“Siéntate,” my mother clucks to Kim, who’s been popping up, attempting to help with dinner.

Kim pauses mid-standing up, not sitting down immediately as my mother’s asked. She’s clearly the kind of person who’s used to helping out, but doesn’t know what to do here, and she’s not accepting that she doesn’t have to do a thing. She’s changed clothes since she arrived, now wearing white pants and a pink blouse, but she’s got pillow marks on her face from her nap. They’re utterly adorable.

“You are our guest,” Mari Carmen assures her, speaking Spanish slowly to her. “We will show you our cooking later. For now, let us serve you.”

“I’d love to learn.” With a gracious smile, Kim finally settles back down next to me, rubs her eyes, and looks around. Her hands fidget with the silverware.

As usual in the warm nights of early autumn, we sit on long picnic benches covered with a red cloth on the patio outside. Each setting has a crisp white napkin. Strings of white lights crisscross overhead between the house and the laundry building. I’m really glad Sonia’s not here tonight. Thank God for small favors.

“¿Vino?” I hold up the bottle and a glass, offering Kim red wine. Most days I’d prefer a Coca Cola to be honest, but this is what we have in the cellar.

“Yes, please.” She touches her shoulder to my arm conspiratorially. “It’s legal here. I’m not old enough to drink at home.” Then she covers her mouth, trying to not sound so new.

What she doesn’t understand is that I love her newness.

“You don’t have that problem here. Enjoy.”

Gesturing at the unlabeled jug, she asks, “Where did you get that bottle? How come it doesn’t have a brand?”

“Our neighbors grow the grapes and bottle the wine.” I pour into one of our short tumblers, which are these Moroccan tea glasses my mother likes. They’re paisano, a little too country for me. I wish we had something nicer. “Our families trade. We send them liters of olive oil in exchange for liters of wine.”

She leans in closer to me, and unlike my guest the other night, I don’t scoot. “Seriously? That’s the coolest.”

“It’s true.”

My grandfather speaks up. “Es importante aprender cómo crear las frutas de la tierra.”

“He says it’s important to learn how things are created?” Kim asks.

“Yes,” I say.

She turns to my grandfather and beams. “Quiero saber mucho más cosas de creación.”

“And do you know what is the beginning of all creation?” My voice is so low no one else can hear, and I don’t know exactly what is happening between us, but I know the energy’s crackling again. I know she can feel it.

Kim shakes her head.

“Desire.”

Her jaw drops slightly, and I can almost hear her heart beat faster. She takes the glass and presses her lips to the rim, taking a small sip.

It’s like watching someone breathe for the first time, the journey of the tart, sweet liquid visible on her face as it makes its way over her tongue, crossing her taste buds. She makes a little scrunched-up face, but her brow smooths out and her shoulders go back down.

“Wow. This is really good. I’ve never had anything like it.” She turns the glass around and around in her fingers, and then takes another sip.

My mother places a cold salad with atún on it in front of each person. “Primer plato,” she announces.

I pass the cruet of olive oil to Kim, who pokes at the salad, which has crisp lettuce, bright red tomato, and the pink fish. “Is this tuna?”

“Of a sort, yes.”

“You put tuna on a salad?”

“Almost always.”

She grimaces and takes a bite, then relaxes. “It’s delicious.”

The warm night settles around us, and as I eat, I survey the table.

Guillermo argues with Antonio about something that happened at school last year. I’m glad they’re bugging each other and not me.

Mari Carmen feeds Jorge a bite of salad, the lovebirds with their heads together, murmuring to each other. I’m too used to them to care, but if I thought about it, I’d be either sickened or jealous.

My grandmother lectures my grandfather about his smoking, as she’s done once a week my entire life.

My mother sits with my aunt and uncle, every once in a while glancing toward me and Kim with tightness in her neck and face. I take no notice of her, because I’m so happy with this girl.

But when I come back to Kim, she’s eating so fast she must think she’s never going to get food again. And she’s holding her fork and knife in the wrong hands.

“There’s no rush,” I whisper, gesturing at the table. “We have all night.”

