Lessons in Gravity (Study Abroad #2) (13 page)

“Whoa!” he shouts.

The next thing I know, Javier is reaching for me, pulling me onto the curb. My body bumps into his, and he holds me there against him, fingers wrapped tightly around my arms.

Half a second later a van whizzes by, horn blaring. It misses me by a hairsbreadth.
 

“Here,” he says, a little breathless. He angles himself between the street and me. “Let me walk on the outside, vale?
”

He is solid and warm, and he smells like cinnamon mints. His breath, coming fast, tickles the hair at my temples.

“Vale,” I say, struggling to catch my breath. “Ohmi
god
I’m an idiot. You’d think that after living here for three months I’d be a little more careful about stepping into the street.”

“You’d think,” Javier says. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Madrileños drive like lunatics. You’ve got to take care.”

I climb into his car—I move to open my door, but he beats me to the punch—and then he moves to his door and gets in. Javier turns the key in the ignition, coaxing the Range Rover to roaring life.

“Is it just me,” I say, teeth chattering, “or did it get colder since we left the cafe?”

Javier cranks the temperature knob all the way to red. He puts on his aviators. Good Lord those look good on him. I bite my cheek again.
Down, girl.

“Definitely colder,” he replies. “They’re saying we’re to have a terrible winter this year. Lots of snow.”

“Good thing you have this ridiculous safari-SUV thing to plow through the three inches you’ll get.”

We were told by our study abroad program to expect chilly winters in Madrid but little snowfall. Apparently when it
does
snow, even just a few inches, the city shuts down. Madrid is a lot like Atlanta in that respect; because both cities have relatively warm climates and don’t get much snow, they don’t keep many plows and salt trucks on hand to clear the roads.
 

“Hey.” Javier shifts into gear. “I happen to love this ridiculous safari-SUV thing.”

“Be honest. You bought it because you thought it’d get you laid.”

His grin reveals those dimples again. “You’re wrong there. I bought it for the terrible gas mileage and expensive upkeep. Obviously.”

“Obviously,” I say, flipping down the sun visor against the late afternoon sun.

I wonder how many times, exactly, the Rover has gotten him laid. Probably a hundred. More than that.

Good for Uncle Javier. Maybe one day when I can afford it, I’ll buy one for myself.

“Pardon me,” he murmurs, reaching across my lap for the glove compartment. He grabs a red tin of cinnamon Altoids—ah, so that’s the smell!—and opens the lid. He holds it out to me. “Care for one?”

“Sure.” I pluck a mint out of the tin. “I’ve been wondering where that smell came from—the cinnamon.”

“I’m a bit addicted,” he says around the two Altoids he popped in his mouth. He closes the lid, places it back in the compartment. “I’m trying to quit smoking. I know, I know, it’s a completely shit habit. But I picked it up at university, and it’s been a nightmare trying to stop. Especially considering the guys I toured with were all smokers. But the mints help—whenever I feel like having a cigarette, I chew on these a couple at a time.”

“Is it working?”

“It is. For the time being, anyway.” he replies. “I’ve gone three weeks now without a smoke, so. Yeah. Baby steps.”

I settle into my seat, slowly defrosting in the lukewarm heat.

Javier drives through the winding streets with ease. Even when he’s driving he’s polite: he always gives pedestrians the right of way, and patiently waits when an older lady with a cane walks slowly, oh so slowly, across the middle of the street.

The sun burns gold now, the late afternoon light streaming through the windshield. It turns Javier’s stubble a coppery shade of brown.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask quietly. “About who you are. The Juan Ramos thing. I’d hate to think you assumed I was some sort of sperm-crazed groupie who was out for your child support or whatever.”

He scoffs. “Assuming is a terrible thing to do. But it’s become a bit of a habit, I’m afraid. I wasn’t worried about…what you just said, per se, but—”

“It’s okay to say that word, you know.”

“What word?”

“Sperm. Say it.”

“Um.”

“Come on. Say it. It’s your junk. Why be afraid of it?”

“I’m not.”

