-blowing to me since we considered an “old” building in Vancouver to be 100 years old), Claudia, Ricardo, Eduardo, Polly and Sammy went over to the pig statue and started fondling it. Naturally I had to get out of my camera and snap away. I guess we overstayed our welcome when Eduardo slipped the Spanish Triathlon t-shirt on—I can’t believe he actually bought it—and started riding the pig like a cowboy. A disgruntled local came over and told all of us off. There were a lot of gestures involved.
Eduardo quickly apologized, then under his breath muttered “puta co?a”, and we sheepishly scurried into the church.
Inside it was as still as a tomb, even with Luiz’s hushed voice telling everyone about the 16th century granite pulpit and a gothic copper processional cross. With his six foot height, Mateo was easy to spot above the crowd. He was beside Luiz at the altar, listening intently and occasionally nodding. Since Spain was such a Catholic country, I wondered what Mateo’s religious beliefs were. Not that it mattered to me, but I always loved the idea of faith and found people who had to it to be fascinating. It then got me thinking about Mateo growing up—what his sister was like, where he lived, if his parents were still around. I’d been talking about myself every day but the truth was I didn’t really know a lot about him.
Was that why I found him so fascinating? Because he was mysterious? Or was there something else that pulled me to him like gravity gone wild?
I didn’t realize I was staring so blatantly until Mateo’s eyes were locked on mine. I froze like a deer in headlights, expecting to get a glare in return or the cold shoulder. But his eyes actually softened at the corners and he gave me a subtle smile.
I tried to return the same. Then I gulped and turned to my side, pretending to be enthralled with the colorful, sculpted carvings that adorned the support beams. It wasn’t a stretch—they were fascinating. But I stayed that way until long after Luiz thanked everyone for being part of the tour and everyone gave him respectful applause. I pretended to be occupied until I thought the church was empty.
I turned around. And I was wrong.
Mateo was just a few feet away, standing in the middle of the faded red-carpeted aisle, his hands casually jammed into his pockets and looking at me with a most intense look in those smoky brown eyes.
“Vera,” he said and my nerves squirmed at the throaty quality of his voice, “can I speak with you? Please?”
“Yeah,” I said non-committal, even though I had a whole speech prepared in case he actually did end up lecturing me. It went something like “Why is it your business who I sleep with, you’re married, you’re not supposed to care?” Whether I ended up voicing that to him was unknown.
“I just wanted you to know,” he said, taking a step forward and then stopping, “that I’m staying here an extra week.”
Okaaaaay.
He read my expression. “My partner suggested it and I told him I could use the extra help with English.”
Well, that last part was bullshit. Aside from needing help with a few phrases and words here and there, Mateo was nearly fluent. His confidence level during the business portions needed some work, but considering the only language I knew was a shoddy level of French, I would have been happy with that.
Mateo must have been a perfectionist. Or, maybe, he just didn’t want to go home.
Or, maybe, it was something else.
Stop it, I told myself. Stop thinking that. The fact that he wants to be friends with you after all that means that he just sees you as a friend. After all, he’s—
And that’s when I cut my train of thought off. I wasn’t going to remind myself that he was married anymore. I’d known that from the moment I first laid eyes on him. It was too late to pretend I didn’t know what I was doing. I was in love, in lust, in something with him and all logic, all facts, all reality, none of that seemed to matter, not to my body and not to my heart.
“You look confused,” he said, peering at me. He tilted his hand from side to side. “More or less.”
I managed a smile. I was more or less confused. “I’m fine. I’m happy you’re staying.”
“Are you?” he questioned, not convinced.
“Are you happy you’re staying?”
He took another step my way. A waft of his delicious cologne teased me. “I’m sorry about the other night,” he said, his head dipped slightly. “I was a bit drunk and a bit rude.”
I stared at him. “You weren’t rude.”
He raised his brows, his forehead crinkling. “I have no business telling you how to…conduct yourself.”