Kim’s face reddens, and she lifts her silverware midair. “I’m so sorry. I’m not used to having enough time to do anything. We’re always on a schedule. My habit is to eat fast and go on to the next thing.”

“Here, there is no reason to. Slow food is best. It’s good for your digestion, too,” my mother says. “Take your time.”

If I could go a day without my grandmother or mother talking about digestion, it would be a day to celebrate.

Chagrin still registers on Kim’s face. I reach out and touch her hand. “Don’t worry so much. It will all be okay.” She gives me a tight nod and takes a bite. I notice the hands she uses to hold her silverware. “You use the other hands when you eat.”

Kim studies my hands and takes in everyone else at the table. “Huh. This is how I was taught.” Carefully she switches the cutlery, mimicking me. Taking a bite with her fork in her left hand, she chews and says, “It’s actually easier this way.”

I wink at her.

She glances around the table at all the conversations. I can tell she doesn’t understand most of what’s being said because I know what it was like in my translation classes. I use a low voice. “Don’t mind my family. Once you know the language better, it will be just like home.”

“No. It isn’t at all like home.” She’s so close I can smell her shampoo. “Even if I understood everything. I’m an only child, so I’m used to being the focus. I never have to compete for attention. If someone talks, it’s to me. I’m not used to all this noise, all these side conversations.”

I cut a piece of tomato. “I have never not been around a crowd of people at mealtimes. This must mean you’re the one people listen to.”

“Right. But I’d rather not have that, you know? It’s not my personality. I don’t need to be in the spotlight.”

“What do you want, guapa?

The table gets quiet.

That pink tinge touches her conejo nose as she takes another sip of wine, then mutters into her glass, “I’m hoping I can find out while I’m here.” When she looks up again, the string of lights overhead shines on her face, making her skin incandescent. “Compared to what I’m used to, it’s chaos, but it’s also beautifully orchestrated by your mother. We’ve got it all wrong—don’t talk, hurry through dinner to get on to the next thing. Your mom knows what she’s doing.”

“She does.”

I raise my glass to my mother, and then to Kim, and I drink. It’s delicious as usual, making things fuzzy. Happier. Especially when sitting next to Kim with her optimism, pinup-girl attractiveness, and fresh American liveliness.

After we finish eating the salad, my mother and sister rise, clear our plates, and bustle back with painted ceramic platters of food.

“When it is light, I’ll take you for a tour of the olive trees,” I say.

“I look forward to it.”

“¿Más vino?” I indicate with the bottle.

She lifts the glass. “Un poco.”

By the heat on her cheeks, she is un poco tipsy, too, which means stay away. I’m not touching her when she’s inebriated—at least not the first time.

After dinner, when the dishes are cleared and the night is still beginning, my entire family lingers at the table.

“Tavo. ¿Nos haces el favor de tocar la guitarra?” mi madre asks.

Kim gives a tiny squeak of delight. “The guitar? You’re going to play?”

“De acuerdo.” I walk quickly to my house and fetch my guitar. Kim’s interest makes me want to play the best I’ve ever played. While my family hears me play plenty, this is the first time I get to play for her, and I want to make an impression. I want her to remember this night.

When I return, I sit to the side and begin to play the classical, complicated Spanish music I love. My fingers pluck and pull the nylon guitar strings, bringing the music to life. It always existed, it always exists, it’s just my job to bring it out now. So I sing, and I’m singing for her. I play, and I’m playing for her.

I lose my soul in the singing as I always do, but this time it’s more. This time I’m showing her a part of myself I don’t show everyone. My family doesn’t see it.

But she does.

I’m floating on air. I’m so high my family and my responsibilities can’t reach me. The world has melted away for a moment, and I’m living in the now, showing the music of my innermost self to this estadounidense.

When I come to, I catch Kim’s eye, rapt in my playing. My family claps, and Kim whispers, “You’re so good.”

I steeple my fingers and give her a cocky smile. “You have no idea.”

