Shane drives my hollow body to the Madrid airport in his rented car. I couldn’t identify where my heart is. Or my spirit. But the empty physical shell that is evidence of my existence is leaving.

What just happened?

As we drive to Madrid, my hastily-packed luggage in back, I stay awake. Unlike my arrival. The scenery is new to me, because I never saw it before, although it’s so blurry I’m missing a lot. Because I’m tired. So tired.

I think I’ve done everything wrong.

Shane changed his ticket and got me one (thank you lucrative accounting-firm internship). And we’re headed back to Des Moines via New York.

While Shane fiddles with the radio, trying to find something to listen to and not liking any of the Spanish music, my heart hurts at all of it, because it all reminds me of Tavo. Then I remind myself I don’t have a heart. I packed it up and it’s buried in my luggage somewhere.

I don’t know who to believe. What to believe. My eyes or my heart.

“How are they going to take it?” Shane asks.

He’s talking about me leaving school, I think. Or is he talking about how his parents will take his coming out? Or how my parents will take me being pregnant?

“I don’t know,” I say, too exhausted to sort this out.

He’s got to marry her. He has to save his family.

I’ve seen him kiss her. Now I’ve seen her naked, cuffed to his bed.

But he was telling me the truth? Or was he? He was?

I don’t know.

Doing my best to be a human being who is capable of communication with another, I say, “Maybe they’ll take it better than you think.” I’m gambling on Shane talking about himself.

“My parents?” He shakes his head. “Have you ever heard them? You have to have. They hate anything having to do with homosexuals. Having me as their son?” His eyes water. “They’re going to disown me. They’re going to hate me—”

“I’ve known your parents almost as long as you have.” That earns me a little smile. “They love you. But you’re not going to be free until you tell them.”

Unlike me. I’m not ready to tell a soul.

I’m not entirely aware of how we return the car. Get our tickets. Board the plane. It happens, though, because I’m in a plane staring vacantly ahead. I can’t sleep or read or watch a movie. I’m just gone.

Mentally. Physically. Literally.

I can’t stop seeing Sonia’s naked body around Tavo.

Shane jostles me mid-flight, and I temporarily get out of vapor lock to notice that he’s found a sort of peace. He’s not fidgeting or playing on the phone. Just watching the movie.

While I’ve been exploring my own dark corners, he’s had some time to explore his, too. And maybe he found himself.

Shane sleeps while I stay awake and unaware.

The bright lights of Applebee’s shine down on my laminated menu. I’m perusing the dinner choices, but after living in Granada, everything’s unappetizing. Food that’s assembled, not grown or cooked or baked from scratch. Nothing like the real, vibrant cuisine of Spain. I’m sure if I ordered fruit or a salad, it would be made of hardy produce, the kind that can survive days in a truck or in a store, not the ephemeral strawberries and thin-skinned cucumbers of Andalucía. Not the eggs you buy by the each, instead of by the dozen, from the person who gathers them that morning.

I’m not just missing the food, though. (Or Tavo, since I’m shunting thoughts of him to the side until I can handle them, which will likely be never.) I’m missing my anonymity, because I’m sitting in the spotlight, and my unicorn hair hasn’t gone over too well with my parents.

When my mom saw me at the airport, she took a step back. Then she reached out, pulled a tendril, raised an eyebrow, and said, “This is cute.”

Cute as in not cute.

My dad commented, “Well, we all do stupid things when we’re young.” Then they proceeded to give both me and Shane a hug and walk us to the car.

I could tell my mother was dying to find out why I’m home early, but my dad gave her a look and she didn’t say anything. Shane answered their easy questions while we went to the restaurant. I ignored everyone and looked at the dull, almost-wintry landscape.

Now, as I slide around on the vinyl booth in the restaurant, waiting for everyone else to arrive, the words, “cute,” “stupid,” and “young,” bang around my head.

My parents have never disapproved of me before. I traveled to the other side of the world for a new experience, but I’m getting one here.

Before I went to Spain, absolutely everything I did had the parental stamp of approval—or at least approval of someone else. Now, I’ve relied on my own judgment, and everything’s a mess.