What came out of my mouth next surprised me. “Maybe I need to be told.”
He seemed to suck in his breath. Chestnut eyes examined mine, framed by drawn, black brows. He was searching for some sort of truth in my eyes and I hoped he found it. I hadn’t meant to say that, especially so bluntly, but that didn’t make it untrue.
Our gazes locked onto each other as the seconds ticked by in that cold and empty church. What did he want from me? What did he think of me? What did he expect?
“Maybe,” he said slowly. “But it won’t be my place to do so. Only a fool would tell you what to do.”
I couldn’t hide the smile on my face. There was a sense of relief between us, like some of the bad tension had lifted. The good tension though, well, that was still there. It became static in the air every time my eyes raked over him.
Thankfully, before that kind of tension could build into an electric cloud, the main doors opened behind us and two hunched over ladies with grey, flower-adorned hair came padding into the church. They shot Mateo and I a suspicious glance then continued down the aisle.
“Guess we better not interrupt their worship, huh?” I said as we turned to leave, grateful for a way out of this.
We had free time now, about an hour before the football game. Peter had already driven our stuff over to the field and Jerry had yelled some easy directions on how to get there. Everyone else had scattered around the town, except for Claudia and Ricardo, who were waiting for us outside of the church by the statue of the pig with the humungous balls.
“We were wondering if you wanted to get a drink with us before the game,” Claudia said, a satisfied look on her face as she eyed us.
Mateo put his hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “You really trust Vera? We’re all Spaniards. She could put drugs in our drinks and rig the game.”
“Or take advantage of us,” Ricardo put in, winking at me.
“Hey,” I said, acting like it wasn’t a huge detail that Mateo’s hand was on me. “Even if I did drug you, there’s no way the Anglos would win. You’d still have the rest of your team, and one Spanish football player is worth a million Anglo ones.”
They seemed to be happy with that answer. Over the past few weeks I’d learned the quickest way to a Spaniard’s heart is by feeding their football ego.
The four of us walked down the winding streets back to the main square. Along the way we ran into a few people from our program, but everyone seemed spread out, by themselves, or in groups like we were. We found a tapas bar with some outside seating and settled down, Claudia and Ricardo on one side of the metal table, Mateo and I on the other. Well, until Mateo got up to go buy us all drinks.
“Oh, you don’t have to,” I said, taking out my purse and rummaging for my wallet. It was weird needing it after being catered to for so long.
“Vera, shut your face,” Claudia said, leaning across the table and putting her hand on my arm to still me. She smiled. “He has money, let him.”
I looked up at Mateo but he had already started walking to the bar. The only thing that looked “rich” about him at the moment was the cut and fit of his brown blazer, which probably cost hundreds if not thousands of dollars. Otherwise, his vintage rock t-shirt and worn jeans and boots gave him the sexy casual, everyman look. Of course, everyone at the table knew that Mateo wasn’t like the rest of them.
I raised a brow and looked back at Claudia. “Wait, did you just tell me to shut my face?”
She laughed and raised her hands in the air. “You taught me that phrase! I only learn from the best.” She brought out her cigarette and jerked her chin at Ricardo. “Hey, you go help Mateo bring the drinks back.”
He rolled his eyes and got up, knowing when he wasn’t wanted. She lit her cigarette, blowing smoke away from us and then turned back to me with shining eyes. “I’m so glad you made up.”
“I’m not really sure we were fighting…”
“You were fighting,” she said confidently. “A day where you don’t see Mateo and Vera together means you are fighting.”
“Is that so?”
She nodded. “I told you they get very territorial.”
I pursed my lips. “I still don’t know what that has to do with anything.”
“Mateo,” she said knowingly, “is like most Spanish men. They are very passionate, very possessive. When they see you as theirs, they will make that known. Mateo is just better at hiding it than most. Maybe being a sports celebrity has helped with that. But I will tell you this.” She leaned in a bit closer. “When he was playing for Atletico, he was known for his temper. Hot-blooded, he is.”
