Chapter Seventeen
I don’t know how anyone got through the rest of the night. It was a shitshow of emotional carnage, just pure tear-soaked chaos worse than any Grey’s Anatomy episode.
It all started with the performances after dinner. With Manuel on guitar, Nerea gave a solo flamenco performance, the dress and shoes and everything, with Jerry singing another song. Soon, Sara and Beatriz joined in, and Antonio, Froggy Carlos, and Jorge stood behind them, clapping loudly on beat with the music.
There wasn’t a dry eye in the house after that, though there were some laughs after Angel distributed a tiny bronze pig figurine, with the words Acantilado carved on it, to each Anglo. He shook my hand, shook everyone’s hand, telling us all individually—and with tears in his eyes—that every Spaniard thanked us for our hard work and that we would be missed terribly.
I held the cold metal of the pig in my hands and looked up at Mateo sitting beside me, about to totally lose it.
He smiled down at me. “Something to remember us by.”
My lower lip trembled. I looked across the table at Claudia and Ricardo who were smiling at me with tears welling in their eyes as well.
As I said, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house. It only got worse as the night fell and sangria started to flow. Everyone was drunk. I saw Lauren and Tyler making out and crying at the same time (which was really disturbing), big Antonio was hiding in the bathroom and drying his tears on Froggy Carlos’s sweater, Angel was wasted and publicly declared his love for Sammy—thank goodness she reciprocated with a very big, albeit sloppy, kiss.
I had people coming up to me, telling me that they were sorry they didn’t get to know me better, and I had others telling me they’d never forget me. The more sangria and beer I drank, the more I started saying the same shit. It was just one big red-nosed, mascara running cry fest. We should have all been committed.
As much as it was breaking my heart to stay there with everyone, my heart deserved to be with Mateo. When I couldn’t take anymore, I went over to him by the door where he was making polite conversation with Ed and Jorge.
“You wanted me to tell you more about the stars,” I said brightly to Mateo.
He suppressed a smile and nodded at Jorge and Ed. “If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”
We walked together into the dark of night then disappeared into the dark of my bedroom.
We collapsed onto the bed, our passion untempered by our sorrow, our mouths and hands seeking pleasure and joy, getting what we could from each other. I put all tears aside, all thoughts aside, and decided to just exist. We were pure, primal sex.
“Are you seeing stars yet?” I asked as he slid in and out of me, his thumb rubbing my clit in slow, building strokes.
“Only you,” he moaned in my ear. “My Estrella.”
Hours later, when we were finally satisfied, our bodies sweating and exhausted and overrun by the day, we settled under the blankets. I put my head on the crook of his arm, my fingers teasing the soft treasure trail of hair that led down toward his beautiful but overworked dick. I tried to live in the moment but the moment was passing us like the hands on a clock, and I knew that tomorrow night I wouldn’t be doing this; I would be sleeping on a plane.
I wouldn’t ever have this, this exact same wonderful thing, ever again.
The tears started flowing again, silently and steadily, until a sob escaped me. I was wrecked through and through.
Mateo gently kissed my tears away and brought me into his chest, his strong arms encompassing me. I could hear his heart beating loudly, smell his scent of ocean and musk. His rubbed his hand along my back and kissed the top of my head.
“There will be nights where you will feel alone and lost,” he murmured into my hair. “Where I will feel alone and lost. When that happens, I want us both to remember this, right now. Bring our thoughts back to this room, this moment. Where we aren’t lonely. Where we are both found.”
I swallowed a lump in my throat. “I hope it will be enough.”
“It will never be enough,” he said.
I drifted off to sleep in his arms.
The dry countryside rolled past the window, golden fields speckled with old stone barns and crumbling walls. Little by little, there were more gas stations, more houses, more yards, more fences. More traffic, more people, more concrete. The city of Madrid was getting closer and my love and life were getting further away.
I was at the very back of the bus, my head on Mateo’s shoulder. I had realized no one cared about anyone else anymore. Everyone on the bus, every Anglo, every Spaniard was either trying to deal with their own emotional distress or their own raging hangover. Some people, like tear-streaked Eduardo who had already puked into a bag, seemed to be dealing with both. The Spaniards were so passionate, wearing their emotions on their sleeve. I was going to miss that about them.
There was nothing I wouldn’t miss.
That morning, Mateo and I crawled out of bed and missed breakfast because we both had to pack. There was barely even any time for that. By ten o’clock, we were all piling into the bus and looking at Las Palabras for the last time. Well, unless we returned again. But even Becca had shining eyes—each time she came here, she was faced with saying goodbye again and again. I could come back to Las Palabras, too. But there would only be new people to miss.
And there wouldn’t be Mateo Casalles.
When we got closer to the city, the driver, Manolo, decided to put on the radio to try and perk people up. Unfortunately, Lana Del Rey’s “Summertime Sadness” came on. Totally not the right song for this bus.
“Kiss me hard before you go,” her dulcet voice sang. The lyrics were too real, hitting too close to home, the strings cutting deep. Tears were falling again from my eyes, another dam bursting.