And I miss Tavo.

My stomach twists and turns, because they’re judging me for coloring outside the lines. Before, I always colored within the thick black lines of a printed coloring book. I’d concentrate on making it look as good on the outside as I could, and hold it up to get a gold star.

But what’s to stop me from going off the page now?

I already have. Even though I’m sitting in Applebee’s with my parents, I’m hurtling down a hill in a wagon with no brakes. I can’t see the bottom. No one can stop me but me, and I don’t know how to do that.

Turning the page of the menu, waiting for Shane’s parents to get here, I realize …

I don’t like anything on this menu.

And, I can walk out of here.

My heart wakes up and thumps in my ear. Holy fuck, I can walk out of here. I don’t have to stay in this god-awful restaurant to please anyone.

So I guess I did learn something in Spain—to think for myself.

But before I make a move to call an Uber, I take a second look around. People I love are here—my mom and dad, Shane, and his parents, who just arrived. And I’m here for them, not for the food. I’m putting their needs before mine, but I’m doing it voluntarily and with love.

And that is the difference.

I’m in charge of me, and I have the ultimate freedom to choose going back and coloring within the lines if I want. Or making my own drawing.

I’m so free I can choose bondage, and not just physical restraint (don’t want my thoughts to go there, not thinking of Tavo), I can choose the bondage of my mind.

If I wanted, I could go back to the way I lived in Iowa before. But this time it would be my choice.

I sit in this boring restaurant, trying to reconcile the different parts of me. The one who now colors outside the lines, with the one that doesn’t want to be an asshole. The one who seeks her own counsel with the one who wants to love others and be loved.

And I know as I sit here that I miss Spain and part of me is missing now that I’m here.

But I have a job to do.

I bet the olive oil here is crap.

After we order, Shane’s mom speaks up. “Kim. It’s so good to see you! I want to hear all about Spain. I’m so glad you’re back. It’s too bad that you and Shane aren’t getting married, but it’s good that you’re waiting until you get a little older.”

I guess this is the story Shane told his parents. I narrow my eyes at him. He pleads with me silently not to say anything.

Sighing, I know it’s his secret, not mine. And if he doesn’t want to spill it right this second, that’s fine. But I’m here to push him along, as we discussed.

Because there’s freedom in living your truth.

Just then, Randy walks in, The first thing he says when he gets to the table is, “Holy crap, Kim. What happened to your hair?”

I stand and give him a hug. “Does everyone say this?”

“I’m going to call you Rainbow Dash instead of Yoko.” Randy tugs on a strand. “It suits you.”

“Thanks. It does.”

He sits down next to Shane at the booth, their knees touching. Shane lifts up his hand to touch Randy’s, but he puts it back down.

It’s all I can do not to yell out, “Oh for God’s sake, tell them already.”

Not my secret. Not mine to tell.

I just give Shane more side-eye.

Shane answers his mom’s question from earlier. “No, Mom. Kim and I aren’t going to get married. It’s not right. We’re too young. But she’s still my best friend.” He smiles at me, and I smile back.

“I thought I was your best friend,” protests Randy, fake-pouting.

I hold my breath.

Shane puts his hand behind Randy’s neck, pulls him to him, and kisses him sweetly.

And the whole table detonates in shock.

Shane’s mom’s mouth hangs open. His dad’s head swivels from Shane to Randy, then to Shane again, then to Randy once more, his forehead so furrowed you could plant corn in it. My mother gasps, and Dad chokes on his drink, spitting out his pop. I’m wiggling on the vinyl seat and clapping my hands, so happy for my friends.

Shane’s got a big, dumb, goofy grin on his face, while Randy looks triumphant, nodding in satisfaction and putting his head on Shane’s shoulder. Their obvious love for each other is plain for anyone to see, and has been for years, if anyone had paid attention.

I clearly hadn’t, because I was too used to my buds, Shane and Randy, to notice they were the couple, and I was the third wheel.

Shane’s mom’s mouth is still hanging open.