I grumbled, not sure if I believed all that. Sure, I had seen a glimpse of him all “hot-blooded” when he was angry during our first business phone call together, but that seemed like nothing. Besides, how could you go from having a temper to acting all cool and collected like he usually did? If it was that easy to change your personality and who you are, maybe I would have done that a long time ago.
Before Claudia could elaborate anymore, Mateo and Ricardo came back with the beers and placed the perfectly poured ale on the table. Mateo then tossed down a plastic menu.
“In case you are hungry,” he said.
I picked it up and looked it over. There were English translations beneath the words in Spanish.
“What the hell is a nome-made mam and chess sandwich?” I asked as I read it over.
Claudia started giggling. “Sometimes our translation isn’t the best. Everyone should take the Las Palabras program.”
Mateo pressed a groomed finger to the menu. “Perhaps you should order the chorizo to hell? Or the sepia to the iron with ali smelt.” His eyes slid to my puzzled, somewhat disgusted face, and he grinned. “Flame-grilled chorizo or grilled cuttlefish with garlic mayonnaise. I have no idea what nome-made mam and chess is.”
I stared back at him, enjoying the little moment between us. It was hard for me to imagine him being all passionate and hot-blooded…or was it? When I imagined us in bed together, he wasn’t cool and collected then. He was extraordinarily physical and frenzied with lust. Perhaps I always figured there was a bit of an animal underneath the suit.
He cocked his head to the side and eyed me quizzically. “What are you staring at? Do I have something on my face?”
“Only your nose,” I said before turning away and having a sip of beer.
He rubbed his nose and made an adorably sad face.
Because we just had a bit of time before the game, we were only able to stay at the bar for one beer. But man, I wanted to just keep sitting and drinking, the sweet sunshine spilling over the tops of the red-roofed buildings and bathing us in it. Being with Claudia and Ricardo made it feel like we were on a double date with close friends. I felt like I was dating Mateo. We were just able to sit back and relax and laugh and enjoy each other’s company in a different way than we were used to.
But, as seemed to be the theme of things, there just wasn’t enough time.
We started off for the Acantilado school and eventually found it past some crumbling buildings outside of town, despite Jerry’s terrible directions. We were the last to arrive, and I was kind of buzzed thanks to not eating a mam and chess sandwich when I should have. Jerry was waving at us to “hurry our arses.”
“Have a good game,” I said to Mateo and Ricardo as Claudia walked off to the sidelines.
Mateo grabbed my hand, and I watched in shock as he raised it up to his mouth and quickly kissed it. He smiled against my knuckles. “I will try not to kill you,” he said devilishly. Then he turned and jogged across the field with Ricardo.
“Vera!” Wayne yelled. “Come on!”
Damn it! Couldn’t anyone just leave me in peace? That was the closest Mateo’s lips had ever come to my own and I needed a moment. Of course, I didn’t get a moment. More people started yelling.
I growled and ran off toward my stupid team.
After I quickly got changed into my shorts, and though I didn’t have a sports bra with me—obviously—I put on my most supportive bra and several tank tops just so I didn’t have to have the same conversation with Lauren again. I’m sure she was just waiting to shoot her mouth off about how inappropriate it was that he kissed my hand.
The field was the type of soccer field we had at home, which should have put me at ease but didn’t, because of course I didn’t play soccer. After a quick huddle with Wayne, which consisted of, “Vera, go for the ball. If he looks like he’s going left, go left,” and, “Sammy, when the ball comes to you, just get out of the way and let Ed take it,” I was sent to my goalpost.
