Surviving Valencia

“The taxi is here,” I informed him.

He closed his book and picked up our bags.

“Is the kitty going to be okay?” I don’t know why I asked that. I wasn’t a big fan of Alexa’s cat normally, but in that moment I was concerned, watching him cowering pathetically beneath an end table.

“Alexa will be home in a few hours,” he said.

“What if her plane crashes?”

“Open the door before the taxi takes off without us.”

“What if her plane crashes?” I asked again, opening the door.

“I would be sad, and you would be the proud owner of a ca

t. Let’s go.”

We closed the door and got in the taxi while the driver loaded our bags into the trunk. Adrian took my hand and kissed my knuckles, “Alexa is going to be fine. So is the kitty. I know you’re thinking about your family, and that’s why you worry about these things. But you don’t have to worry. Everyone is going to be fine.” He kissed my hand again and put his arm around me, squeezing me tight. “Relax, Honey. I hate to see you sad.”

“I’m not thinking about my family. I am thinking about the cat,” I said.

“Okay,” he said, patting my arm.

I put my head on his shoulder and closed my eyes.

The first thing I did when we boarded the plane was order a Bloody Mary. Bloody Marys seem like an airplane drink to me. Adrian covered me up with the meager blanket the airline provided and tucked it around me like I was a child. I pushed it down away from my mouth as he turned off the small fan blowing above our heads.

“I’m not cold, Honey,” I told him.

“Your mother told me something when you were at the cemetery.”

Unease swept over me. I wriggled away from the blanket so I could breathe better.

“Oh, what’s that?” I asked him, raising my eyebrows just a bit, hoping I appeared only mildly curious.

“She said you used to have a problem with stealing.” He laughed and shook his head. “Is that true? I mean, she was wasted when she told me that.”

“Wasted?” I asked, changing the subject back to her problems instead of my own.

“Well, she’d had a lot to drink.”

“Really, that is kind of low of you,” I said. “I mean, mocking my poor mother.”

He stiffened. “Are you serious? Your poor mother? Since when can’t we just talk how we want to talk?”

“Could you keep it down?” I whispered. “I was joking. Obviously.”

He looked away and I looked out the window.

“Is it true?” he asked me after awhile.

“Of course it’s not true.”

“She said you buried things.”

“This is absurd. You were both drinking and it must have been a misunderstanding. I mean, really, Adrian. She sang that song about the cherries. Why would you take anything she said seriously?”

“It didn’t seem like the kind of story that could be made up.”