“Yes you are. Don’t you think it’s ironic that you have no problem saying
pussy
, but when it comes to
sperm
you go all blushing bride on me?”

“I’m not—what—I’m not blushing—” He’s grinning now, chewing on his bottom lip. “Okay, fine, maybe I
am
blushing.”

“Yeah you are,” I say, grinning back.

“I wasn’t worried about my
sperm
. But I do worry, sometimes, that girls only want to hook up with me because I’m a half-assed rocker.”

“Half-assed? I don’t think playing for Juan Ramos on a worldwide tour is half-assed, Javier.”

“Juan Ramos aside,” he says, shifting gears. “You know what I’m getting at. I don’t like being used.”

I nod. “Understandable. It’s easy to glamorize that lifestyle, sure, but I imagine it’s also pretty isolating. Lonely. Was probably tough to figure out who genuinely enjoyed your company, and who was just in it for the story, or the fame, or the
sperm
.”

“Exactly,” he says. “A couple of girls—well, let’s just say I’ve been burned more than once. Selling stories to the tabloids, spreading rumors. One day I wake up and find out a girl’s filed a paternity suit against me.”

“No!” I gasp.

“It was awful. I don’t know if I’ve ever been more embarrassed. The woman and I didn’t even have sex. Still. If she had just come to me first—if I had known…well. Whatever. She dropped the suit pretty quickly.”

“Wow,” I say. “Just…wow. That’ll scar you for life.”

“It was awful,” he repeats. “So, yeah. I apologize for not telling you about everything sooner. I’m sorry for assuming what I did. That was a dick move. But it was such a refreshing experience with you—being with someone who, you know, was into me for me—I didn’t want to ruin it.”

“I was into you for your ass, really,” I say with a smile, “but I get your point.”

“Besides. It’s a bit obnoxious, yeah?, to introduce myself as Juan Ramos’s guitarist. Which I’m not, by the way—I’m not in his band. Not anymore. He asked me to go on tour with him again next year, but I think I want to focus on my own band now.”

“Good for you,” I say, and I mean it. “I love your new band, even if it has a terrible name and four songs to play. Why haven’t you written more, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Javier shrugs. “Haven’t been very inspired lately. I’m hoping being home for the holidays might make my muse sing.”

“Well good luck,” I say.

He grins. We stop at a light and he turns to look at me. “Thanks. I’m gonna need it.”

The rest of the drive to my señora’s apartment is quick. Traffic isn’t that bad—it will be much worse tonight, when the city throbs to the techno beat of its infamous discotecas—and Javier zooms across town with ease.

“Up here?” He points to Calle de Villanueva.

“Yep. We’re the building toward the end on the left, with the blue door. Hard to miss.”

Javier glances out his window as we make our way up the street. “Salamanca. Very nice neighborhood. You girls lucked out—so close to city center, to the parks and museums. It’s such a lovely area, isn’t it?”

“Lovely.” I try the word on for size. “Yes. That’s exactly what it is.”

The truck hums as Javier slows to a stop in front of a familiar blue door. He puts the truck in park.

“I’m going to say it again.” I unbuckle my seatbelt. “Thank y—”

“Don’t. It was a pleasure. I enjoyed myself, and hope you did, too.” A pause. He runs a hand through the hair at the back of his head. “And thank you for your apology.”

“Sure,” I say. “Yeah. Thank you for yours, too.”

“So, um. How about I get your number?”

I cock a brow, teasing, even as my heart skips a beat. “My number? That’s pretty forward of you, Uncle Pervy. I thought you wanted el amor with María Carmen?”

He laughs. I like the sound of it—masculine, deep, sincere.

“Uncle Pervy just wants your number so he can text you the next time his band has practice.”

“Here, I already have my phone,” I say, grabbing it from my pocket. “Give me your number and I’ll text you so you have mine.”

He gives me his number. I save it under the contact name “Uncle Pervy”, because, really, it’s just too good not to use.

“All right.” I type up a text. “Sending it over now.”

His phone pings on cue. He swipes his thumb across the screen. “Awesome. Thanks.”

