I arrive back at the lobby of the For Us ‘Estació Ocaso’ perched above Mar Bella Beach and wishing it was still a railway station like it was decades ago so I could hop on a train and escape. Glazed ceramic tiles with floral motifs and sculptural urns filled with fruit and garlands catch the late afternoon sun streaming in from the windows that look out over the ocean. The mahogany benches have been upholstered with thick emerald velvet and I wonder how comfortable they might be to sleep on. Anything to save myself from sleeping on the bed yards away from Brady, who insisted on the small couch when he saw how far my legs dangled off.
I walk over to the refreshment station that used to be the ticket window. In the morning they pull espresso, but right now there are glass water jugs with green, yellow and red bunches of botanicals infusing the water. I chug down a glass of the strawberry and rosemary infused water and then catch my breath before chugging another one. I try to let the glow from the tiles hypnotize me into a calmer state before I have no choice but to head up to the room for more torture. I’m not sure how much longer I can last, but we still have Berlin and Capri, so I’ll find out.
I walk into the room. He’s wearing that silly, adorable headband thing to keep his hair out of his face while he washes, or as he insists I say, “cleanses” his skin. “You wash the floor, not your face,” he would tease, and then playfully twist my nips. Why does everything with this guy have some sweet memory attached to it?
“Did you see the email from Aisha?” he asks, moving his fingers in circles around his cheeks.
“What now?” I ask, taking off my sneakers and placing them on the balcony, since I’m sure they stink.
“Nothing bad. Nothing really. I don’t think you’ll be interested but I want to be honest with you from here on out.” He looks me straight in the eyes, delivering the truth, which I appreciate, but it also makes me uncomfortable since I’m not being honest about my feelings for him.
“What?” I ask, trying not to make eye contact.
Brady goes into the bathroom to finish rinsing his face, then comes out pressing a fresh towel against his face. “Never rub the skin,” he would tell me. He gets his phone and starts to summarize the email. “Aisha says that our posts from Barcelona have been slowly trending in the right direction on a bunch of metrics blah, blah. If we can increase engagement further For Us will give us a bonus after we finish in Capri of double the original amount. The posts would need to meet engagement expectations and consider blah blah blah.” He lets out a laugh.
“Wait a minute.” My immediate thought is not that the bonus would help me. It would, but during my run I was thinking about Brady’s dream and how he needs the confidence and resources to pursue it. Maybe what we’re making isn’t enough for him to start a teaching certificate, but double would certainly make a dent in that bill. Maybe if he saw that, he would be more confident about pursuing what he really wants. “Did she say double?”
He looks back over the email. “Yeah, but only for high-engagement aesthetic posts. You know what that means?” He twists his face and rolls his eyes.
“I know exactly what that means. That means we’re going to get some sunburnt shoulders.” Aisha is speaking corporate nonsense, but even I know she wants more skin.
“Sunburnt?” Brady asks.
“Yep. We’re going to change into our smallest tank tops and tightest shorts and get that bonus doing whatever they want, wherever they want it.” I walk over to the closet and grab the tightest, smallest shirt I can find and hold it up to Brady. “What do you think of this?”
“I think…” he starts, and looks at the skimpy shirt I’m holding, which I believe is called a “muscle slut shirt.” He tilts his head with a quizzical look. “I think you have lost your mind. Why would you want to do this?”
“Money,” I say. I don’t tell him that I’m more motivated by putting the cash in his hands than in mine. And I don’t tell myself I’m jumping on this because I actually want more opportunity to jump on him. Or at least be even closer before time runs out and summer is gone.
“Fine. But that’s a shirt for a workout at best.” He takes it from me and considers it for a second. “Actually, not even.” He tosses it in the trash can. He goes over to the closet and finds a black short sleeve shirt that buttons up the front and hands it to me. “This. But the buttons are only a suggestion.”
I like where this is going. I go over to his closet and get the tightest pair of pants he owns and hand them to him. “These. And the button is only a suggestion.”
Within minutes we are in a cab on our way to the Gothic Quarter to take some shots at the Plaça Reial. Brady chats up the driver, who speaks enough English to tells us that we are headed to thecorazónof Barcelona, which he pronounces with a beautiful thick, wet lisp. After a few twists and turns, we arrive in the middle of a stunning square tucked into a corner of the city. The light is beginning to soften and the elegant palm trees cast long shadows. A colonnade runs along the square creating a fence of light and dark across the plaza.
“Look at those,” Brady says, pointing to a magical construction of metal and light that looks it belongs in a fairytale book.
“Gaudí designed the streetlamps in the plaza,” I say, remembering what I read online.
“Look at them,” Brady says, gesturing toward the red and gold painted cast iron post that holds six glass lanterns with bright blue rims. “They’re gorgeous.”
“Well, let’s get a shot. Nothing controversial about a streetlight,” I say. Brady nods and we walk over to the lamppost. I watch him flip the camera so I can see us both in the frame. He’s so good at finding the right angle.
At first, we’re standing side by side like we are part of the tennis team in a yearbook photo. I take my arm and put it over his shoulder and pull him toward me. “We have to give Aisha what she wants, right?” I ask, even though it’s what I want. His smile changes from posed to authentic and he snaps a few shots. He lowers his arm and then says, “Wait.”
He grabs my other arm and pulls it across the front of his chest and then looks at me. “This makes your bicep look bigger. You know, to keep Aisha happy.”
“Good thinking,” I say, and feel him under my arm like something I can protect and take care of. I love this feeling, but I know he’s only doing it for the camera. I flex my arm for him and the camera and we snap a few more. I raise my arm to release him and it feels like my heart is being unplugged.
Then across the plaza I see a sign for ‘La Alcolba Azul’, a tapas bar that looks like it has been part of the plaza for decades if not centuries.
“Let’s get a drink. We’ve got time before we meet Isabella for the dance class.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Brady asks.
“Since when do you play by the rules?” I ask.
“Since when you do you break them?” Brady responds.