I stood up. “Turn this sad shit off!” I yelled down the bus at Manolo, then sat back down in a huff. I think someone clapped. The radio went off and all you could hear were sniffles all around.
I could hear Mateo chuckle softly. I raised my head to look at him, hoping I hadn’t soaked his suit jacket too much. “What?” I asked.
“I’m going to miss your fire,” he said with a small smile.
Soon the bus was making its way down past a university and into the crowded, bustling, hot summer streets of the city. Traffic was swallowing us, and even though it could mean I would miss my plane, I relished each second we were at a standstill, like we were granted extra moments to steal away and put in our pocket.
Eventually though, we were moving again.
Time slipped by with each turn of the wheel. Panic slipped its claws into me, around my fragile neck. There would be no second chances.
I made sure no one was looking back at us. I quickly grabbed Mateo’s rough jaw and put my lips on his. A hard, closed-mouth kiss in which I could barely breathe. A tear flowed down my cheek and crept through the cusp of our lips. Salt and sadness.
I pulled back, my hand still on his jaw, trying to tell him everything I could before I wouldn’t have a chance. His eyes were wet and glossy, trying to tell me the same thing. We stared at each other like that until the bus pulled to a stop in front of the familiar entrance of the Las Palabras office.
We were here.
The month was over.
Everything was over.
We got off the bus and got our bags, and everyone went through the long process of officially saying goodbye to each other. Some people, like Dave and Polly and Becca, had time to kill and headed off to the bar for lunch. Others did a quick nod and hurried off to their loved ones who had come to pick us up. A few, like me and Mateo and Claudia and Ricardo, lingered around the bus. Only, they were more or less already home. Ricardo would go to Claudia’s apartment, Mateo would go to his house. I didn’t quite know where that was, but I knew who would be waiting for him.
And I was going home. I kind of wanted to die.
“When is your flight?” Claudia asked gently.
I talked through the pain. “In about two hours or so. Which means I guess I better get a cab, pronto.”
Mateo walked to the roadside and did that two-fingered whistle that nearly blew out your eardrums. When he walked back to me, he said, “Speaking of Spanish, I guess I never did teach you all the bad words.”
“Puta cona, vete a la mierda, punta, tonta, bastardo, pendajo, chinga tu madre,” Ricardo gleefully rattled off.
“Ricardo!” Claudia admonished him, smacking him on the chest.
I somehow managed to laugh, but it sounded like a hollow mask, a temporary band-aid. Then the cab pulled up to the curb and Mateo quickly gestured to the driver to wait a minute.
And there you had it.
This was it. This was the end.
Holy fuck.
I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.
I’d never be ready to say goodbye.
I stood there, looking at these three people in shock, afraid that if I moved, it would end. If I just stood there forever on that busy Madrid street full of workers heading to lunch, I wouldn’t have to say goodbye. We could just keep going and I could keep being happy, keeping feeling understood and loved. If I kept standing there, I’d never have to feel alone again.
Claudia came to me first, bringing me into a hug. She hugged hard and pulled away, smoothing the hair on my head, a waning smile on her lips. “You write to me, you text me, every day. Facebook, phone calls, I don’t care. I love you, girl.”
I clenched my jaw, trying to keep it together. I could only nod and try to smile. My eyes burned.
Ricardo came next. He didn’t say anything. He gave me two pecks on each cheek, patted me on the back, and that was it. But I caught a tear in his eye and that was enough to set my chin trembling.
He went back to Claudia, put his arm around her, and led her away to give me and Mateo privacy.
By now, the tears were spilling down my cheeks, my nose running. I quickly wiped it on my arm and almost smiled at how much of a mess I must have looked, my hair sticking to my wet face, my nose all red and snotty.
Mateo’s eyes crinkled, that beautifully soft look, and he came over to me with open arms. He swept me to him, embracing me as hard as he could. I gripped the back of his jacket like a lifeline, not caring if I was wrinkling it, and held on tight. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t feel my heart beat. I felt like I was stuck—trapped in panic, in pain, and the only reason I wasn’t falling to the ground and shattering like glass was because of his arms.
And then it all came out in a wet cry, the emotion unleashed. I needed to hold it together but my body was in a war of being so overcome with grief and sadness that it was locking up with the need to let everything go.
But I couldn’t let it all go. Not here. Not now. Not with him anymore.
That time was over. That little life I had for a month—that was over.
It was just a memory.
“Vera,” Mateo said gruffly into my ear, squeezing me tight. “Don’t give up on us.”
Then he relaxed, releasing me, and took a step back.
I caught my breath, gulping the air down. I stared at him, seeing the sorrow on his brow and in the tightness of his jaw. And I still couldn’t speak.
He raised his hand to wave.
I managed to wave back.
Then, using every ounce of will and energy I had left, I turned around and headed for the cab. The cab driver took my backpack and threw it in the trunk and gestured for me to get in the backseat.
I told myself not to look back.
But I did.
Mateo was still standing there, his hand raised. He then put his hand on his heart.
My breath hitched painfully and I forced myself to get in the backseat. The door closed, a barrier between me and the man, the love I would never see again.
We pulled away from the curb and I watched behind me, craning in my seat, until Mateo disappeared from view.