“I think I found an idea for my book,” I say, smoothing the foundation across my forehead.
“What are you thinking?”
Seb walks into the bathroom and for a moment I feel exposed, my blotchy skin on display. But he takes his cologne and sprays it across his chest without looking at me.
I apply blush to my cheeks. “A romance. About the impact of culture and language on a relationship.”
He meets my gaze, blinks a few times. “Say that again?”
I draw a breath, my confidence faltering. “A love story about how language and culture can affect a relationship.” I turn the words over in my head, wondering if saying them twice helped.
Seb walks to the bedroom, his voice trailing through the room. “Are you sure it’s a novel, babe? It sounds a bit… formal.”
I follow him. “They say a book needs a theme. If someone had to ask you what it’s about, you should be able to sum it up in a sentence.”
His torso is bare, the skin tight with his dark hair forming curves on the canvas.
“But what’s it about?” he asks, eyes probing. “You know, like what it says on the back of the book. What do you call it?”
“The blurb.”
“Yeah, the blurb.”
I bite the inside of my cheek. “It’s still a work in progress. But it needs a theme and I think I got that.”
“It’s definitely progress,” he says, grabbing a striped shirt from the wardrobe.
It’s the first time we’ve woken up together in weeks. I stayed in bed until mid-morning, but Seb was up before the sun rose. But this morning feels different. Like there’s a purpose to the day. An invisible force willing me to get moving. To write.
Make it your Holland.
“I can use Spain as the setting too,” I say. “And the main characters can be from two very unique backgrounds.”
“Sounds a bit like us.” Seb winks at me and it sends a rush through my body. When last did we touch, and not just share a bed?
“A little,” I say. “But we write about what we know. So, for example, you speak fluent English, and that’s what we speak to each other. When I met you, I was attracted to your accent. But then when you started speaking Spanish here, it felt completely different to me.”
“So what you’re saying is, you don’t like my Spanish accent after all.”
He buttons his shirt, a grin spreading across his face.
“I do,” I say. “But you sound like a different person. It’s like that night you and Ana were in Alma’s room. I didn’t even know it was you at first.”
The grin disappears from his face. “How long were you standing there?”
“Uhm, not very long.”
The silence drags. He grabs his shoes, sitting down on a chair. “You were saying?”
“So,” I say. “I think the best love stories have hardships. Not just things like unrequited love or forbidden love, but the everyday things.”
Seb ties his shoes, and from this angle he’s either frowning or focusing. “Sounds relatable. I’m not sure where you’re going with it yet, but I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
I perch on the bed. Seb’s not wrong. It sounds a lot like us. Greg’s anecdote about Holland really got me thinking. Isn’t it true that great writing comes from experiencing hardships? If that’s the case, then being here—feeling this alienated and alone—is all for a reason. I could write about my doubts and fears. Put them on paper. Make something of it.
Seb walks over and plants a kiss on my head. “I’m going downstairs.”
He leaves the room and I take a shower, my thoughts racing through my head. As I get dressed, I picture the setting for my novel. A town on the coast. A honeymoon by the water. A historic villa. The heroine would be bold. Like Ruth. Kind, like Ana. Flawless, like a young Eleanor. She’d look nothing like me.
The hero would be tall, dark, broodingly handsome. Like Seb. Funny and smart. The book could encapsulate my own journey. Hardships overcome and real love found. People would devour it. The critics would call it the best thing they’ve read in a while.
You might even read the book and curse the day you let me go.
My thoughts are disturbed by a commotion downstairs. Raised voices.
I hurry down the stairs, almost bumping into Ana as I round the corner into the foyer. Her face is hidden behind her hair, a dark wave of chestnut darkening her features. She grabs her coat from the rack, murmurs a basic greeting to me.
I look towards the dining room. Seb’s at the table, his arms crossed and his mouth downcast.
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
When I look at Ana, her eyes are red, tears brimming. “Ana, what’s—”
“I’ll see you later,” she mumbles and opens the front door. Before I can say anything more, she slams it behind her and darts towards her car.
“What’s going on?” I say to Seb. Despite the urgency in my voice, he’s leaning against the chair, his expression plain. “She’s overreacting. She’ll get over it.”
I blink. “She’ll get over it?”
“Yes. And hopefully leave us in peace.”
