Lessons in Gravity (Study Abroad #2) (17 page)

I’ve been thinking about you
, I say, my sudden bravery egged on by a pretty decent buzz.
While I was on tour, I mean. I thought about you. I’m glad you’re doing so well at the monastery—I’m so proud of you for pursuing your passion. And I hope Pedro is making you happy.

Carmen looks at me for a long minute. Her eyes darken. My heart thumps in my chest.

I am very happy at the monastery,
she says.
But Pedro…he tries. He does. But I don’t know if we’ll ever be happy together. It’s strange, but being with him has made me feel lonely. He’s gone so much, and when he’s with me, he’s so preoccupied with work…

Carefully, slowly, she trails her hand across the table and places it over mine.
 

I look down at her hand, the perfectly manicured nails, the pretty rings on her fingers. I wait for my pulse to leap, for sparks of energy to ignite from this place where skin meets skin.
 

I wait, in other words, for overwhelming need to bowl me over. The kind of need I felt when I woke up to find Maddie, naked, flushed pink with sleep, in my bed. Need so powerful, need wound so tightly, it swallowed me whole.

I wait.

And keep waiting. And while I wait, I find myself thinking about Maddie.

Stop being a dickwad
, I tell myself.
The girl you’ve been pining over like a lovesick idiot is sitting right across from you, telling you exactly what you wanted to hear, and all of the sudden you’re thinking about someone else?

What the hell is wrong with me?

“Javi?” Carmen says. “Are you all right?”

I blink, looking up. The image of Maddie’s fiery blue eyes dissolves into Carmen’s brown ones. They’re wide with concern.

Sorry
, I say.
I’m sorry about Pedro. I hate that you feel that way.
 

Her fingers curl around the edge of my palm.
I’ve thought about you too, Javi. Ever since you called me that first time a few months ago, I’ve thought a lot about you. I’ve missed you. I can’t tell you how happy I am you are home.

I swallow, hard. I’m not a home wrecker. Never have been. It’s wrong to steal another guy’s girlfriend. That definitely wasn’t my intention when I agreed to come to dinner with María Carmen. She’s taken, and I intend to respect that.

But what she’s saying—the things she’s doing—they make me think she might not be Pedro’s girlfriend much longer.

Which means I might have the opportunity to make her
my
girlfriend. To settle down with her in my flat in Malasaña and build the home I’ve always dreamed of with her. This is what I came back to Madrid for.

I should be thrilled.

I should be smiling so hard my eyes water.

But I’m not, and I don’t understand why.

“My plane is fixed,” I blurt like an idiot. I resist the urge to pull my hand away from her grasp.

Carmen’s grin fades. “Your plane? You mean that rickety death trap?”

“I’ve had it completely refurbished,” I say. Her disdain stings more than it should. “I could take you flying if you’d like.”

No thank you
, she replies in Spanish.
I have too much to live for! Especially now that
you
are back in Madrid. So tell me more about being a rock star on tour with Juan Ramos. I bet you can’t wait to get back on the road together. He’s already announced his next tour, right?

I drain my wine glass.

It’s stupid and it’s rude, I know, but I can’t help but wish it were Maddie sitting across from me instead of María Carmen. She wouldn’t want to talk about Juan, or the tour, or my interview with Ellen (yes,
that
Ellen) a few months back. She’d want to talk about my new band. Art. Architecture. All things Madrid.

I’m starting to think that Carmen loves what I was. The rock star. The celebrity.

But Maddie—Maddie couldn’t care less about that guy. She loves who I am. Except Maddie doesn’t love me at all.
 

I look up and meet Carmen’s eyes. They blaze with interest. Arousal. Things I’m not sure I feel for her.

Fuck.

I am so fucked. I don’t know what’s happening to me.

***

Maddie

The Next Day

Javier guides the Range Rover into a lot at El Aeropuerto de Cuatro Vientos
—
Four Winds Airport—and pulls up the parking brake.

