I don’t say that part out loud, not to Cristiano. He’d assume it has something to do with him. I can imagine his eyes widening in fear, him flagging down our waiter.Check, please!
This newfound tug toward freedom isn’t because of him, though. I’ve been here on Ibiza for a month, and my time away from California has given me clarity. It’s been so peaceful to be away from all the places that hold memories of Winnie. I didn’t realize how much the reminders of her were holding me hostage.
If I do somehow decide to postpone my return to the States, it will be hard to disappoint my parents and upend my life, but the more I consider the option, the more it feels right. Lita has always been a nomad, picking up and moving whenever the mood strikes her, and maybe that same adventurous spirit lives in me. Maybe I’ve never allowed myself to hope for a life outside of California because I’ve always put my family’s needs before my own.
I know it will break my parents’ heart if I move away, my father’s especially. He was so proud on my first day at De Vere Diamonds. He paraded me around the office, introducing me to anyone with a pulse: the janitor, the security team, the IT guy in the basement. But at the end of this summer, can I really go back to living my old life just to make them happy?
Honestly… it’s silly to consider otherwise. I know I will.
Cristiano doesn’t push for more conversation. We sit quietly, sipping our sangría and watching a group of children trying to build a sandcastle on the beach. Soon after, our waiter comes around with a huge tray laden with local dishes. As he sets them down, Cristiano tells me the name of everything.
“Espinacas con garbanzos, boquerones en vinagre, calamares fritos, pa amb tomàquet—”
“This is too much!” I laugh.
The waiter sets down two more dishes and looks at me with a twinkle in his eye. Whatever he says in Spanish I don’t understand, despite how much I’ve learned in recent weeks. I look to Cristiano as he walks away.
“I only ordered the espinacas, the calamares, and the fish,” he tells me. “The last few dishes are on the house, apparently. For you, he says. He called you beautiful.”
My jaw drops. “Did he?” I lean back in my seat to try to see where the waiter walked off to. “Call him back—I didn’t get a good look at him. Maybe he’ll be my next Spanish lover.”
I expect Cristiano to laugh, but instead he flinches before picking up his sangría. I swear, for a moment I see pain in his expression. Sadness. Tenderness.
I immediately regret the joke. I’d hate if Cristiano thought Iwasn’t happy to be here with him. It’s the exact opposite. I don’t want him to know my true feelings, the terrifying depth of them. My joke was a deflection, pure and simple.See? I’m not attached. You don’t have to worry about a thing.
If Cristiano had made the same joke about a waitress, it would have gutted me.
I reach across the table and take his hand in apology, forcing a smile. “Thank you, for this morning. It was just the right thing.”
He turns his hand up so our fingers can lace together. “Apparently we aren’t done checking tasks off the list for the day. Surely this will be enough.”
He points to the food.
“Enough? For what?”
“Don’t you have to ‘eat tapas until you’re sick’? Isn’t that on the list?”
I laugh at the realization. “Yes. You’re right.”
“Well, get started.”
In true Spanish form, we eat the longest, most relaxed lunch of my life. The sangría keeps flowing until my limbs are languid and my cheeks are flushed. Once Cristiano covers the check and we rise from our table, I feel sick, but not because of the food. Suddenly I have a sinking feeling in my gut. A Sunday feeling, like the fun is almost over, the sun is just about to set.
“Do we have to go now?” I ask. “Or… ?”
Before he can protest, I take his hand and tug him toward the sidewalk that leads from the restaurant down to the beach. I don’t really want to swim again, but I don’t want Cristiano to drive me back home, either. I know how much he has on his plate, how busy he is. We talked about the opening of Sabor a Sol at lunch,and he couldn’t hide the stress, or the fact that his phone continuously buzzed throughout our meal. Eventually he turned it off altogether, but I know that’ll come back to bite him later.
“I need to make a few calls,” he tells me now as I stretch out a towel on the ground.
“That’s fine. Take your time.”
Just please don’t say we have to go.
Cristiano takes his phone out and walks down the beach. I slip out of my sundress and lie down on the towel facing the sea. The beautiful white-capped waves hold my attention, but only for so long. Then, like a relentless magnet, I glance toward where Cristiano paces on the shoreline, talking on the phone while he idly wedges his foot into the sand. I take in his long, tan legs, his muscular thighs. His white T-shirt billows in the wind and I see the bottom of his flat stomach. He tugs a hand through his hair and shakes his head at whatever conversation is happening. His eyes shift up and he sees me staring. He holds up his finger.Just one more minute.
I smile to let him know I don’t mind. Really, I don’t. I never get to look at him like this without him realizing. It’s not like I could just stare at him longingly over the lunch table.
To my left, I spot a woman sitting by herself on a blanket, a forgotten paperback in her lap. She’s noticed Cristiano, and when her gaze cuts to me, her jaw drops and her eyes widen, as if to say,Do youseethis guy?
