I can't listen to this anymore. Not from her, not from anyone. Vera is a modern witch that everyone keeps wanting to burn at the stake, and every time she catches fire, I do too. I close my eyes and try to compose myself.
"You just wanted to fuck this little bitch, bet she's constantly sucking men off when you aren't looking. Younger, better men than you."
Breathe in. Breathe out. Ignore the crushing pain, the anger.
She just wants to get to you.
I breathe in sharply through my nose. "When did you let hate take over your soul?" I ask her, trying to keep my voice calm. “When did you stop being the person I used to know?”
"When you fucked her and fucked up my life," she says, words sharp as knives, and I can hear her step toward me. She's right in my face but I refuse to open my eyes, to acknowledge her. "You've ruined everything I worked so hard for. Everything." She smells like gin, and the scent dissolves as I hear her walk across the kitchen to the door leading to the backyard.
The door opens and I hold my breath.
"And I will never, ever let you forget it, Mateo," she says before she shuts the door behind her.
When I open my eyes, I am pitching left toward the wall, and my arm can barely hold me up. I feel like there are bats in my ribcage, caught between my heart and my lungs in a flurry of violent, black wings.
All at once I know I'm going to lose Vera.
It feels like I might lose the sun from the sky.
After I leave Isabel’s, I go back into work. I haven’t heard from Vera yet which means she hasn’t seen that particular magazine. I have this urge to keep the news from her if I can, and I hope that I can still whisk her off to San Sebastian for the weekend. Though I would be burdened with guilt, she would be saved from it, at least for a few days. We deserve this. She deserves it most of all.
But first I have to deal with Pedro. He calls me into his office just after noon for another talk, and I’m starting to think this will forever be a weekly thing. Find something about Mateo to complain about, call him in, threaten him with one thing or another, and then offer him a cigar.
Pedro is obviously just as obsessed with the tabloids as I am because the magazine is open on his desk when I come in.
He’s calm, which I guess is a good sign, though things could go either way. He asks me who the informant is. I tell him I don’t know—which is the truth—but that I suspect Isabel’s family. They’ve always been a pack of vultures, vying for the spotlight and the privileges they think are owed to them by blood. It could be her cold-hearted mother or her conniving sister or social climbing brother. The whole family is interchangeable, and in the end it doesn’t seem to matter. Whoever the anonymous source was, they wanted to rake me through the coals, and they did.
In short, Pedro tells me he doesn’t know what to do with me, and part of me is tempted to tell him what to do with himself. I care enough about how things seem, how things are, and I don’t need to hear it from my boss.
“Why don’t you just make Warren the coach and fire me?” I ask him, feeling bold, with nothing to lose. “That way you don’t have to deal with this problem again.”
He finally looks shocked. “Is that what you think?” he asks. “That I would fire you over this?”
I nod. “Yes, I do. You’ve called me in here enough over this, something that is more or less out of my hands. I do think you’d fire me over it. But here, let me give you an easy way out of it. If you think I’m going to choose between being with Vera or being on Atlético again, I will walk away from you. I don’t need this job, but I do need her.”
He purses his lips, looking down at the magazine with raised brows. “I must say,” he says, “I didn’t really expect to hear that.”
I get out of my chair and stare down at him. “Well, you’ve heard it. You may think you know me, Mr. del Torro, but you don’t. Everyone makes these opinions about me based on what they’ve seen and heard from other people and other sources, but the only way you’ll ever know the real me is if you watch what I do and listen to what I say. I am happy to be back on the team, and in time I think I could help shape these boys into something even more spectacular than what they are. I have that faith in myself, confidence in my skills, and I know a good thing when I see it. But Vera is a good thing too, better than all the rest. And when it comes down to the things that matter the most in my life, she trumps everything. So shit articles and idle threats and unfair expectations don’t really amount to much when it comes to my life because I already know what’s important—and what’s not.”
I go for the door, and before I leave I give him a cordial nod. “Have a good weekend.”
After that exit, I feel alive with energy. The adrenaline is going crazy through my system, holding me on the edge of shame and euphoria. On the way to the apartment I call Vera and tell her to pack her bags, that we’re leaving for San Sebastian immediately. She seems caught off-guard by my impulsiveness but happy about it, and on that alone I know she hasn’t seen the magazine yet.
“Is Chloe Ann able to make it?” she asks.
“No,” I tell her, “but it’s okay. It will just be us. We need it.”
There are no arguments there.
Two hours later we are in the SUV and halfway to the seaside city, stopping at farm stands to snack on fresh tomatoes and cheese. Vera seems to shine brighter than the sun; the claustrophobic smog and heat and people of Madrid want to be just a memory.
But it’s not to me. I keep the big, bad truth from her, keep it close to me like a knife, dangerous to the both of us. I try and split my mind into two and ignore our reality, the one that’s closing in on us, closer and closer. I know that by Monday Vera will know. Even if she never sees her face in it—which seems impossible—I know I have to tell her. She has to know that she’s leaving.
“Are you okay?” she asks me as we climb back in the car. Waving fields of sunflowers dance in the warm breeze on either side of the highway.
