LYRA

07.07.15

We walk into a quaint tapas bar, and every head in the room turns to take us in. Tavian is still wearing the ridiculous neon green shirt. He refused to change out of it when we dropped off our shopping bags of clothes and new luggage at the hotel, claiming he only plans to wear it once in his life so he’s going to get his money’s worth. Jerk.

I didn’t change out of his “I hate gravity” shirt either, and even though I have it knotted up on the side, it’s still so big and baggy that it keeps falling off my shoulder, which I gave up trying to constantly keep covered with my hair. The two of us together look like a hot mess. All day long, while we were shopping and then sightseeing around the city, we garnered attention from tourists and locals alike, and through it all, Tavian smiled, nodded, and winked at them, offering hellos in both English and Spanish. After the first few hours, I gave up worrying about it and concentrated on the amazing photo opportunities I was blessed with. Today might be my best work to date.

“I’m starving. Let’s order one of everything,” Tavian jokes once we’re seated at a small corner table inside the dimly lit restaurant, his eyes roaming the menu.

My stomach growls loudly, clearly making its vote of yes known, and we chuckle as the server approaches the table. I quickly look down at my own menu, to make my selection and avoid the older man’s gaze.

“Buenas noches, senor y senora. Que quieren tomar? Vino tinto? Vino blanco?” he asks while pouring cold water into a glass for each of us.

Tavian orders us a bottle of red wine as well as a few items from both the cold and hot selections, his Spanish already improving just from being immersed in it for a little over a day. He glances up at me and makes sure I don’t want to add anything to his choices, and when I shake my head, the server takes the menus and leaves to put our order in.

As soon as the man is out of earshot, Tavian leans forward and rests his forearms on the edge of the white tablecloth, a mischievous grin teasing at his lips. “All right, Miss Lyra Jennings from Brooklyn, I’ve let you off the hook most of the day ignoring my questions, but if we’re gonna spend the next week and a half together, we’re gonna get to know each other… whether you like it or not.”

My stomach flutters and flips, partially from nerves at the thought of talking about myself, but mostly from eagerness to learn more about this man who intrigues me more than I care to admit. “I bet your students all hate you,” I grumble, pretending to be perturbed by his cocky, authoritative attitude.

A deep rumble of a laugh vibrates in his throat and his sapphire eyes sparkle with amusement. “That.” He points at me, and his grin morphs into a full-blown smile. “That right there is what I want more of. You being you. Honesty. The only time I’ve seen you truly relax so far is when you’re behind your camera.”

“I told you—”

“Yes, yes, I know,” he cuts me off. “You aren’t a people-person and you’re perfectly fine all by yourself. But you’re really missing out on a huge part of living, and I told you I was going to prove it to you, so don’t expect me to let it go.”

I open and close my mouth a couple of times, each time rethinking my retort. Finally, I give up and just blurt out, “What is it you want to know?”

A victorious smirk appears as he leans back and nods. “Everything.”

I roll my eyes but bite my tongue, because the server returns with the bottle of wine. I watch as they go through the uncorking and tasting process, mesmerized by Tavian as he sniffs and samples the vino.

Stop gawking, Lyra. Don’t be a freak.

My napkin serves as a temporary distraction as Tavian approves the vintage label and our glasses are poured and placed in front of us. After leaving the open bottle on the table, the server disappears and I’m once again vulnerable to Tavian’s line of questioning.

“Ask what you want to ask,” I tell him, holding my shoulders back and my chin high. Maybe if I fake being brave, it’ll actually give me a little bit of courage. “If I don’t want to answer, I won’t.”

“You get three passes. And after each question I ask, you get to ask me one.”

“Three passes? That’s it? I need at least ten!” I whisper-shout.

His tan, corded forearms fold over his chest and his stare narrows on me. “Three passes, buttercup. I’m not an asshole. I won’t be asking shit that isn’t my business, and there’s no way you have that much to hide. We can even make it to where whoever asks the question has to answer it, too.”

I worry my bottom lip between my teeth for a few seconds then take a sip of wine as I contemplate what I’m about to agree to. I trust that he’s not going to be a pig and ask me a bunch of sexual questions, but it’s the ones about my family I’m not ready to address. Hopefully, after the first one I decline, he’ll get the picture.