I glance out the window to see a wide concrete expanse dotted with a few jets and dozens of planes. Very small planes. Some of them are downright tiny.

I’ve always liked to fly. But I have enough sense to know a ride on one of these hobbit-sized prop planes is a much different experience than cruising at altitude on a commercial jet.

“You all right?” Javier asks, hand stilling on the door handle.

I swallow. “You know what you’re doing, right?”

“I do,” he says. “People tend to get a bit nervous when they see how small the planes are. But the weather is excellent, and we’ll have a nice, smooth ride. I promise you’re in good hands.”

I look at him for one beat too long. Sure, I’m nervous. Nervous about flying in a plane that looks like it belongs to Barbie and Ken.

But I’m also looking because I really, really like what I’m seeing right now. It’s all lovely, and enticing: the sinews of Javier’s neck, the pointed indent that bisects his top lip, the way the rounded frames of his aviators set off his square jaw.

So lovely it’s making me dizzy.

I take a warrior breath, let it out. I promised myself I wasn’t going to slip up today. Not again.

But my body’s reaction to him, to
his
body, to the things he’s saying, keeps getting away from me. Everything is just so easy with him. Comfortable, deliciously so, like my favorite pair of broken-in jeans.

“All right,” I say, shoving open my door. “Let’s do it.”

The sun, a pinprick of blaring white in a wide open November sky, is warm on our faces as I walk beside Javier. I’m not a petite girl, not by any means, but being next to him makes me feel a lot smaller than I usually do. It’s not uncommon for me to be taller than a guy, especially in heels.

I could wear six-inch hooker heels and still I’d be shorter than Javier.

After a quick stop in an office cluttered with maps and computer screens, Javier and I head for a bright blue hangar. A
very
small plane—like, the smallest I’ve seen yet—is parked outside the hangar, its white paint gleaming in the early afternoon sunlight.

“Is that yours?” I ask.

A proud smile splits his face. “It is.”

I take one warrior breath, then another.

“You sure you’re all right?” he asks, opening the door for me.

“I don’t know, Maverick.” I look at him, squinting through my sunglasses. “Are you as good at flying planes as Tom Cruise is?”

Javier’s smile deepens, a devastating, boyish flash of white teeth. “Trust me, Goose, you have nothing to worry about.”

Oh, oh,
oh.
I have a lot to worry about when he smiles at me like that.

I look away.

He does a pre-flight inspection of the plane, lowering flaps, running his palms along its sides and underbelly. He motions me over and together we peer into every crack and crevice, his voice steady as he explains each part and its function.

“What year is your plane?” I say. “It looks pretty new.”

“It’s a 1965,” he replies. “Just gave her a bit of a makeover. New paint, new interior.”

“1965,” I say. Another warrior breath. “Wow. That’s vintage. Like, really vintage.”

I climb into the plane’s miniscule cockpit, my hands shaking as I tug my seatbelt across my chest. Javier climbs in beside me. In the tiny space he looks even bigger; his thighs, thick, muscled, seem to take up the whole cockpit.

Speaking of cockpit—I try to think of a lewd joke to keep my mind off the fact that I’m leaving the Earth in a tiny tin can that is older than my mother, but no dice. I’m too nervous.

Javier’s eyes move over me, my jacket. “Are you warm enough? I’ve got extra blankets in the back.”

“Um,” I say, heat spreading through my chest at his sudden attention. “I think I’ll be all right. Thanks though.”

“Vale. Let me know if you change your mind—it can get a little chilly up there.”

He reaches across the cockpit and clips a map onto the dashboard in front of me. His arm brushes my knee.

Sorry
, he says in Spanish.
It’s a little tight in here
.

Don’t worry about it,
I reply.
 

Your Spanish is very good
, he says.
Are you majoring in it?

Minoring
, I reply in my best Madrileño accent.
In high school, I spent a summer in Colombia. I was pretty fluent then. I’m rusty now, but I’m getting there. Slowly
.