The grin leaves Shane’s eyes and overstays on his lips. “Mom? Dad?”

Neither one of them respond. I get a sinking feeling in my stomach. My parents shift uneasily in their seats.

“Mom? Dad? It’s me. Shane.” He points to his chest with his thumb. “Same one as before. Same son you always had. Just telling you I’m not …” He lets out his breath. “I’m gay.”

His mom’s eyes widen and her eyebrows go up. Her torso moves with her breaths, so she’s not dead. But there’s no other reaction.

Uh-oh.

I pipe up, “He’s still your son. He’s still the CPA-to-be. He’s still driven toward his goals. He still has health and fitness on his mind. He just, you know, loves Randy.”

Randy reaches out and holds my hand, whispering, “Thanks, Rainbow Dash.”

“You’re welcome, Arnold.”

“Arnold?”

“Schwarzenegger. Like when I left.”

He busts out laughing. “It’s not a toom-ah,” he says in his Arnie accent. Then he shrugs and says in his normal voice. “We’re just gay.”

Shane’s dad finally recovers. He’s the first one to do so. He reaches across the table, clasps Randy’s hand firmly, and says, “Take good care of my boy.” Eye to eye. Man to man. With strength and love.

“I will, Sir,” Randy assures him. And then he bursts into tears.

Big, spiky-haired, ham-handed tears.

God, I adore Randy.

Dad nods in approval. “Well, this has been quite a shock for us all, but our best wishes to you. Right, Linda?”

Mom nods. “Yes, we only wish the best for you. You’re like family.”

Shane’s mom stands up.

Suddenly, I’m scared she’s going to take her purse and go. I start to say something, anything, but she comes over to Shane and wraps her arms around him so tight. “I love you, my beautiful son, just the way you are. I’m so sorry you didn’t … that we didn’t … I love you. Just you.”

Thank God.

The waiter comes up with his pen and notepad in his hand, ready to take our order. Gazing over it, he takes us in. Everyone has a tear in his or her eye. Shane’s mom is sobbing. Randy is sobbing. I’m so happy I’m making weird noises. He slips his order book into his apron. “I’ll come back in a moment.”

“I thought you’d disown me,” mumbles Shane in his mother’s arms. “I thought you’d shun me. Kick me out of the family.”

“No, my son. No. You took me by surprise, but now that I think about it, I always had an idea. It just took a while to connect the dots.”

“And the things you said growing up …”

“Shane. This is going to be a learning experience for us all. I’ll have to take a lot of it back. I haven’t had the most open mind, but there’s no way I’m going to not love my own beautiful, sweet son. I’ll always love you. And teach me to open my mind, okay?”

“Yeah, Mom.”

While I’m relieved, I’m sure Shane is even more so. It took bravery for him to show his family who he really is.

I still need to do that.

Early the next morning, I’m so jetlagged that I can’t sleep, so I get up and drive alone downtown. Normally, I’d tell someone, but I just leave a note and bring my phone.

Driving alone in the prewinter landscape feels bleak. Once I get to downtown, I’m not sure what I’m looking for. Maybe some part of Spain. Some part of the new me that I can hold onto, so I don’t forget what I learned in Granada.

Thinking of Granada makes me physically ache, though.

I park and get out, bundled in my coat. It’s almost Thanksgiving, not snowy yet, but the leaves on the trees are all gone and the heavy, gray sky threatens to dump rain on us.

Walking past restaurants, fast food joints, stationary stores, gift shops, insurance companies, banks, I search, looking for a clue.

I’m not finding myself in a chain store or in a supermarket that’s like every supermarket in every city in the Midwest.

Keep going, Kim. You’ll find it.

As I walk, my phone dings, and I pull it out, worried that it’s my parents looking for me.

It’s not. It’s my automatic notification of Tavo’s Instagram account. I set it up back in Spain. He doesn’t post much, but his profile picture is so beautiful it hurts. A black and white picture of him smiling.

But the new picture is of the olive trees in la huerta.

I stare at the image.