My mother’s sharp eye pierces me, but I don’t care. Kim yawns, and I say, “Let’s take you to your room.” She says goodnight to everyone and we go in the house. I leave my guitar inside the kitchen. When we get to Kim’s room, she steps in, but I stay at the door.

“God, I don’t want this night to end.” She whirls around in her room, her arms out. “It’s exactly what I wanted to experience. A new country. New people. New food. And it’s so beautiful!”

“Are you ready for bed?”

Bad question, Tavo.

Thankfully she overlooks it. “I’m not a bit tired. I think it’s the jet lag.”

Tentatively, I take a step in. Her clothes and things are everywhere. I avert my eyes in case her undergarments are out on top. I already have enough ideas, I don’t need to see anything else. “Do you want to talk?”

“Sure! Come in, come in.” She takes off her shoes and sits on the bed, her back to the wall, cuddling the pillow. “Sorry, I haven’t put everything away yet.”

I take the other end, my feet on the floor, trying not to get too close. “Take your time. There is no rush. How are you doing? Are you finding everything to your liking?”

“It’s incredible. I’m totally in love with Spain.” She giggles. “Tavo. Your voice. It’s magical. I could listen to you play all day. You have such pride and fire. It comes out in your singing.”

I don’t want to talk about my voice. I want to talk about her. “What it is that you love about Spain?”

“It’s just so rich. I’ve barely seen anything, but it’s so beautiful. The air is prettier. This house is amazing. It pulses with a history, you know?”

I can think of a lot of things that pulse.

Again, time to change the subject. “What’s it like in America?”

“It’s boring,” she says immediately.

I jerk my head back. “No way. I want to go to America so much.”

Her hand flies to her chest. “You do?”

“I do.”

That rabbit nose wrinkles. “Why?”

“I want to go surfing. I want to ride in a red convertible Ford Mustang.”

Kim scowls. “I’ve never done either of those things.”

“I want to see the Grand Canyon and the Empire State Building. I want to go to Death Valley and Chicago and Texas.”

She plucks at the bedspread. “I haven’t done any of that either.”

“Hombre, but you must. What have you been doing in America?”

“Not that.” She props her cheek on her fist. “Sounds like what I want to do in Spain. Go see Madrid and Barcelona and maybe Morocco or Portugal or France.”

“We can do that,” I say. But then I wonder about how much that will cost. The idea of traveling with her, though, is too sweet. We’ll have to do it.

“Really?”

“Really.”

She claps and gives me a crisp nod. “That’s wonderful. My mom and dad backpacked together in Europe for a summer right after they got married. They figured that it was the only chance they’d have to do that—and they were right. For the rest of their lives, they talked about it, but never took me anywhere, except to the Iowa state fair. You should go, I’ll take you. There’s a cow made out of butter.”

“For real?”

“There’s a lot of butter in Iowa. And corn.”

“I don’t understand why you eat the corn. Here, it’s for the pigs.”

“We wouldn’t exist without corn in Iowa. ‘Knee high by the Fourth of July.’”

I cock my head. “What does that mean?”

“It’s a saying my grandparents used to say. It just means that the corn has to be in the ground and up to your knees by July fourth. Nowadays, corn is much higher than that by then.”

“Do you live on a farm?”

“No. Just a regular house. People worry about farms nowadays. They think that they’re disappearing and agriculture is too corporate. I only see the country stuff at the fair.”

A twinge of guilt hits me. Farms are disappearing because people like me don’t want to carry them on. I change the subject. “The fair? Is that where they have a, what do you call it, Ferris wheel?”

“Yes! Have you been on one?”

“The London Eye. Once. With my father.”

Biting her lip, she asks, “I don’t mean to pry, and you don’t have to tell me. But where is he? What happened to him?”

I stare down at my empty hands. “He died in a farm accident with a tractor. It was two years ago. He got hurt, and we could not save him.”

“I’m so sorry.” She reaches out and touches my shoulder. Her simple kindness takes me somewhere I haven’t been in a while. A place I normally don’t go.

“Thanks,” I say automatically. “He taught me how to play guitar.”

“That’s incredible! I wish I knew how to play.”

