He tilts his head, studying me thoughtfully.
“I wasn’t! Probably!”
His eyes widen in a mixture of fear and shock, and then he holds up his hands in innocence. “Of course. Right. Whose turn is it?”
I exact retribution by forcing Diego to drink a jar of pickle juice, and I force out hearty laughter while he does it. In reality, I’m seconds away from losing my shit. This distance I’ve put between James and myself has been a safeguard against my feelings, and calling him was a terrible idea. It’s like I opened Pandora’s box, and though I may try to cram all my half-baked feelings back inside, they don’t quite fit. The box is lumpy and straining at the seams. Mentally, I try sitting on it like an overstuffed piece of carry-on luggage, but it doesn’t work. That night when I go upstairs, I pull James’ Caltech t-shirt and gym shorts out of their spot in the top drawer of my dresser and slip them on. I don’t wear them often, fearful that the cotton will get too worn. In the beginning, they still smelled like him, but the scent is fading.
I crawl into bed and focus on how the soft cotton feels against my bare skin. It’s like I’m poking a bruise over and over again, but I can’t stop. In some sad way, the pain feels like my only connection left to him.
After that, I never call again, and the days add together to form weeks, and then months start to divide now and the moment when we last spoke. It finally gets to a point where it would be really awkward to reach out again, and that moment brings with it a fresh wave of heartache, almost like I know I’m crossing the finish line, and once I do, there’s no going back. Luciana is perceptive during those weeks, doing her best to distract me.
We explore the city together after I pick the girls up from school each day. On weekends, we set our sights on a new destination, either a museum or a park. We love to bring a blanket and lie outside in the early afternoon. We all get tan from walking around outside so much, and the girls tell me I’m “prettier than I’ve ever been”. It’s a sweet compliment to hear from two preteen girls, considering they’re the most brutally honest focus group demographic in existence. For instance, they once told me I should never wear pale yellow. “It makes you look like rotten milk.” Alrighty then.
The weather turns chilly, and I’m supposed to go home for the holidays. My family misses me—Ellie most of all—but I beg out of it. I’m not ready to leave Spain; I’ve put so much work into forming a life here, but it’s so tenuous. Stepping back into my old life, even for a few weeks, feels like it would be a major setback. So, instead, I stay and celebrate the holidays with Diego and Nicolás and the girls. Those weeks are extra special. We decorate a tree in early December and sip hot chocolate every night after dinner. It gets to the point where I can’t stand the sight of a mini marshmallow, which, for me, is saying something. On Christmas morning, they surprise the girls and me with matching aquamarine bikes, and we make promises to use them every day this spring. I have visions of exploring the city on two wheels, and I’m giddy thinking about it.
During the coldest nights, Luciana sneaks up to sleep in my bed with me. Her dads want me to set boundaries with her, but I can’t work up the nerve to do it. She’s the absolute worst person to share a bed with—her feet end up near my face more nights than not—but nights are the loneliest for me, and with her there, it’s easy to forget that.CHAPTER TWENTY-THREEWhen I first moved to Spain, I toyed with the idea of inviting my mom to visit. Honestly, I didn’t expect her to actually take me up on it, but in that first year, she visits me three times. I even take a month off and we travel through Europe together, just the two of us. It’s painfully awkward for the first few days as we readjust to being around one another 24/7. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells, careful not to talk too much or too little. At dinner, when I want red wine but she wants white, I acquiesce. When she wants to tour the Parthenon but I want to head back to the hotel for an afternoon nap, I down an espresso and brave the crowds for her. I’m aware of how much shampoo I use when I shower. I deliberately let her take the side of the bed she prefers. It’s exhausting and draining, and after the first week, I think I’m going to have a nervous breakdown, but each day, I grow a little more comfortable in my own skin. I push back and assert myself more and more, testing the limits of our reconstructed relationship.