I manage to smile. “Yes, I’m fine.” But it’s nearly impossible to fake it. The future looms, weighted in my heart. I can’t lose her, I can’t lose her, I can’t lose her.
What can I do?
When we get to San Sebastian, the air is whipped by sprays of salt water, and we check into a quaint little hotel on the western edge of the sandy Bahia de La Concha. It’s private and romantic, and the old lady who works behind the front desk seems oblivious to everything except our comfort.
Our room looks right across the bay, the waves of the Atlantic rolling in with the sunset shining on their crests. We change into comfortable clothes and head down the street to a little English fish and chip shop that we saw. We get a bunch of it wrapped in greasy newspapers, tiny packets of vinegar and ketchup, grab a bottle of red wine from a depot, and then head down to the beach.
It is still light out though the sun is long gone and the sky is the color of periwinkles in spring. Tiny white dots pop out in the blue, stars coming to shine. The sound of the waves is soothing, and even though there are people on the beach still, particularly some homeless people camped out in sleeping bags at one end, it feels like the whole place is just for us.
Vera licks the grease and vinegar off her fingers then lies back in the sand. She closes her eyes and breathes in deeply for a beat or two, then she tilts her head and looks at me.
“Lie back with me. Let’s have a siesta,” she says, patting the sand beside her.
I lean back, my head nestled into the grains that are still warm from the heat of the day. I grab her hand and hold on tight as we watch the sky darken and the constellations come into view. Like old times, I ask her to tell me the stories behind each one, and she does so. There is love in her voice, maybe for me, maybe for the stars themselves, and I am so overcome with everything that a single tear manages to escape my eye and slides down the corner of my cheek.
It’s dark and as such, she can’t see it. She just goes on, telling me once again about mythic beasts and stories of hop
e and love. I am sure half of them are made up just from her imagination, and it only serves to remind me how wonderful, bright, and charming she is. I wish that her Spanish was good enough so that she could share the same stories with Chloe Ann, then I wish that she’ll one day share the same with a child of our own.
But how can any of that be now, now that the world is poised to take her away. Going back to Canada will ruin Vera, drive the life right out of her. Though times here have been hard, she still has determination, the verve to face her challenges, to want to change things when she feels trapped. When she’s faced against her family, she shrinks and becomes less of the woman than she is. I don’t want that to happen to her, and that is my most unselfish thought.
My most selfish thought is that I won’t survive without her by my side. I need her to stay because it’s the only way I know how to live now. I can’t go back to just being me—it has to be the both of us. We were worth every sacrifice, every burnt bridge. We need each other more than we need the hearts pumping in our chests.
How could so much have changed so fast? I grip her hand even tighter, wishing I could sink down into the sand, let the beach swallow us whole, and take her with me. I want to shelter her from what’s coming, and it rips my soul apart knowing that I can’t.
“Mateo,” she says softly, but I can’t bear to turn my head to look at her. I want to keep feeling her, staring at the stars. I don’t want her to see the pain in my eyes. I don’t want to ruin our night.
“Yes,” I answer, just as softly. I stare up and see a shooting star dart across the sky. I close my eyes and make a wish.
I want Vera with me forever.
“I love you, you know,” she says, and it’s enough to make me open my eyes.
I swallow hard, so afraid I’m going to crack. I pull her hand to my lips and kiss her palm. “I love you, too.”
“Do you think,” she says, then trails off. She sighs and it sounds like her heart is heavy. “Do you think that we’ll get a happily ever after, after all of this?”
Her question stuns me so much that I have no choice but to look at her. Her eyes are dark, wet pools, the distant streetlights reflecting in them.
“Of course we will,” I say. “What makes you say that?”
“Because you don’t sound convinced.”
I rub my lips together, trying to think, trying to sound convinced enough to her. “Vera, my Estrella, I want us together forever. I want us to be happy. I want a lot of things that fools can only dream of.”
“And you think we are fools?”
“I think we are fools if we don’t dream.”
“But wanting is not the same as knowing, as having. Do you think we’re going to be okay?”
I want to lie to her but I can’t. I let out a low breath and say, “I think we deserve to be okay. But in the short term…”
“You know something,” she says. “Don’t you?”
I glance at her, frowning. “Why makes you say that?”
She gathers sand and lets it fall through her fingers, watching the grains absently as she repeats the action over and over. “I’ve been with you for over a year, and in that time we’ve been through a lot. I knew you after a month at Las Palabras. I definitely know you now. I know when you’re hurting, when you’re troubled. You think you can hide everything away beneath your beautiful face and your classy gestures, but I know the real you. And I know there is something going on right now, something that’s breaking your heart.” She pauses and swallows loudly. She blinks a few times, her eyes growing wetter, and that heart of mine that she’s talking about, I can feel the deep pinch. “I’m afraid to know what it is because I know it’s going to break my heart too. But please, Mateo. I need to know. I can’t let you go through this alone. Let me in with you.”
I lean over and kiss her lips, taste the tears that have spilled down her cheeks. I feel so much love for her and so much fucking sorrow that I can’t even separate the two. I push my fingers through the silky wildness of her hair and hold her in place, as if I can hold her here forever.
