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“Hey.” I pat her hand. “He deceived you, remember? You’re not stupid. He’s a lying prick. An asshat. A cockwaffle. A shit biscuit. A turd pilot.” Her lips start fighting a grin, so I keep going, coming up with ridiculous insults, like fart blaster and fuckcicle. “Gilipollas,” I say, switching to Spanish, and my voice rises as I rattle off a string of curses, each dirtier and more offensive than the last, until I thump back in my seat with a heaving chest.
Rachel’s barely there smile starts to fade, her head tipping to the side as she studies me. I watch her long hair cascade over her shoulder and force my breathing to slow down.
“I don’t speak Spanish,” she finally murmurs. “I’d like to, though.”
My lips twitch as I try to smile, to push this anger down deep so she doesn’t have to deal with it.
“Can you teach me something?”
I can’t fucking believe this. She’s the one beaten and bruised, yet she’s sitting here trying to make me feel better. I should be the one comforting her.
Scrubbing a hand down my face, I grip my mouth for a second, then smile across the table at her.
“Eres asombrosa,” I say in a husky voice.
Her green eyes light, a smile forming on her lips. “What does that mean?”
I swallow, willing my voice to come out soft and even. But I end up kind of rasping, “You are amazing.”
Her lips part.
“And I’m not saying that to make some kind of move or anything.” I shuffle in my seat, resting my arms on the table between us. “I mean it, Rachel. You are amazing. You left. You limped out that door, and you left him. That makes you a strong, brave, incredible woman.”
Her jaw quivers, and she bites her lips together.
I want to tell her that not all women are capable of doing that… but I don’t want to make this about me and my story. Not right now. She can find out about that shit later. Right now, I just need her to know that she’s not some gullible idiot.
Resting my fingers gently on the back of her hand, I’m about to tell her again when she sucks in a short breath and asks me, “Where’d you learn Spanish?”
I see what she’s doing—trying to keep this light and friendly. She’s done with the heavy stuff now, so I run with it, forcing a smile. “My mama. She’s from México.”
“I like the way you say that.” She grins. “Tell me something else. Say like a whole string of stuff in Spanish.”
My lips curl at the corners, and because I know she won’t be able to understand me, I waffle off a few sentences about how pretty she is and how her green eyes are mesmerizing. Then I tell her how grateful I am that she’s trusting me with her secret. And just for good measure, I add, “Deberías decibel a tu mejor amigo,” which means You should tell your best friend.
Her smile stays in place, a soft laugh fluttering out of her. “I have no idea what you just said, but it sounded beautiful. I think you said friend there at the end, right? Amigo?”
I nod.
Her smile grows. “Can you teach me something before we have to go back? Even just one sentence.”
“We don’t have to go back. We can stay out all day.”
Her eyebrows pull down in confusion. “Don’t you have class?”
I shrug. “I’d skip class for you.”
“No, you will not.” She points her finger at me with a stern look.
My lips twitch as I resist the urge to tell her that I skipped my regular morning workout for her, which is almost a bigger deal than skipping a class or two.
“One thing, and then we’re leaving. Por favor.” She bats her eyelashes while I give her an impressed grin.
“So you do speak a little Spanish.”
She lets out a soft snort. “I can say ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’”
“That’s still something.” I wink and then say, “Me alegro de haberte conocido.”
