“This is so good,” Chloe says. “Why doesn’t food taste like this at home?”
“Because you’re eating it in Barcelona.”
“Fair point. Everything tastes better when it’s slightly irresponsible.”
The bartender brings more food—grilled octopus, peppers—and we keep eating. The bar is getting busier, crowds gathering to watch a European football game on the TV overhead. Someone makes a goal and the bar erupts.
Chloe flinches.
“Wow, you really don’t like sports at all,” I say, chuckling.
She blushes, crinkling her nose. “Between you and me? Most of the athletes I’ve met are exactly what you’d expect. It’s exhausting.”
I think about my teammates. The locker-room talk. The swagger.
She’s not entirely wrong.
“Not all of them,” I say.
“Maybe not. But enough.” She pauses. “Sorry. I’m probably being judgy.”
“Little bit,” I tease.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, looking down at her hands. “I don’t mean to be. It’s just not my world.”
And there it is. The reminder that if she knew who I was, she’d probably put me in that exact category.
We finish eating, and despite her protests, I manage to snag the bill. The sun has set, and the streets outside are dark except for the glow of streetlamps. There’s a warm breeze, and for a moment we simply stand there, soaking in the evening.
“Walk?” I suggest.
“Lead the way.”
We walk through the Gothic Quarter, where the city feels timeless, where layers of history stack on top of each other. Past shops closing and restaurants opening. Under archways that have stood for centuries.
The air is cooler now, pleasant. Music winds through the old streets—a guitar, slow and melodic. The city smells like flowers and garlic and the sea.
And with every step, I’m thinking:Maybe this is it. Maybe this is the dream I didn’t know I had.
Which is ridiculous.
But it doesn’t feel ridiculous.
It feels like the truest thing I’ve thought in years.
CHLOE
I am absolutely, completely, maybe falling for someone I met a few hours ago.
Which is insane. I mean, clinically, certifiably insane.
It’s the kind of thing that happens in movies…but not to people like me in those movies. Not to the extras.
Which brings me back to the first point—you know, the insanity. Maybe none of this is real. Maybe I fell off the dock, chasing down the ship, and hit my head. Maybe this is all some sort of coma-induced fever dream, because there’s no way this is real.
The evening is in full tilt now, the old city all aglow. After leaving the tapas bar, we kept walking, taking in the sights between easy conversations until we wound up here, at this tiny restaurant tucked under one of the archways of Plaça Reial.
The restaurant is small—maybe ten tables, half inside and half outside, where we are, under the stone archway. Edison bulbs strung overhead cast this warm, vintage glow that makes everything look like a movie set. Candles flicker on the tables in little glass holders, their flames dancing in the evening breeze.
