The truth about pretending to be a couple for the job has finally come to the surface like a spoiled oyster somebody ate too quickly. I’m grateful Hayes handled it so amazingly in London by stepping in and not letting Aisha blame me for everything. But now I have an entirely new problem that I didn’t predict.
I’m so confused by all the pretend stuff that I’m losing my mind. It’s torture. I look out toward the sand. A muscular figure bathed in warm late afternoon sun and dripping in fresh sea approaches me as if in slow motion. Damn Hayes for only packing the skimpiest red speedo to save space in his luggage. Let the punishment begin.
“How was your swim?” I roll over on the lounger so my front is facing down to avoid showing the physical evidence of what I’m actually feeling.
“Great. The water is warm and clear. The surf is mild. Reminds me of some of the beaches in Alabama.”
“Alabama has beaches?” I ask.
“Yes, Brady. Beaches are not only found in the Hamptons. A small portion of Alabama runs along the Gulf. Past Mobile. It borders Florida. Did you miss that at Clarkson?” Hayes jumps up and down on one foot and wiggles his finger in his ear to release some water. His entire body bounces like a mountain of muscle during an earthquake.
I try to catch my breath to speak. “I’ll have you know that I’ve created some incredible geography lessons for my niece. She can recognize rivers, lakes, mountains,” I say rolling over and sitting up. Then add, “Oh, and the closest Hermès store in most major cities.”
Hayes laughs easily and then throws his towel at me. It took me a while to get used to the hyper masculine things he would sometimes do as a way of showing affection. They don’t come naturally to me. The first time he body-checked me with his shoulder I thought he was trying to fight me. But I’ve learned that things like a towel thrown at my head means he feels comfortable with me. Part of being in a relationship is learning the other person’s language, no matter how strange it may seem. Not that any of this is real. I have to keep reminding myself that this is all fake.
He opens his beach bag and takes out the Sudoku puzzle I packed in his care kit for the flight. His thumb flips the pages. I notice he’s finished more than half of them. He finds a blank page then clicks the top of his beloved mechanical pencil and retreats to logic heaven. Once we were in Diller Hall and he was working on a puzzle when the fire alarm went off. He didn’t even notice.
I lean back on my lounger and put the towel he tossed at me over my face to try and nap. Twenty minutes later I have quieted my breath, altered my inhale and exhale, and cleared my mind to the best of my ability, but I’m no closer to sleep, so I sit back up.
“Is everything you said about being a teacher back in London true? I’ve been wanting to ask you,” Hayes says, putting down his mechanical pencil and letting his puzzle rest on his lap.
“I guess.” Maybe I shouldn’t have told him about it. It’s not that it’s a secret or something I’m ashamed of, but it’s not something I can see happening. My parents have made it clear they will pay for law school and nothing else. I’d need to be certified to be a teacher and I don’t even know what the tuition would cost. And most importantly, my parents would never respect my choice. I say it doesn’t matter, but it does. That’s the part that I’m too embarrassed to say; that their opinion of me matters. What people don’t tell you about being the black sheep of the family is that it’s exhausting. “I thought about it, but maybe I just like playing with my niece.”
“Maybe. But who knows how to make things fun more than you? I can see you decorating the classroom with construction paper numbers and letters, making games with sock puppets or making up funny songs.” Hayes holds up the puzzle book I bought for him. “I bet you would make a care kit for each kid. They’d be lucky to have you.”
I like the picture he’s painting. I let my mind drift for a second, thinking about a bunch of kids working on addition or feeding the class guinea pig or running around on the playground during recess. I shake my head and erase the thought like letters on a chalkboard. Hayes always thinks I’m more than what I actually am and I have no idea why.
“Buenas, I’m Juana,” a woman wearing a sexy emerald bandeau and white shorts with gold buttons says. She’s holding a tray with a bottle and two glasses. “I was told to bring you a bottle of the best cava we have and this note.” She places the tray down on the small table between our lounge chairs and I grab the note to read it.
Juana pours the sparkling amber colored wine into two vintage-styled crystal tulip glasses with thin stems.
“Gracias, Juana.”
“Con much gusto,” she says, and heads back to the bar near the hotel.
“What does the note say?” Hayes asks.
“To a fresh start in Spain. I know you can deliver. Check your email for inspiration. Aisha.” I fold the note and place it back on the tray. “That woman is like the Eye of Sauron. Even when she’s not here, she’s here.”
“True, but I like her sentiment.” He sits on the edge of the lounger. “Why shouldn’t we have a fresh start? I’m glad we’re here. Together.”
“You are?” I ask, my eyes wide, my breath suddenly short. Has he been feeling what I have been feeling?
“I am. I know it hurt you when I said in London that I thought after our breakup we would never talk again. But that’s because I never thought we could just be friends. But with a fresh start, maybe we can.” He takes a glass by the stem and holds it up. “To a fresh start. To just being friends?”
I raise my glass. “To a fresh start and…” I swallow hard, trying to get the last words out. “Just being friends,” I echo. The disappointment sinks to my stomach like the fried calamari we had for lunch.
Chapter 18
Barcelona
Hayes
Holy crap this is hard.I swam until my arms could barely cut through the saltwater, then I focused my mind on the hardest puzzle I could find and finally sucked on ice cubes until my lips turned blue. I still can’t stop thinking about Brady in ways that we have both vowed not to. It’s so easy for him to just focus on getting the right shots and making us look blissfully happy together, but it’s impossible for me. He must have noticed how much my palm was sweating in front of the church. How carrying him piggyback made my dick try to break out of my shorts.
And it’s not just that his sweet, smooth body is getting a deeper golden glow by the second in Spain. It’s the way he calls his niece when we get a few minutes of down time and sings that Motown song making her laugh so loud I can hear it without the phone even being on speaker, or the way he connects with everyone in the hotel, making small talk and making them feel important. It’s the way he talks to me between shots with Isabella that reminds me he knows me better than anyone else in the world.
I thought the clearer I made the boundaries, the easier it would be. That’s why I suggested toasting to our new friendship-only future. So, when he went up to the room after the beach, I grabbed my sneakers and went for a run, hoping I would return with greater resolve. With each step I tried to summon the memory of our painful breakup in Chicago, hoping it would remind me of the resolve I felt when things ended. But then I’d turn down an unexpected alley and beyond a crumbling medieval wall I’d discover a new amazing view. I know we can’t go down the path we were headed in college, but maybe there could be a new way forward? Still, he hurt me more than anyone else ever has. Being here doesn’t erase that.