“I’ll teach you.” And as I say those words, I think of carrying on his tradition. And how I’ve never taught anyone how to play the guitar. But that there’s no one I’d want to teach more than this enthusiastic American.

Her eyes grow big. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Me playing is a connection to him. I play the songs he taught me.” And then I offer what I usually don’t say. “I’m mad about him dying. It’s a waste. He shouldn’t have been hurt like that. And I miss him. I resent that he’s gone. Ever since he died, I’ve been doing what everyone wants. I’m not sure I want to do that anymore, though.” Her hand on my shoulder gives me a squeeze and withdraws.

“I know the feeling.” She holds the pillow closer to her.

“You do?”

“I have both my parents, but before coming here, I felt like my entire life was based on a schedule that someone else made up.”

“Not in charge of your own life?”

“Right. Now that I’m here, I get to eat late and to learn how to cook and—”

“For someone who is so interested in cooking, why is your Instagram so boring?”

“It’s not boring!” Before I know it, she’s taken the pillow and thrown it at me. It hits my head, and I laugh.

“It’s just all pictures of drinks from Starbucks.”

“Hmm. Yeah, I guess so. I never really thought about it. My mom hates it when I go there. That’s probably one reason. And I think it’s that I didn’t really have anything to post, but all my friends were on, so I just posted whatever we were doing. Not very exciting.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it not being exciting. I’d rather it be real than exciting. But now that I’ve met you, it doesn’t really match you. It’s like you’ve been holding yourself back.”

Her mouth parts and her eyes narrow. “I think you’re right. That’s another thing I’m going to fix.”

“It’s surprising, honestly, because you’re so open and enthusiastic. I’d think you’d just have this exuberant life.”

“I don’t. But I want one.”

“I like this about you. I like how honest you are.” I’d better shut my mouth before I betray how captivated with her I am. How I’m hanging on to her every word.

“Thanks,” she said. Then she gasps at the clock. “Is it really two in the morning?”

“Yeah. I’d better let you sleep.”

“I’m on a different time zone, but you must be exhausted.”

I want to reach out and touch her, but I don’t. “Goodnight, Kim. Come find me first thing, and I’ll give you a tour before it gets too hot.”

“Good night, Tavo. Thanks for everything.”

As I walk to my casita, I think.

All my life I’ve been waiting for someone like her.

Or her.

The next morning, Kim knocks on my door just after I got up. I open it. She’s dressed for a warm day in a pretty blue and white sundress, her hair curling around her shoulders, but she immediately turns around, blushing.

Is it because I’m shirtless? I’m wearing gray sweatpants. Or because I haven’t shaved, and my hair is messy. “Buenos días.”

She bites her lip and avoids looking at me, peering at the floor, the ceiling, the door jamb. Anywhere but at me. “Is it okay to go on a tour now?”

“Yes. Let me show you. One moment.” I grab my white T-shirt and put it on.

She enters my little house, taking in my movie posters—Breakfast at Tiffany’s, Dirty Harry, A Clockwork Orange, Casablanca. The stacks of vinyl in the corner next to my grandfather’s record player. The books on American cinema and music. “Your place is cool,” she says. “I like it.”

Once again, she’s so refreshing, and she’s seeing me, not just what I look like on the outside. No one else understands my love of these things. My mother thinks my place is a hovel.

I head to my bathroom and brush my teeth, keeping an eye on her. She doesn’t know I know she’s watching me.

Rinsing out my mouth, I spit, and then wipe my face with a clean towel. “Thanks. Me too.” My hair is wild, but I run my hands through it and call it good. I come over to the bed where she’s perched, grab my jeans and underwear, and head to the bathroom.

She runs her fingers along the books. “What do you like to read? Just these nonfiction books?”

Behind the closed door, I get dressed. “Yeah. Pretty much. I like biographies. I like to know how people lived. You?”

“Mysteries.”

“I like those, too.” I leave the bathroom, sit next to her, and put on my boots. She watches me.