It is a beautiful kiss. It is the one that precedes sadness and change, the last one that feels strong and free. I relish it, relish her. When I pull away from her lips and mouth and tongue and soul, I will have to tell her the truth. I will have to destroy her, destroy this, destroy me.
It is the pain that makes me pull apart. Everything has already changed inside.
“Vera,” I say quietly, trailing my fingers down the smoothness of her forehead, the ski-jump of her nose, the fullness of lips I was feeling just moments ago. “We’ve been found out. It is no longer a secret that you don’t have another work permit. You’re going to have to leave in a week.”
A shudder runs through her, as if she’s cold, but I think it’s shock and fear clashing together in the most horrific way. Her eyes grow large and the world grows smaller.
“How did that happen?” she whispers. I exhale through my nose, gathering strength, and tell her the ugly truth of what I saw that morning.
She immediately gets to her feet and starts marching hurriedly across the sand. I have to spring up, stepping on the leftover fish and chips in my haste to run after her.
“Where are you going?” I ask, grabbing her by the arm and pulling her toward me.
She looks crazed, a feral creature caught in a snare. “I have to see the magazine!”
“No, Vera,” I tell her, holding her tight even though she tries to rip away. “It won’t help anything.”
“I have to leave you!” she screams at me. It echoes across the beach, across the waves, across the sky.
“I know,” I say, because I do know. There is no happily ever after for right now. There is no hint at a future. There is only what we know, that she has to leave me and that we’ll both be nothing without each other. “I know. I’m sorry.”
Her face crumples and she lets out a sob that has her doubling over. She nearly drops to her knees, crying out in pain, and I hold her up, hold her to me. She sobs into my chest, her back shaking, and I am so close to letting go and collapsing with her. I have to be strong, I have to be, but it’s harder than I ever thought it would be. The world has hurled so many knives my way, but this is the one that makes me want to fall.
“I’m so sorry,” I say again, cradling her to me, even though I know that saying sorry won’t help anything. “I didn’t want to tell you. I wanted this to be our last weekend together before the truth set in. I wanted us to be like we were when we were free.”
“We were never free,” she says, voice muffled, but she grasps my shirt with her hands like she’s afraid to let go. I’m afraid to let go, too.
“No, I suppose we weren’t. But at least we were together.”
Silence passes between us. Waves crash. People in the distance laugh at some joke. A car honks its horn. The world is going on like normal, oblivious to the world that is ending on the beach.
Chapter Ten
“Two medium coffees to go please,” I tell the surly looking barista at the café. After I pay, I turn and lean against the counter and look for Vera. She’s in a souvenir shop across the street, perusing the gaudy racks for some sort of reminder of Spain. I told her there is time for that in Madrid, but she seems to think there is no time left at all and this may be the only chance she has, here in San Sebastian.
I wish I could say she is wrong, but she’s isn’t. There really is no time. Tomorrow we will return to Madrid and she will start the process of finding her way home. Of course I will buy her flight. She is adamant that she can afford it, that she has some money saved up, but I have seen the ATM receipts, and I know two hundred dollars wouldn’t even get her halfway there.
There is some sort of irony in the fact that I am buying yet another ticket for her to go back to Vancouver. One might joke that I’m constantly trying to send her away, but it’s nothing to laugh at. It’s everything to rage at, yell at, to cry at. I’ve been wanting to do nothing but fight against life, bu
t ever since I told Vera the truth—and after she saw it in the magazine for herself—she shut down and succumbed to it. She’s accepted it.
I won’t. I can’t. I just don’t know how to fight. I don’t know how to get what I want.
I just want Vera. I want her by my side. I want her with me. I just want her. I have so much that I can have, so much that I don’t need, but in the end I just want her.
Why does such a need have to be so hard?
When I get the coffees, I walk across the street to join her. She shows me the Spain magnets and pens and t-shirts and bookmarks she’s snapped up. It’s all junk. But in her desperate hands, she clutches them like forgotten treasures.
We get in the SUV and drive. That was our plan for the day, just to drive and drive and drive and feel free for the last time. No rules, no boundaries, no borders. The drive takes us northeast along the coast until we cross into France. Why not?
“Ever been to France?” I ask her, and for the first time that day, a natural smile appears on her face.
“No,” she says. “Are we in France?”
I nod. “Yes. And I know just where to take you. Biarritz.”
“Sounds . . . ritzy.”
“Like fancy? It kind of is. But it’s very nice. Perfect for a day trip.”
I haven’t been to Biarritz for a very long time, but as we park and make our way along the seaside walk with its stunning views of the beachside city, sloping hills of white-washed, shuttered buildings, and crashing surf, it seems nothing has changed. The town is a wonderful mix of wealthy vacationers and surfers here to catch the area’s famous waves. Some people could be both.
The path takes us out briefly on the promenade, giving us a panoramic view of the town and the ocean and the dramatic coastline, to the end, the rock of the Virgin Mary. The white statue stares down at us, as if asking us for forgiveness, yet as Vera and I hold on to each other, we feel we are the ones asking her. We are the sinners here. And now we are paying for it.