My mouth hangs open. Seb’s demeanour right now reminds me of a rebellious schoolchild.
“Your sister just left the house crying, and that’s how you respond?”
When he shrugs, I feel the heat rise to my cheeks. “You’re behaving like a child.”
The way Seb looks at me tells me I’ve crossed a line.
“It’s none of your business,” he says, jaw clenched. Getting up, he storms into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. I stand alone, the scene replaying in my head. A memory surfaces—me as a child, crying on the floor of a supermarket. Throwing a full-blown tantrum. Eleanor watching in horror.
This feels strangely similar to that memory.
When it’s clear Seb isn’t coming out of the kitchen, I sit behind my laptop at the dining toom table, the blank screen staring back at me. Seb’s face keeps popping up in my mind. His clenched jaw and crossed arms. A grown man turning into a child. A transformation I didn’t think was possible.
I pull a notepad closer, jotting down the ideas I had while I was getting ready this morning. When I get to the main characters, I picture the tall, dark and handsome male protagonist again. The hero has all of Seb’s traits. All except for the way he treats his sister.
“Will I be in your book?” Greg asks, taking a sip of his beer. We came to the bar after class, and his eyes are sparkling more than usual today. So much so that I need to remind myself that it’s him and not you.
“Maybe,” I say. “You could inspire a B plot character.”
“I’ve no idea what that is,” he grins. “As long as I’m not the bad guy. And if I am, at least make me a tormented soul.”
Greg’s funny. He’s always cheerful these days, joking with the Spanish teacher. On his first day he was shy, but now he seems comfortable in his skin. But part of his appeal is his ability to talk to you about anything and everything.
“Last week you had no book idea,” he says. “And here you are with characters already.”
It’s like what Seb said this morning. But somehow, Greg’s words sound better.
You’re just annoyed, I remind myself. Annoyed at Seb’s childish behaviour this morning. At seeing that side of him. I don’t care if he and Ana aren’t close—they’re family. And family means everything, doesn’t matter what.
“Your hair looks nice today, by the way.”
My cheeks tingle at Greg’s compliment. “Thanks.”
His face changes, like he’s amused. “I probably shouldn’t be saying this, but you look a lot like my ex.”
As he takes another sip of beer, and I hold my breath.
“Uh oh,” I laugh, but inside, my heart is climbing out of my ribcage. “What happened?”
“Ah, you know,” he says nonchalantly, “Growing apart and going to different unis.”
There’s a hint of something in the way he presses his lips, as if he’s remembering.
“Well, if it’s any consolation, you look nothing like my ex,” I say. “Which is a good thing.”
Which is also a lie.
He lets out a laugh, those pearly whites showing again. “What did the poor bloke do?”
It takes a second, but then I’m back to that day. The breaking of glass, jazz music still blasting from the speakers. The stares. My fingers find my inner thigh and my eyes trail in the direction of the bar’s bathroom.
“Forget it,” Greg says, picking up on the tension. “You’ve found your fella now.”
I nod, force a smile and plant my face close to my wine glass. Nobody’s asked about you in so long. I wasn’t ready. I never am.
“I’m going to the loo,” Greg says, getting up.
“Another?” I say, motioning to the almost empty drinks.
“Trying to get me tipsy, are you?”
There’s that grin again.
“Maybe,” I say, the guilt making its way up my throat.
When he leaves, I motion to the waiter and order another round. As I wait, I glance at the iPhone Greg’s left on the table. With a quick look around, I pick it up. Tapping at the screen, I see a picture of Greg and two of his friends. Smiling, a pub as the backdrop. I stare at Greg standing between them and smile at how carefree he looks.
A real lad’s lad.
The phone prompts me to enter the password. I think of all the different things I might find if his phone was unlocked. Who’s he texting? What would be saved on his notes? What would his search history look like?
“Here you go,” the waiter says, placing a beer and a wine on the table. I jerk, dropping the phone in my lap. When he walks away, I hurriedly put it back where I found it. Suddenly I’m twelve again, in my aunt’s dressing room, looking through her things. Eleanor finding me there, her words like daggers. You need to stop this snooping. One day it’ll get you in real trouble.
When Greg sits back down, I get up.
“Everything alright?” he asks.
“Fine. Just freshening up,” I call as I stride to the restroom.
My fingers find the razor in my bag long before I find an empty cubicle.