It’s not just any olive tree. It’s the very tree where we first kissed. The caption says, “I miss you. I love you. And everything we had … have … is REAL.”

God. No. Tavo.

I should turn off the notifications, but I can’t bring myself to do that, and I can’t stop myself from liking the post.

There are medieval torture museums in Spain, but I never had the chance to go to one. Why would I need that, though, when I have Instagram to bring me pain.

Putting my phone reluctantly away, I keep walking. Now I’m into an area of downtown that has vacancies in the storefronts. So many businesses went under with the recession and haven’t returned.

On a corner in a large building that used to be a Woolworth’s, a sign has appeared. “Organic Bakery.” The design is almost WPA-era, with optimism and American spirit. It oozes “We Can Do It.”

Stopping, I read the smaller, hand-lettered sign on the closed front door. It says that the owners have been researching and growing heirloom wheat on different small farms throughout the Midwest. No sprays. No genetic mumbo-jumbo. Just good, solid, Midwest wheat. They buy the wheat from these farmers and use it to bake loaves of bread on Wednesdays and Saturdays.

I get a shiver, and it’s not from the cold.

This is part of Spain here in America. Or it’s a part of myself here in my hometown.

This is what I like. Real food. Made with love.

I take a picture of the storefront and post it on my Instagram.

And I can’t help but caption it, “I wish you could see this.”

I vow to come back when they’re open.

Continuing farther down the street, I get to a diner smelling delectably of bacon. This place has been here forever, and I know the owners. It’s not fancy, but they’re nice and have great food so they always get a good crowd. I haven’t had an American breakfast in months, so I go in and get a table.

Before I went to Spain, I’d never eat by myself in public because I’d be scared that people would say I was weird. Now? I don’t give a shit what anyone else thinks. I’m hungry.

Testing my stomach, I wait a moment to see if I can handle it, but I think I can. I’m feeling better. Physically, anyway.

Mentally or emotionally, not so much.

As I wait, I type out an email to Maggie, telling her I’m home and want to talk to her. I order pancakes and bacon and coffee and watch the other diners. When it comes, the coffee tastes weak and watery, not like the thick, Spanish coffee at all. In almost no time, the waitress delivers my pancakes. I pile on butter and maple syrup—haven’t had that in a long time—and I take a hesitant bite.

It tastes delicious, and I’m feeling okay. For the first time since I found out I’m pregnant, I relax. And in that moment, a surge of sadness comes up, because there’s one thing I know for sure.

I miss Tavo.

The same way that I needed the space from Iowa to see that my relationship with Shane was not working, I needed the space from Spain to see that my relationship with Tavo was working.

Working really well. All except for a few parts.

Running through the events of the past week and a half, I see him. His generous smile. His comforting, sexy body. His joy when he found out I was pregnant. His intensity when he told me he loved me.

I never told him I loved him.

And I do, I really do.

How bad of a mistake did I make? Because I’m certain I made one. I’m just not sure which mistake I made.

Was I wrong to fall for Tavo?

Or was I wrong to leave him?

When I get back home, my parents are at the breakfast table drinking coffee. Well, my dad is drinking coffee and my mother is drinking some sort of fake tea with superfruits and the blood of angels.

This is the scene I’ve experienced every day of my entire life. Nice. Normal.

It’s not enough for me. I want more. I want to wake up in a place of my choosing. I want to cook and eat food that has a connection to the place I live. I want a lover who understands me.

I want to be with Tavo.

Dad looks up. “Pumpkin! Where have you been?”

He jolts me out of my thoughts, but it’s slow. “Spain,” I answer dully. “Or you mean, getting breakfast? Sorry, I’m all jet-lagged.” I sit down at the table with them.

He reaches over and pats the back of my hand. “I get it. You need to take some time for yourself, I’m sure.” Always the psychiatrist. Always examining me. “And that was a surprise last night about Shane. How did that affect you?”

“I fully support him,” I say. “I think deep down I knew it, and it took him being brave and telling me for me to realize it.”

Dad nods. “That’s often the way it happens. Self-realization occurs when you’re ready to face your truth.”

