Lessons in Gravity (Study Abroad #2) (12 page)

I look away. That’s certainly a change of heart.

“Yes,” Carmen says. “We always enjoy welcoming new visitors.”

“So, Carmen,” Javier says. “Maddie is working on putting together some information on historical preservation for her thesis. I understand the paperwork to apply for research here is something of a bear, but I wonder if we can’t help her skirt some of that mess? Perhaps introduce her to your colleagues at the foundation, get her familiar with the work they’re doing?”

“Claro.
”
Carmen meets Javier’s gaze. “I am happy to help Maddie. I’m the foundation’s youngest employee, yes?, so I don’t have very much influence. But I will see what I can do. Let me make some calls, talk to a few people.”

“Thank you,” I say. “Thank you so much. I really appreciate your help, María Carmen. Please, let me know if you need anything from me—I have recommendations, term papers, copies of my transcript—I’m happy to hand over any paperwork the foundation wants to see.”

Carmen finally looks at me. “I will let you know.”

“Awesome.” I say.

Javier looks at me, that weird softness in his eyes again.

“You can come here with me,” he blurts. “When we’re practicing, I mean. The band. Me and the guys. Anytime.”

“Wow.” I blink. “That’s very generous of you.”

“We’ve got practice time here through—what is it, Carmen, December seventeenth? The nineteenth?” he says, looking away.

He palms the back of his neck. Is he blushing? No way he’s blushing.
 

Is he?

“The twentieth,” she replies, crossing her arms. “It’s the best I could do.”

My pulse hiccups. December twentieth is my last day of exams here in Spain. I booked a flight back to Atlanta on the twenty-first, so I’ll be home just in time to spend my first Christmas without a family. I have no idea what the holidays are going to look like now that my parents are split, and my dad is…well, what he is. We’re probably all getting coal and/or therapy from Santa.

The holidays used to be my favorite time of year.

But now, if I could stay in Madrid and just skip the whole damn thing, I would. To say that I’m dreading Christmas is an enormous understatement. My parents put our house on the market back in September. While they haven’t gotten any offers yet, there’s still a chance they’ll sell it before I head back to the states. The thought of waking up Christmas morning in some tiny apartment with only half my family there—ugh, I’d rather run away with the Grinch, to be honest.

“So that means we have a little more than a month’s worth of practices left.” Javier is saying. “If nothing else, that gives you quite a few hours inside the church to do your thing, Maddie.”

“Awesome,” I say. “I mean, I don’t want to impose on your practice time or anything—”

“Please.” Javier grabs his guitar, and the three of us start walking up the aisle. “The guys and I loved having you here today. Having someone so enthusiastic around definitely helps boost our morale. So far, you’re our only fan.”

“What!” Carmen says. “Por favor, Javi
,
I’m a fan, too.”

“That’s right.” He elbows her affectionately. “I forget you’ve been my fan since the beginning.”

“And I am an even bigger fan now that you play with Juan,” she says. “You’re going to go back on tour with him, right, Javi? This new band of yours, it is good, but Juan is
Juan
.”

I blink again.
Juan?
Javier was
on tour
with an obviously well-known guy named
Juan?

“Whoa,” I say, falling back. “Whoa whoa whoa. Javier, you told me you worked in the music industry. You didn’t say you were, like, on tour or anything.”

María Carmen throws her head back and laughs. “How like our Javi to be so modest. He does not like people to know he is famous—”

“I’m not famous,” Javier grounds out. Oh, he’s definitely blushing.

“When you play guitar in Juan Ramos’s band, you are too famous.”

My heart skips a beat. I stare at him. “Juan Ramos? You played guitar with
Juan
freaking
Ramos
?”

“You know him?” Javier replies weakly.

“Do I know Juan Ramos? Of
course
I know Juan Ramos! The only person more famous in Spain is Jesus. They play his songs, like, nonstop at all the bars and
discotecas
here. Juan’s songs, obviously, not Jesus’s. I love his stuff. Holy shit, Javier. The concert you said you ‘went to’ in Atlanta—that was
your concert
, wasn’t it?”

I’d pin Juan Ramos as Spain’s equivalent of an Ed Sheeran/Adam Levine mashup. He’s very talented, a guitarist at heart with a distinct pop-Latin flair. He’s a really big deal in the Spanish speaking world, especially in Madrid, where he was born and raised.

Javier shrugs, a small, tight motion. He looks intensely uncomfortable. “It was.”

“That’s amazing!”

“It was a lot of fun, yes, but I’m glad to be home now.”

“If I wasn’t so star struck,” I say with a sly little grin, “I’d ask you to take a selfie.”

“I have a policy against selfies—the angle gives me this ghastly double chin, you see.”
 

“Ghastly. What an awesome word. Although I wouldn’t use it to describe your chin.”

He arches a brow. His shoulders relax, the stony look in his eyes softening with amusement. “You haven’t seen the selfies. Trust me, ghastly is the right word.”

Carmen hooks her arm through Javier’s as we begin to move again.

“All of Spain talked of nothing but the Juan Ramos tour,” she says. “Javier was in the newspapers, on the talk shows. You could not escape his face.”

“It was fun,” Javier repeats, quickly, “but I’m not that guy anymore. The tour is over. I just want to go back to my life in Madrid. Maybe go somewhere with this new band.”

Carmen looks at him. “We’ll see,” she says.

The way she says it—with quiet, confident possession, her dark brown eyes flashing—makes me think Javier has more than a fighting chance of finding that happily ever after with María Carmen.

Chapter 9

Javier

We wind our way back through the monastery. The light pouring through the windows burns gold now, lending the frescoes on the ceilings and walls a romantic, Ruben-esque air. Outside in the courtyard—a common feature in Spanish architecture, placed squarely in the center of the building—the few leaves still clinging to the branches of adolescent trees shiver in a breeze.