When I finish, I grab her hand. “Come. This way.” The bells of the distant cathedral ring out for morning prayer. Her fingers feel soft in my hand. She stares at the connection between us. “Primera cosa.” And I pull her toward the main house.

Her brows knit together. “I thought we were going on a tour?”

“We are. But first I need un café. You do, too.”

“I don’t normally drink coffee. Unless you count the blended drinks at Starbucks.”

I recoil and shake my head slightly. “Those don’t count at all.” When we step into the house, I show her to the kitchen. “Sit there.”

She obeys, taking a seat at the table off to the side, and I make her a coffee with thick milk in the percolator. I slice our rough bread and toast it on the stove top with a griddle. Her eyes follow my back as I work.

“Do you prefer olive oil?” I ask her.

She shakes her head. “Olive oil for breakfast?”

“Our olive oil.” I select a small bottle of our best olive oil from last year. I pour a drop on my finger and hold it in front of her lips. Those succulent lips. “Try it.”

Her eyes open wide, and she sticks out her tongue. I dab the oil on it. She closes her mouth around my finger. Hot, wet, sensual.

So wrong. So right.

I shouldn’t have done that. Because now I have to repress my thoughts.

Closing her eyes, she gets a dreamy expression on her face, matching how I feel about her sucking on my finger. “It’s … it’s … like nothing I’ve ever tasted. Thick and fruity and kind of bitter and kind of not. Almost peppery. Earthy.”

Joder.

I can’t think of how good her mouth felt around my finger, because that would mean she’d feel good in other places.

Why has she hijacked my brain? I reach for something, anything to say, so I’m not just gawking at my finger in astonishment. Finally, I mumble, “It’s good on pan tostada.”

Again, Kim-enthusiasm comes forward. “I’ll try it!”

I drizzle olive oil on the bread, holding the finger she licked to the side. I don’t want to wash her off me. After sprinkling flaky sea salt on top, I slide the toast on a plate and put it in front of her. “Here you go.” Taking a bite, she grins around the pan tostada.

“It’s so good! I’m just used to butter. Jam. Not olive oil. I like it.”

“We have that, too. Try the café.”

Her finger slips around the coffee cup. “Okay.” She doesn’t move. She’s not convinced. “I don’t usually drink it without sugar.”

Gesturing to the coffee, I say, “Come on, Kim.”

Inhaling the steamy aroma of the coffee, she tilts her head, as if thinking about it, and drinks. Her eyes widen. “It’s amazing.”

I’m inordinately pleased that she likes it. I pour myself a cup and make pan tostada and sit down across from Kim, trying not to fixate on the way her tongue felt around my finger.

After we eat, I take her through the house, the parts she missed yesterday while unpacking and taking a nap. “My ancestors built this house several hundred years ago. Over the years there have been additions. Now it houses all of us. It should last a long time.”

But I don’t want to think about that right now or how it’s my responsibility to keep it in the family. So I hustle her past my siblings’ rooms, the main dining room and living rooms, and the parlor, to outside where I can breathe without the pressure overtaking me.

We meander past our other buildings: a barn, garage, shop, equipment storage, sheds. The laundry yard and wash house, pump house. We walk along the remnants of a Roman road, which I point out to her.

Her mouth drops open, and she points to the ground. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Things are that old here?”

I nod. “They are. Older.” We walk to the beginning of the rolling hills of olives.

She claps her hands in delight, then grabs my hand again. She lives on an inhalation. Like she’s been waiting for an adventure, and now it’s here, and she can’t wait. She’s been a glass bottle of Coca Cola with the cap on, and now she’s fizzing, ready to explode. She gestures to the castle on the hill. “What’s that?”

“An old ruin.” I shrug. “It’s been there for centuries.”

“Is that on your property?”

“Yes. Our property goes to the stream down there,” my arms go wide to the side, “and off over there.”

“Can you take me there sometime?”

The clear interest on her face makes me want to keep talking, to do anything she wants. “I promise, guapa.”

“Have you been to it all?”

“At harvest time, I touch every single one of these trees.”

Just like I want to touch her.