I think you’re being modest. You’re definitely fluent. Your Spanish is excellent. Here,
he hands me a pair of enormous headphones with a Madonna-esque microphone attachment.
Put these on and let me know if you can hear me
.

I slide them onto my head. They’re too big. I reach up to adjust them, but Javier is already there, his fingers working to tighten the plastic headband at the crown of my head.

“Better?” he asks, pulling away ever so slightly away.

He’s already got his headphones on; his voice sounds even deeper through my own, punctured by a small, radio-like cackle. His hands are still on my head, waiting for instruction.

My heart skips a beat. His face is mere inches from mine; close enough for me to duck my head and press my lips to his if I wanted. I can see a tiny ragged scar that puffs up between stubble in his left cheek, just where jaw angles into chin. He’s so close.

And he smells
so
good. Like cinnamon, a hint of clean, simple man-soap.

I remember the taste of his kiss, the patience and the thoroughness of his lips as they moved over my mouth, my body. I’d have to be dead not to want another kiss like that.

Stop
. I don’t want to feel these silly, squishy things. I really, really don’t.

“Yes,” I say, turning away from him. “Thank you.”

“Goose.” Javier drops his hands, a grin playing at his lips. “It’s going to be all right.”

It could be all the warrior breaths I’ve been taking, but my pulse slows, just a bit. His confidence is calming.

“I’m ready,” I say.

“C’mon. Let’s have some fun.”

Javier proceeds through a complex scheme of pressing buttons and clicking dials into place. The computer blinks awake. At last he pulls on a red lever at the bottom of the control panel, and the propeller at the nose of the plane cranks to jerking, heaving life. The little steering yokes—there are two of them, one in front of Javier, one in front of me—surge forward, jiggling. The entire plane throbs in time to the engine.

Murmuring to flight control, he puts his hands on the yoke. I put my hands in my pockets, my sweaty palms sticking to the fleece lining.
 

Javier guides the plane onto the runway using the pedals at his feet. I listen as the guys in the tower give us the go ahead for take off.

My heart, meanwhile, takes off at a sprint.

I lied. I am not ready. I do not want to fly the friendly skies. I want to hole up in my bedroom, safe from certain death, safe from Javier and his smile and his general excellent-ness, and work on my thesis.
 

“Javier—” I begin, but he’s already begun to accelerate the plane, the runway widening before us with increasing speed. We hurtle over bumps, my thoughts growing more frantic with each passing thump.

Ohmigod what was I thinking ohmigod I am going to die ohmigod ohmigod
ohmi
god
.

Javier tilts the yoke toward his chest, and I close my eyes as the plane leaves the ground, the engine groaning with effort. A shudder jolts the plane as gravity pins me to my seat; the combination causes my stomach to drop.

“Ohmigod!” My eyes fly open. My hand jerks out of my pocket, possessed, and latches onto Javier’s knee, giving it a tight squeeze.

Smiling, Javier turns to me. “You all right?”

I can hear my breathing in my headphones.
 

“Getting there,” I manage.

“It’ll smooth out in a minute. Look.” He points over his shoulder. “There’s Madrid. Once we get a little higher we’ll have a better view.”

I sit up in my seat and lean a little toward Javier. I watch through his window as the city begins to take shape, buildings rising out of an arid landscape.

For a minute I forget my hammering heart and my academic agenda. Instead I marvel at the raw beauty of the Spanish countryside; I marvel at the fact that I am on a
plane
, with a handsome-hot Madrileño, on a Sunday afternoon; that I am here, now, hundreds of feet above the earth and all the unpleasant things that wait for me down there.

The plane levels out and so does my heart rate. When I was little, I was terrified of natural disasters—too much CNN, I guess—and I lived in fear of earthquakes, tornadoes, even forest fires. I loved to fly because I imagined I was safe from all those things so high up in the air.