Carmen walks beside me, the warmth of her body seeping into my own. She’s just as gorgeous as I remembered—more so, if that’s even possible. She’s been flirty and forward all afternoon. She’s definitely interested in what I have to say, even if she’s expressed a lukewarm opinion of my new band.

Why, then, the slight press of disappointment in my chest? Our first encounter after so many years apart is going far better than I dreamed it would. I should be ecstatic with hope.

Only, I’m not.

Not really.

I try to shake off my doubt. I’m probably just annoyed with Carmen for telling Maddie about my C-list celebrity past. Not that it matters—if last weekend was any indication, Maddie wanted me for assets other than my bank account and my relationship with Juan Ramos—but still. I kinda liked just being “Javier the scruffy Spanish guy” with Maddie. I
am
Javier the scruffy Spanish guy. I’m not a rock star, a celebrity. Not anymore.

It sounds like María Carmen still wishes I was.

When we reach the exit, Carmen pulls me aside.

“Do you mind if I have a moment only with Javier?” she says over my head to Maddie.

Maddie nods. “Sure. I’ll just peek around for a bit.”

“Help yourself,” Carmen replies.

I look down at her. “Everything okay?”

“Of course,” she says. “You’re here. I’m better than okay.”

Thank you for helping me get this practice time
, I reply in Spanish.
I’m really excited about my new band.

Carmen smiles.
I’ll be excited to see you back on stage with Juan. Seeing you play today made me realize just how talented you are, Javi.

Javi
. Hearing her call me that nickname used to make my heart hurt. In a good way, of course. The intimacy it implied, the comfort, the closeness—God, I loved it.

Now it feels…I guess I don’t know how it feels.
 

So how are things with you?
I ask.

Job is going well
, she replies.
But other things—they’re okay, I guess. Pedro works a lot, so I haven’t seen him much. It’s hard with him putting in so many hours. There isn’t much time in his life for other things.

My pulse trips. So all is not well in paradise with her and the new boyfriend.

I’m sorry to hear that
, I say.
I’m sure Pedro will make it up to you.

Carmen looks up at me.
Maybe. Maybe he will.

Come on
, I say, grinning.
He’d be an idiot not to. And if he doesn’t—well, you can just call me, and I’ll come kick his ass
.

Oh, please, Javi
, she says, cuffing me on the shoulder.
I’m really glad you’re home. Thank
you
for reaching out to me. I’d like to see more of you
.

I’d like to see you, too
, I reply.
Anytime. Name the time and place and I’ll be there.

She looks up at me, her dark brown eyes framed by long, thick lashes.

There’s this new restaurant in Chueca that everyone is talking about
, she says.
Want to grab dinner there sometime? Pedro’s in New York all month, so I’d love the company
.

I roll my lips between my teeth to keep from grinning. My first encounter with Carmen is going much better than I hoped. A few minutes chatting and we’re already making plans to get dinner?

Fuck.
Yes
.

Is it possible she’s been thinking about me too? She’s a gorgeous girl, accomplished, ambitious, and kind—plus she has a boyfriend—so the chances that she’s devoted any time at all to thinking about her ex-boyfriend are slim to none.

Still. The way she’s looking at me, intently, warmly, makes me think that maybe I’m not the only one who might want to revisit our shared past.

Yes,
I say.
I would like that. Maybe next weekend?

***

Maddie

I watch Carmen and Javier from the corner of my eye. They stand close, speaking in warm, happy murmurs.
 

Maybe Javier is going to find el amor this Christmas after all. I hope he does.

I’m about to turn back to a tiny oil painting when Javier looks up, his eyes meeting mine.

He smiles, putting those vagina-slaying dimples on full display.

So his private little interlude with Carmen
is
going well. I resist the urge to give him an air high-five.

“I’m coming!” he says.

“Take your time,” I say, waving him away.

“No, no,” he replies. “It’s late, we should get going.”

María Carmen presses a kiss into either of Javier’s cheeks. Laughing, she thumbs at a smudge of lipstick she left on his skin.

Until Wednesday, then
? she asks.
You have the stage from eight until ten that night.

“Perfect. Gracias
,
Carmen.”

She turns to me, holding out a gilt-edged card between her first two fingers. “For you, Maddie. Email me your contact information, and I will be sure to pass along any news.”

“I really can’t thank you enough.” I tuck the card into my pocket, pressing my thumb against its pointed edge.
This is real
. This is happening. I might actually swing this thesis thing.

Holy shit!

Javier looks at me, opens the door. “Shall we?”

I wave at María Carmen over my shoulder as Javier and I move into the chilly afternoon. His guitar case dings against the door that closes behind us.

He falls in step beside me on the teeny-tiny sidewalk. “I don’t mean to pat myself on the back,” he says. “But I believe you fell in love today.”

“From what I just saw in there, so did you.”

He makes a noise, something between a grunt and a scoff, and moves the case from one hand to the other. “The look in your eyes when you checked out the church—admit it, you’re obsessed with the place.”

I grin, meeting his eyes. They are glassy from the cold, pools of amber, their color depthless. “I am. I know I keep saying it, but thank you—that was nothing short of magical, listening to you play inside the church. You guys sounded great, and the space is just incredible.”

“You’re very welcome.” His breath puffs around his head in a cloudy halo. “Madrid is my home. I am happy to share its best secrets with anyone who will listen.”

The sidewalk narrows ahead of us, disappearing into the side of a medieval building that comes to a point at the edge of the square. I step into the street, not bothering to look, so there’s room for Javier and I to keep walking.