As we walk in the early morning light, her shoulders straighten, and she walks erect, taking in the property. The sunny ochre colors of the stones radiate in the sun, and our trees in the distances are shimmery, almost platinum-colored, laden with olives. The trees are getting full of fruit, but it’s not yet ripe. At least two months to harvest.

“It’s so beautiful,” she whispers, as we stand and take in the view. “I want to learn about olive oil. I don’t know anything about it. What I tasted back there is nothing like what I’m used to.”

“You don’t have olive oil?”

“We do, but it’s been processed so much it’s flavorless like cardboard. Oily, but no soul. No character.” Her eyes scan the horizon. “Here, it’s closer to the land. It tastes different. Better.”

I agree. “There is nothing better for you than olive oil.”

“What’s over there?”

She points to the neighbor’s property. I cringe, not wanting to tell her too much. “They grow grapes and have the olive press. We have the trees. A partnership that has been in place for a hundred years.”

A partnership that drives me berserk. I don’t tell her about the daughter next door. Because I don’t want to think about her.

I kick at a rock and say under my breath, “Once I’m done with my studies, I’m going to leave and never come back.”

I hope.

“Really? Why would you ever want to leave a place as amazing as this?”

“I don’t want to recreate the life of my ancestors. I want my own.”

Those eyes of hers catch mine, and my body temperature rises. “We’re a lot alike.”

“We are.”

Under the dappled shade of an olive tree, she picks at her lip. I’m obsessed with those lips, and I need to change the subject before I make a fool of myself. “When do you want to drive into Granada? I’ll be your tour guide.”

“The sooner the better. I can’t wait to go!” And she’s bouncing on her feet, her eyes alight again.

As I’ve watched her since yesterday, with her enthusiasm, she is a picnic on a red-checkered blanket in summer. Turquoise convertibles and hamburgers on a barbecue. Big smiles and pink lipstick and lemonade. Elvis Presley and pinup girls and Niagara Falls and Death Valley and Las Vegas.

Everything I’ve always wanted. If I’d used my imagination for a very long time, I would have created her.

A change of subject doesn’t help, because no matter what she does, she’s anything but indifferent, which makes her irresistible.

She bubbles like cava. She’s intoxicating like Jerez. She’s full-bodied like a Rioja. I can’t get enough of her.

Seeing my timeworn home through her effusive eyes resonates deep in my core. She’s eager to explore my land as much as I’m eager to explore hers, but she’s actually come here. And I respect her immensely for it.

I’m overwhelmed with the enormity of the step she’s taken, because she’s showing me it’s possible.

Tugging at my collar, I can’t stand it anymore. I must have Kim Brown. I reach down and hold her hand under the shade of an olive tree. She looks at our joined hands, and pulls slightly away, but doesn’t take her hand back.

“Tavo, this is—”

I lean in and kiss her delicately. Tenderly. Just a brush of our lips. As her yielding, pouty lips cling to mine, my heartbeat rushes as fast as if I’ve run through the entire huerta.

Off somewhere, the neighbor’s tractor engine roars to life.

Her startled eyes close. She pulls back and touches her mouth. “We can’t do this.”

“You don’t want to?”

“I do want to. But—”

I interrupt her by kissing her again.

Her hands go up and clutch at my hair, bringing me to her tight. My tongue tastes hers, my lips suck on hers, I wrap my arms around her and give her everything in that kiss.

She is alive. She has come alive to my touch, and she is kissing me back. Hard. I deepen the kiss. More tongue, more caresses, more lips. She smells clean and fresh and new.

And as I move my hands down her back towards her ass, she reels back squeezing her eyes shut and puts her hand to her mouth.

“Oh my God, I can’t believe I did that.”

“Guapa, there’s nothing wrong with a kiss.”

“Yes, there is. There’s someone else.”

And with that, she is a torero, who has just killed me, the bull.

Her bright eyes darken, and she becomes unnaturally still and pale. With a quivering chin, she rubs her nose and looks away, drawing her shoulders up and tucking her elbows in. When her eyes come back to me they’re full of regret. I grit my teeth and pray.