Ugh. Standing there, with the huge distance between the posts, I knew this was going to be an impossible game, and even faking it, I was probably going to end up with shredded knees and turf up my nose. To make matters worse, spectators emerged out of nowhere and started lining up at the sides of the field. Suddenly it seemed like our game had turned into Acantilado’s hot-ticket event. Even Mateo had somehow changed into what looked like an actual soccer uniform: white shorts and a white jersey. I had to admit that was another good look for him. I wasn’t one to notice men’s legs, but his were dark bronze like the rest of him and sculpted with beautifully strong muscles.
Jerry managed to get a whistle and blew it to signal our start. The first period, playing for the regulated forty-five minutes, went by as well as you’d think it would. Mateo and the Spaniards (which kind of sounds like a band name) dominated the ball, and the Anglos tried their hardest to stop them. Unfortunately, that didn’t mean much and Mateo would always get the ball down toward me. In Atletico I guess his job would have been to defend but because he was the best ball player here, he was the one who did everything.
Because I had to save face, every time he kicked, I went for it. Every time I missed. Anyone would have made me miss but he was good. He was on fire, on wings, on air. He was all confidence and bravado and physical fitness. He made it look easy. And maybe it was easy. But I didn’t for a moment think that he didn’t see me as a rival opponent. He went after the goals like he needed them to survive, and I did the best I could until the whistle blew signaling the period was over just as I was flying through the air after another ball.
I lay there for a moment, face in the grass and my boobs just aching. The last shot nearly took my face off—I guess I should have been happy that it was still intact.
“Are you okay?” I heard Mateo’s accented voice ask softly from above me.
I waved him away with my hand and grunted into the grass.
I felt his palm on my lower back, pressing lightly. Sweaty. Wonderful. “You did really well, Estrella,” he said. “You impress me every day.”
I turned my head to the side and looked at his handsome face, the beads of perspiration dropping off his brow and nose, and into the grass. “Thanks.”
“Come on,” he said, picking up my hand and pulling me up until I was on my feet. He looked down at my grass-stained knees in concern. “You should have worn pads.”
“Apparently, I also should have worn a sports bra,” I said dryly. “I’ll live.”
He gave my hand a squeeze before he jogged down the field, his step springy, always such an athlete.
There wasn’t much time between periods. I was able to get a bottle of water into me and a deli sandwich that Sammy had pilfered from somewhere. Her blonde hair was sticking out like a mad scientist and she was sweating up a storm. Even though Wayne had warned her to let Ed take the ball if it came to her, she never listened and would try her hardest to kick the ball to someone. Usually though, it ended up being someone on the other team, and more often than not, it was Angel, which made me think she had some outrageous crush on the innocent nerd. I wondered if the whole “Sammy said she’d show me hers” thing actually happened after all.
I mused that over while I finished the sandwich (not bad, but needed more mam and chess), and then it was back to the second period. By now it seemed like the whole elementary school had just let out, so now there were oodles of children watching us, children who, no doubt, could play a better game than us Anglos.
We weren’t far into the second period—the Spaniards obviously winning—when the impossible happened.
Tragedy struck.
Shit went down.
No bueno all over the place.
I couldn’t really tell what happened from my distant keep, but from what it looked like, Mateo was storming towards Ed. Ed had the ball. Ed did a sudden fake out to the left, then a fake out to the right. Mateo followed in the same way, except when Ed went right, something in Mateo’s left leg went out.
He went down to the ground with a terrible cry, a scream of agony, clutching his knee.
That was it for me. I started sprinting across the field, running as fast I could toward Mateo, grass torn up in my wake. I slid to a stop near him and dropped to my knees by his side, while everyone else stood around in a circle, looking on with shocked faces.
“Someone call a doctor!” I shrieked at them, not really sure what was wrong or if that was necessary, but Mateo was in pain and that’s all I cared about.
I turned my attention back to him and the way he was holding himself. He was on the ground, his hands wrapped around the front of his knee and the back, his face contorted in pain. It cut me deep to see him like that, to feel the agony rolling off of him. I wanted to do everything for him and I couldn’t do anything.