“Hola chicos!”
The teacher grins. I look around the classroom and notice there are only three of us—a Brit with lanky hair, a Filipino woman, and me, wondering what I’m doing here.
“¿Que tal?” the teacher says, and I shrink in my seat.
It was Seb who suggested I take Spanish classes. He brought it up over dinner two days ago. It was the same day I came back from visiting Deb—drunk from the wine we had, feeling young and free. There wasn’t a thing in the world that could knock me off my feet.
Until I got home that night.
I went through different stages of wanting to learn Spanish—from a definite yes to a resounding no. But Seb’s suggestion wasn’t the weirdest thing that happened that night. The memory still rages in my head like an ulcer. Irritating. Constantly there.
Deb promised the third bottle would be our last. As I walked home, legs like jelly, I kept thinking that if she offered a fourth, I’d have said yes.
The air felt less suffocating. It was the booze talking, and I knew it. But I welcomed it anyway. From the street, the house was dark. I fiddled with the key in the lock, taking off my shoes in the foyer. If I was lucky, Seb and Ana would only be back from the hospital later, giving me time to freshen up.
But as I climbed the stairs, it hit me. It wasn’t quiet in the house.
There was a gentle chatter in the background, like someone had left the TV on. It’s the booze, I told myself, hand firmly on the banister. I stood on the landing, listening. For a moment the sound was gone, and I shook my head. My vision was blurry, the hallway coming in and out of focus. It’s nothing. You’re drunk.
But the sound returned, and with it a new realisation. I was hearing voices. Hushed and faint, but real.
Did I see a car out front? Was someone already home from the hospital?
I walked towards the sound, my heart racing, the blood rushing through my body.
It’s Seb’s voice. At the end of the hallway. In Alma’s bedroom. He was probably getting her a change of clothes, but who was he talking to? And his voice sounded strange. Strained. The frustration hung from his staccato words.
I edged closer to the bedroom door.
This is stupid. Just call out to him.
But my body didn’t listen. The bored little girl from my childhood inside was in charge, playing house. Seb’s voice blurted out again, a sense of urgency rippling through the room.
“Por favor,” he said, and I pressed my ear to the wall, willing my breathing to stop. I heard a woman’s voice. Ana. Her words falling over each other.
And then a bang. Like objects colliding.
My heart wanted to jump out of my ribcage. I tiptoed back down the hallway. Whatever they were discussing, I wasn’t going to ambush them with my presence right there in the doorway. When I stopped shaking, I stomped my feet on the landing and called out. “Hello?”
Silence, followed by rushed footsteps.
I turned on the light switch by the stairs and their faces came into view. Brother and sister, on the landing.
“Lisa!” Seb walked closer to me. “You’re back.”
“We didn’t hear you,” Ana said from behind him. He planted a kiss on my cheek, the stubble grazing my skin. I tried looking at Ana, but his frame blocked her face. My head continued to spin.
“We thought you were still at Deb’s,” Seb said.
“Why are you in the dark?”
“We came to get something from upstairs,” he said.
“In the dark?”
“We wanted to be quick.”
“Let’s go downstairs,” Ana called from behind her brother. “It is too dark up here.”
We made our way down the hallway, Ana switching on the lights, bringing everything into focus. My eyes had to adjust to the bright light. I spoke slowly, trying not to slur as I told them about my afternoon with Deb.
Soon, Ana returned to the hospital, leaving in a rush. Seb asked me if I’d eaten. We left the lights on in the house, heading to the tavern down the road for dinner.
“Is everything okay?” I asked him. He ate his meatballs almost ferociously, hardly taking a breath.
He responded between bites. “Yes. Why?”
I didn’t know what was bothering me. It could have been the hangover forming, making me paranoid. But something about his voice back at the house—the frustration and urgency of it. It wasn’t right.
“Did you and Ana have a fight?”
He shook his head, took another bite of meatball. “She needed to get some clothes for my mom. And I came to find you.”
I stared at his hand, suddenly noticing his knuckles. They were angry red, the skin irritated. The bang.
“But she seemed upset,” I said. “Ana.”
“That’s just how she is.”
I frowned. That couldn’t be true. In the short time that I’d known her, Ana was rarely upset. She didn’t seem like the type. As if sensing my disbelief, Seb continued talking. “I told you—we don’t get along. That’s all.”
“So it was an argument.”
“Kind of.”
I sighed. “What about?”
He broke off a piece of baguette, dunked it in the sauce. “Ana and I don’t see eye to eye on a lot of things, especially when it comes to our mother.”
I sat silently, waiting for him to continue.
“She’s never around, but when she is, she tries to control everything.”
You’re never around either, I thought, remembering our time in the UK together. A time that felt so far away now.
“Was the argument about your mother?” I asked.
He nodded. “About who will look after her when we bring her home. Ana wants to stay, but I said I should.”
“For how long?”
“A month or so.”
Or so.
I placed my hands on my temples, elbows on the table, a headache roaring. Through jagged breaths, my mother chimed in my head. Be a good wife. Be a good wife. Be a good wife.
“I know it’s longer than you expected to stay here,” Seb said. “But you can have more time to work on your book. And it’ll give me some time to take care of business at the vineyard. Which means we’ll have more time to spend together when we leave to go somewhere. Wherever we decide.”
A sharp pang shot through my stomach. A remembrance. The book. The one I told myself I’d write with all this time that I now had.