He leans over my lap to look at my phone. “Did you save me as Uncle Pervy? Christ, you did! Change it, please!”

This is fun; part of me wants to stay and engage in more witty repartee with Javier; I’m a little bummed our cultural adventure is over. But I have plans to go out tonight with the girls, and I’d better get a nap in if we’re going to stay out until our usual four or five A.M. Which, believe it or not, is pretty early by Madrid standards.

Plus this conversation feels…I don’t know. A little flirty. And I definitely don’t want to be flirting with Javier. He was an orgasmic lay, I’ll give him that, but it was a one time thing. I don’t want anything else. And Javier—he wants
someone
else. Someone to fall for.

So yeah. Flirting with him is stupid for a lot of reasons.

I push my weight against the door, opening it. A gust of chilly November air invades the cocoon-like warmth of the truck. “Really, Javier, thank you so much for letting me tag along today. This was amazing.”

“But I’ll see you next week, yes?” He rests his wrist on the top of the steering wheel, fingertips brushing the dashboard. He looks at me. “Leo will be terribly disappointed if you don’t come to our practice.”

“That guy and his—what did he call it?”

Javier shakes his head. “I want no part of that—er, part.”

I grin.

He grins, too. “Buenos noches
,
Maddie. I’ll be in touch about Wednesday.”

Good night, Javier
, I reply in Spanish. I close the door and make my way around the truck.

Javier waits until I’m inside before he drives away. A second later, my phone pings. It’s a text from Uncle Pervy.

[praying hands emoji] Please, please change my name in your phone. How old r u? 20? I’m only 4 yrs older than u. Not old enough to b Uncle Pervy [praying hands emoji]

Even as I roll my eyes, I can’t help but smile.

I’ll b 21 on December 3, thank u very much,
I type back.
See u Wednesday, Uncle P.

Chapter 10

Maddie

Wednesday

The Usual Madrileña Spot

I’m the last one to arrive at our weekly Madrileña gathering.

Laura shoulders back her perfectly coiffed waves to give me a kiss on the cheek. “Don’t you look cute! I’ve never seen you wear those leggings before. Are they real leather?”

“Hello no,” I reply, taking my customary seat next to Vivian. “I got them at that big department store on Gran Vía for, like, twelve euro. They’re actually pretty comfortable. Here, feel them.”

Rachel looks me up and down over the rim of her wine glass. “They’re super hot, Mads. You’re going to see a boy after this, aren’t you?”

“Not a boy,” I reply. “A band. It’s for my thesis.”

“Anonymous sexual encounters with members of a band are part of your thesis?” Katie asks. “If I had known that topic was up for grabs, I would’ve nabbed it myself. Your research must be quite…explosive.”

“Earth shattering,” Laura adds with a smirk.

“Mind blowing,” Rachel says.

Vivian wags her brows. “Oh, there’s blowing all right.”

I bite back a grin. I don’t remember whose idea it was to start calling ourselves the Madrileñas—literally, the Madrid girls—but the name stuck. There’s five of us from the Meryton in Madrid program—me, Vivian, Rachel, Katie, and Laura—and while most of us didn’t know each other back at Meryton, we’ve bonded over the trials and triumphs of studying abroad. We meet every Wednesday evening for wine and
tapas
at a cute little restaurant down the street from my apartment. We bitch, we laugh, we drink too much vino tinto de la casa (red wine of the house).

If it wasn’t for the Madrileñas, I would’ve drowned months ago. Just when I think I can’t carry the weight of my hurt—just when I think I’m about to go under—they come to the rescue. They’re great girls; smart, loyal, and just about as obsessed with sexual innuendo as I am.

“No blowing,” I say, waving down the waiter. “Not tonight, anyway. Rafa’s uncle has a hookup at a really cool historical venue where his band plays. I don’t know if any of you have heard of it—El Monasterio de los Humildes Reales? It’s basically a medieval castle that got turned into a monastery, which got turned into a theater. Javier’s helped me gain access to it—a friend of his works there. I’m hoping to do some research at them, maybe come up with some ideas to use in my thesis.”