Somehow Dad hit on it with clarity. I need to tell them my truth.

My mom sips her tea and sets it down. “Honey, I’m glad to see you home. Are you going to enroll in classes here for the rest of the semester?”

“I think I’m going to take the rest of the semester off.”

“But that would put you back a year. You wouldn’t finish with everyone else.”

I shrug. “Maybe I don’t want to finish.”

Both of my parents stare at me. My dad pushes away from the table, and my mom pales. “Why would you not want to finish? You need a college degree,” Mom says.

“Maybe. But I’ve been doing some thinking, and a business degree isn’t really what I want.”

She waves me aside with her hand. “But you’re not thinking straight. You need to finish, otherwise you’ll never get ahead. It’s better in the long run if you stick it out. It’s only a little more than a semester.”

This is how she always treats me. This is what happens. She brushes off my wishes, my beliefs, and my thoughts, and steamrollers them with her own.

No.

More.

“Mom. You need to listen to me. This is me. Your daughter, Kim. I do not want to be a business major. I do not want to go to state school. I do not want green eggs and ham. I feel like I’m Dr. Seuss here, but I’m a grown adult, and I have the right to live my own life without your interference—”

“No one is interfering in your life, honey. We’re just giving you suggestions based on our experience—”

“Your experience, Mom. Not mine.” My eyes flash. “I’ve learned a lot of things in Spain. I want to be a chef. Not a business owner. Maybe the classes will come in handy if I decide to open a restaurant, so I’m grateful for them, but I want to study technique, not theory. I want to do, not think about doing.”

“There’s nothing stopping you from having a hobby—” my mother interrupts.

“I don’t want this as a hobby. Being in a kitchen is my ambition, Mom. My passion. Don’t you understand? I’ve always liked it. Now that I had the opportunity to use the one in Spain, I realized I loved it. Loved it, mother.”

“That’s good, pumpkin,” my dad says.

But I’m sick of being treated like a child. “I know you’re trying to do the best thing for me. I know you love me. But you need to let me go. You need to stop stifling me. Stop meddling in my life. Let me make mistakes. Stop trying to save me from a robbery that happened almost twenty years ago.”

My mom’s face is one of shock. “That is not what is going on—”

“Oh, yes. It is. You’ve been sheltering me and ordering me around. Telling me what I had to do. Making me do things I didn’t like for too long. Experimentation? Fine. But Mom, four years of candy striping? I hate candy striping. I hate the smell of disinfectant. I don’t want to be a doctor or nurse. I can’t handle it. But you made me do it for way too long.”

She whispers, “Oh, Kim. If only you could see—”

“If only you could see me! If only you could see your daughter. Me. Kim. Standing here, with crazy hair and a baby in my belly, wanting to be my own person.”

The room falls silent.

My dad shakes his head a little. Mom blinks. Before either of them can talk, I blurt out, “Yes, I’m pregnant, and no, I wasn’t stupid, and yes, I love the guy. Very much. So much that it hurts me to be away from him.”

“You’re—” Mom doesn’t recover.

“Pregnant. Yes. Baby in here.” I point at my stomach. “I had sex, Mom and Dad. I’m sorry to tell you that, but that’s how it happens.”

“You can see that this is a lot for us to process,” says Dad.

I soften. “Yes. I can. I love you guys. I just want to do something for myself for a change. And besides? You get to be grandparents.”

They stare at each other. “A grandbaby?” whispers my mom.

Nodding, I look her in the eyes. “Yes. And he’s going to have his father’s beautiful smile.”

“I don’t,” she stutters, “I don’t think I like this.”

“You don’t have to like it, Mom.”

“A baby.”

I wait while she processes. My dad still can’t recover.

She’s shaking her head. “I want to think about this.”

“You’ll have a new person to love, Mom.”

Finally, she asks, “Can we know who the father is?”

“Yeah.” I pull out my phone and open my Instagram account. I notice that Tavo has posted a ton of photos. I’ll need to look at them. But for now I show them his profile picture. “Tavo de la Guerra. The love of my life.”