“I’ve barely written a few words,” I told him, knowing how pathetic I sounded. “I don’t even have a story yet.”
“Maybe take the pressure off?” Seb said. “The idea will come to you. Find something else in the meantime to take your mind off it.”
And that’s when he suggested Spanish classes.
The Spanish teacher takes us through the basics. Introduce ourselves. Ask how someone is. Her smile is big, but it feels empty. I try to remind myself that this is better than being back at that house. Staring at the blank laptop screen. The class is extensive, and by the end of it, my notebook is filled with words.
“First time taking Spanish?” the Brit asks me, flinging his backpack across his shoulder. During class he was taking notes furiously, his pale skin turning red when asked to read a passage aloud.
“Is it that obvious?” I say, glancing around.
“You did pretty well. But I guess it’s just the start.”
“Lord help us all then.”
He laughs, runs his hand through his auburn hair. It’s long and wavy on top. His eyes are hazel and something flickers inside of me. They’re like your eyes.
“Do you fancy getting a beer?” he asks as we leave the building. I think of walking back home in the cold, to a house full of commotion. Seb and Ana scurrying around, preparing the house for Alma’s return.
And despite my mother’s probable advice, I look into his eyes again. “Sure, why not.”
We head to a bar down the road, taking a table inside. The wooden chairs creak as we sit down and fling our coats beside us.
“Do you live close to here?” I ask.
“Oh no, I live about two bus rides down. In Vallican.”
He doesn’t look like you. His jaw is less pronounced, his nose much broader. And he’s got freckles.
But the eyes.
I shake my head. “I don’t know where that is. I haven’t seen much, to be honest. I’m a ten-minute walk from here, in Galicio, apparently.”
“Nice, that’s a pretty area,” he says. “Right by the water. Are you an English teacher?”
“No, I’m not.”
He opens his mouth like he’s about to ask me what I do. But then the beers arrive and I feel relief.
“Do you teach English then?” I say, steering the conversation back to him.
“Yep,” he says, taking a sip of beer. “Moved here a week ago. I’ll be teaching English up in town in a month and need to work on my Spanish before then.”
“That’s a challenge,” I say. “Teaching while being taught.”
“It gets easier. I was in Lithuania before, and languages follow a similar teaching structure. Think of the class we just had. How many times did the teacher speak to us in English?”
I think back. “Almost never.”
“Exactly,” he says. “You don’t need to be an expert to teach a language.”
His voice is deep, sure of itself.
“You like it,” I say.
He smiles and leans back in his chair. “I do. I like the change of it.”
There are potato crisps on the table. I take a few.
“I’m not very good with change,” I say, my eyes downcast.
“Well, you’re away from home, aren’t you? That’s a step.”
Glasses clink in the background, the bartender bringing in a load of freshly washed glassware. I think of Deb—of last week—how the wine smoothed our edges.
“Can I tell you something?” I’d said to her in a whisper. She’d raised an eyebrow, leaned closer to me over the island counter. “What?”
I’d looked around, as if making sure that we were alone. The words were barely audible. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this place.”
“It’s not really like that,” I say to the Brit now.
I tell him why I’m here. Newly engaged with the hope of a rewarding marriage—bewildered and alienated by the language and the people. A story that screams how sorry I feel for myself. Eleanor would be appalled.
When I’m done, his arms are crossed, his face in contemplation. He sips his second beer, then places his elbows on the table.
“I once heard a story,” he says. “I don’t know exactly how it goes, but it’s something like this. Imagine you’ve booked a ticket to Italy. You’re pretty excited to visit. So for a month, you’re looking forward to it. You pack, get on the plane and pace yourself for the landing. But when you get off the plane, you’re in Holland.”
He moves his fingers over the table. “You can either be sad about the fact that you’re not in Italy, or realise you’re in Holland.”
I raise an eyebrow. “So, Spain is Holland?”
“Holland is your whole situation. You can be sad. But also, Holland is pretty great. Why not enjoy it while it lasts?”
My mind propels me back to last week, to Deb’s house, to where she asked me a question I wasn’t prepared for.
“Why are you staying?” she’d asked.
At the time, I caught hold of the only sensible words. “For Seb. Because he’s my fiancé. I don’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice, love,” Deb had said, casting her eyes out the bay window.
I had thought about what she’d said, wobbling home after we’d said our goodbyes. And sitting here, in this bar, with this man with eyes like yours, I think of it again. We have choices. Or rather, we believe we do. But not everyone does. I definitely don’t.
Eleanor’s words sound in my head again. We’re trusting you here, Lisa.
If I leave now, go back to comfort and security of the UK, what would I be losing? My marriage. My family’s approval, and our hold on stability. I picture Eleanor’s face in the coffee shop before I left for Spain—a look of disdain and worry. A fear of something. Shame. More shame.
“I’ll need to make this my Holland, then,” I say now, new conviction bubbling to the surface.
The Brit smiles. “That’s the spirit.”
As we leave the bar, I pull my coat closer to me, the wind sweeping in.
“This was fun,” he says. “We should make this a weekly thing. I’ll see you Thursday?”
“Definitely.”
He smiles and turns toward the bus stop up the street. But as he walks, something flickers in my mind.
“Hey!”
He turns, his face open.
“Sorry,” I say, the heat flushing my face. “But I completely forgot your name.”
There’s a grin, and beneath it, there’s that hint of you.
“Greg,” he says. “My name’s Greg.”