“All right, three passes and both people answer,” I concede, “but just know I can quit this stupid game at any time.”

“Noted, but do realize that if you’ll try just a little bit to have fun with it, it won’t be a stupid game.” He straightens his spine and rubs his hands together excitedly. “Okay, first question…”

I tense while he thinks, my fingers threatening to shatter the goblet suspended in midair between the table and my suddenly dried-up mouth. Please be easy, please be easy…

“What’s been your favorite thing about Barcelona so far?”

My shoulders sink back against the chair with relief and I bring the glass the rest of the way to my lips, taking a long sip of wine while I flip through in my mind the different places we went today. Our first stop was the church of La Sagrada Familia, which was breathtaking even in its unfinished state, and the story of its designer and the continuous construction that’s lasted over a hundred years was fascinating. Then, we caught a bus to Barrio Gotico, or the gothic quarter, and I spent the next couple of hours in awe as we wound our way through the narrow streets lined with gorgeous churches, plazas, markets, and museums.

I set the empty glass down and regard him with an easy smile. “Las Ramblas felt real, like the heartbeat of the city echoed through it. I loved that the people were all so different, but everyone seemed to be in tune with each other. It was like that street had a different frequency or something.”

After Barrio Gotico, we strolled down the famous Las Ramblas, a lengthy boulevard stretching from Plaza Catalunya down to the port, cutting through the heart of the city center. I fell in love instantly, and within the first thirty minutes, I snapped over a thousand pictures, my pointer finger damn near manic. There was a shared vibe among the eclectic mix of people on the street—locals, tourists, street performers, and vendors—and though I can’t properly explain it in words, I captured it in photographs. Even Tavian’s aura shifted the minute we turned onto the pedestrian-dominated road, like a switch flipping him into super-chill mode. I may have snuck a few dozen shots of him along the way, and I already know some of my favorites from the trip will be those I captured of him dancing alongside a flamenco band on a corner. I’ve never been to a club before, but there’s no doubt that the man’s got moves.

“Yes!” he exclaims, eyes lighting up. “It was my favorite, too. I felt like we were really a part of Barcelona there. And that coffee we got in that little shop”—he shakes his head, the dimple in his chin appearing with his lazy grin—“that was the best fucking coffee I’ve ever had. It could be a morning changer.”

“A morning changer?” I laugh.

The server returns with platters of finger foods that he leaves between us, and after refilling both our wines, he retreats toward the kitchen. I don’t even recognize half of the dishes, but I’m so hungry I’ll eat anything, as long as there aren’t eyes involved.

“That coffee was absolutely a morning changer,” Tavian replies while serving tapas onto both of our plates. “I bet if I drank that stuff every morning when I woke up, I’d be twice as productive as I normally am before noon.”

“Are you not typically a morning person?”

“Is that your question for me?” He smirks then tosses one of the little white disc-looking things in his mouth and swallows without chewing. His penetrating gaze never leaves my face, and somehow it compels me to do the same with him. I want to know what he’s thinking. What he thinks when he looks at me.

I scowl at him. “No. That’s a dumb question to ask.”

Shrugging, he blindly grabs something off the plate closest to him. “Well, it’s your turn for a question, buttercup. Whatcha want to know? I’m an open book.”

“Hmmm.” I mentally filter through a list of questions I want to ask him, but they all sound stupid or they’re questions I don’t want to answer myself, so I draw a blank. The entire time I’m trying to come up with something to ask, Tavian continues sampling the assortment of appetizers laid out in front of us and, with my attention fixed on watching him eat, I finally blurt out the first question that comes to mind. “What’s your favorite food?”

Way to be lame, Lyra.

After a swig of wine and dabbing his mouth with his napkin, he says, “I was born and raised in Philly, so by default it’s a cheesesteak sandwich. My family would’ve disowned me if it wasn’t.”

It’s my turn to laugh. “Disowned you? I think that’s a bit harsh. I’ve had a couple before, and I wasn’t that impressed. Too messy and greasy; it was like a game of how much you could eat before it all fell out of the bread.”

