I don’t answer him. I’m having too good a time. There’s something magical about being in Spain as the plaza transforms into a playground for everyone after the heat of the day. I walk past the outdoor tables of the cafe to the candlelit interior and find a plush maroon booth far away from everyone else.
A waiter in black pants and a bowtie comes over and introduces himself in English so I ask for a bottle of a red Spanish wine, which I know surprises Brady.
“What have you done with Hayes? Red wine? You hate red wine. You find the medical research into its benefits poorly constructed and the tannins too harsh on the body.” He’s quoting back to me my own words chapter and verse.
“As I said before, tonight I’m breaking the rules. I thought you loved red wine. The darker the better.”
“Well, dark is not the right way to describe…” he starts to say, but stops himself. “Yes, I do prefer that.”
The waiter returns, pours us each a glass and leaves. I pick up a glass and raise it. Brady does the same and we toast like we did on the beach, but this time we don’t say anything. The glasses clink as our eyes connect.
The sun is so strong here that I’m incredibly thirsty and I down the entire glass despite the fact that we haven’t had much to eat today. I’m not a big drinker and almost never touch red wine, but I’m doing a lot of things in Spain that are outside my comfort zone, so why not? There are some pieces of baguette and a saucer with clear, golden liquid on a platter next to the wine so I grab one and Brady does too.
“I love the olive oil in this country. Totally unlike what you can get in the states. Italian olive oil is the best, of course, but Spanish olive oil is doing its own thing. Can you taste the light zing in it?” Brady chews his morsel carefully.
I take another bite and try to let my mouth embrace the flavor. “No, not at all. You know I was raised on mac and cheese from a box, catfish from the lake and candy. I think my taste buds have been permanently destroyed.”
I take another bite and it goes down the wrong way. I cough. Brady tries to pat my back and then fills my wine glass. I grab it and pour the liquid down my throat to clear it. “Maybe you were right,” I say, my cough gone. “Maybe we should have had the wine after our walk.”
A goofy smile crosses his face and he refills his glass. “Actually, I was beginning to think the opposite. I think this was a fantastic idea.” He finishes his glass of wine and leaves a small bead of purple liquid on his upper lip. I instinctively go to wipe it away. I realize I’m about to touch his lip, which I swore I would never do again. But here in Spain on the Plaça Reial as the light fades and Gaudí’s incandescent globes begin to fill with light, it’s another world. Does it matter whether we unpacked the baggage completely or just left it behind at the last destination?
My finger approaches the area between his lip and his nose. I know this space. My mouth has explored it countless times and I know exactly how it feels to rub my tongue across the small bump where his lips come together.
I keep my eyes on his in case there is a signal to stop, but he must know what I’m about to do because he nods gently, giving me permission, and my finger makes contact. I can see his chest rise and fall as his breathing accelerates. We both feel the rush of excitement and stay in it together for a moment.
“Wait,” Brady says, and I pull my hand away. Have I crossed a line?
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have…”
But before I can say anything else Brady stops me. “No, no. It’s not that. It’s…” He shows me the screen of his phone. “We’re already ten minutes late for the queer dance class on the other side of the Gothic Quarter. Aisha scheduled this for us and if we miss it…”
“We will not miss it,” I say, and get up from the booth, extending my hand to Brady. He grabs it and we both squeeze each other’s hand for a second before heading out.
Chapter 19
Barcelona
Brady
I have no idea what has gotten into Hayes tonight but I’m not resisting anymore. The wine makes my whole body warm from the inside. It takes the sting out of the slight sunburn on my nose and makes me feel like the evening is full of possibility.
As soon as we step out of the bar, I have no idea which direction to walk but I’m not lost. I’m holding Hayes’ hand as he guides me through the dark alleys. Above us worn wooden shutters with chipping paint stand behind ornate cast iron grilles. The streets twist and turn as we pass centuries of crumbling statues. Terrifying gargoyles with fangs and pointed ears. Saints in stone gowns. Angels with wings protecting secrets and sins.
Hayes squeezes my hand as we take a sharp turn in the maze of streets toward an ancient wall from a Roman ruin. I think that maybe tonight I want to take down the walls myself. The alley narrows and I touch the rough stone with my hand, feeling the centuries of wear. The alley becomes so skinny, Hayes puts both hands on my shoulders and stands behind me, guiding me down the path, making sure we are connected the whole time.
I follow the scent of frying garlic, roasting coffee and roses until we reach a small square with a single tree in the center and benches around the edges. I hear guitars strumming loudly and I see the sign for ‘Duende Libre’, the location of our dance class. We enter an archway covered in flowering blossoms to a courtyard with an intimate dance floor and small tables with lanterns that decorate the surfaces with flickering shadows.
“Buenas noches,” Isabella says with her camera on her hip. She’s ready to capture all of the intimate moments of our fake relationship that is beginning to feel more real by the second. “I’ve got everything I need ready. I’ll be moving around getting shots. Everyone has already signed releases. Enjoy the class.” She’s not nearly as tense as she was when met her. I’m not sure if it has more to do with the glass of wine I see by her equipment or the glasses of wine that I’ve already had.
An older man in tight black pants and a billowing black blouse open to his waist approaches us. He tightens the crimson scarf around his neck and kisses Hayes on both cheeks and then does the same with me. “I am Manu,” he says, and rolls his wrist in front of his face as his fingers flutter with a flamboyant greeting. “You must be Brady and Hayes.”
“I’m sorry we are a little late,” Hayes says.
“Tarde?” Manu frowns. “No, no,” he wags his finger stiffly from side to side. “We do not apologize for being late in Barcelona. Everything happens in its own time.” I look at Hayes. He then raises a single eyebrow and looks at me.
“Let’s begin!” Manu claps his hands together and the other members of the class stand up. A middle-aged man in a sequined black tank top, a petite woman in an FC Barcelona team soccer jersey with a larger woman in a Real Madrid shirt, and a few other people nervously shuffle in the open courtyard waiting for class to begin. A mix of bodies and ages for sure. Some are sturdy and muscular like Hayes but others are lean and more fragile like me. Solo travelers and queer couples all here to try something new in this magical place.
“I was born in Andalusia but came to Barcelona as a teenager to teach flamenco. As you can see, that was a long, long time ago.” He uses his hand to smooth his cascading grey hair and laughs. There is a musicality in his accent as his intonation rises and falls.