Tavian’s eyes grow wide as his smile disappears. “Watch your mouth, Lyra Jennings from Brooklyn. I’m not sure what kind of sandwich they’re serving up there in Yankeetown, but until you’ve had a sandwich from Stan’s Steaks, you are not qualified to pass judgment.”

“Stan’s Steaks?” I ask.

“Yep, my favorite restaurant in the world. I eat there pretty regularly, maybe once every few weeks or so. But it’s a tradition in my family, every year since my seventh birthday, my mom has thrown me a party there. Next month when we go, it’ll be twenty years in a row,” he announces proudly. “Now your turn to answer your own question. Favorite food?”

Fried Twinkies is my immediate response, but talking about them will lead me to thinking about the only place I ever ate them—my childhood birthday trips to the Texas State Fair. And I’m definitely not ready to travel down that road yet. Probably never.

It isn’t lost on me, however, that both of our favorite foods tie into memories from our early birthdays. Maybe I should consider photographing kids’ birthday parties. If I can learn to look past their numbers, much like I’m doing with Tavian, perhaps I could be a part of capturing some of the best moments of childhood for people. I only wish I had an album of photos from the birthday weekends I spent with my parents.

“Lyra.” Tavian’s voice jolts me out of my zoned-out state. “I know you said you’re not picky, but surely you like some food more than others.”

I chuckle off the embarrassment from getting caught up in my headspace and look away. “Oh, uh, yeah… I guess chicken Caesar salad.” It’s not a total lie; I really do love me some chicken Caesar.

“A salad?” he balks loudly. “You’re giving me shit about a Philly cheesesteak, and you pick rabbit food?”

“Rabbits don’t eat chicken,” I argue with a furrowed brow and tapered stare. “Or anchovies or Caesar dressing or croutons or freshly shaved parmesan cheese. Hell, they probably don’t even eat lettuce. Mine used to eat these little pellets and carrots.”

He tosses his head back and laughs hard. “Okay, my little chicken Caesar connoisseur, my turn.”

For the next couple of hours, Tavian and I stay nestled at that corner table, drinking wine, munching on appetizers, and answering each other’s questions. Most interestingly, I find out his real name is Octavian, and though he was supposed to be named Jonah, his parents changed their minds when he was born on 08-08-88. He also reveals his favorite color is green because he’s a lifelong Eagles fan, he works out religiously when not on vacation (not shocking), Johnny Cash is his favorite musician (little bit of a shocker there), and his secret guilty pleasure is watching trashy reality TV (didn’t see this one coming at all).

In turn, I tell him about being named after a star constellation that represents the lyre—a stringed musical instrument—without going into too much detail about my dad’s job or my mom’s connection to the harp. I disclose my love of the color purple (though I didn’t admit it was because of my early-childhood love for Barney the dinosaur), my abhorrence to running and addiction to hot yoga, how I make specific music playlists prior to each of my photo shoots to listen to while I work, and thanks to the alcohol loosening my tongue, I confess to still having my entire collection of Beanie Babies.

I really need to throw those out when I get home.

The topic of family isn’t approached unless it’s a side-note in a story we’re telling, and when that does happen, it’s like we both know not to pry or prod. I wonder if there are things he doesn’t want to talk about, too, or if he just recognizes the way I’m evading the subject and is being polite. Either way, I’m grateful, because I’ve had slightly too many glasses of wine and Tavian makes me feel secure enough that I’d probably say something I’d regret in the morning. My pain needs to stay locked deep inside me, especially now that I’m making real progress.

It’s not until the restaurant is closing that Tavian pays the bill and we saunter out the door and into the muggy summer night. Our hotel is less than a block away, so we opt to walk back, and the first minute or so is spent in comfortable silence, our strides in sync. The game is seemingly over, at least for the night, and I should be happy with having successfully completed a full day hanging out with someone—a friend, I guess I can call him now—and not making things too terribly awkward. Dare I say, this last conversation over dinner actually felt… normal.

But I’m unable to leave well enough alone, and as we amble down the sidewalk under a yellow sliver of a moon, I open my mouth and ask,

“Who is Annie?”