Page 35 of No Darker Temptation

“Remember the time in Italy I got drunk on limoncello and jumped into the Trevi Fountain?”

“No worse than the time I smoked that weird guy’s pot in Paris and went around asking men what they called their ‘oui-ouis’ while pointing at their pants.”

I choke on my own laughter. “Oh my God, I forgot about that! Why the Hell did you smoke his weed? He didn’t even speak English.”

“I don’t know! It was our second vacation together and I thought ‘will I ever be at the Eiffel Tower smoking a hot French guy’s weed again? No, probably not.’ So I just did it.”

“We had some good times together.”

“We did.” Karina’s grip on my hand tightens. “You know what you’re doing is insane right?”

“Yeah. I know. But I’m crazy about him. Borderline certifiable.”

“You love him that much? To leave behind the only life you’ve ever known just to be with him?”

I don’t answer right away.

“You guys haven’t known each other a long time. What if it doesn’t work out?”

“What if it does?” I give a light shrug, blinking away fresh tears. “I love him, Kay. I tried really hard the last few months to go back to normal but I can’t. And now that I know he loves me too, I’m never going to be the same.”

Karina’s lips part as if to argue some more but the fight leaves her quickly. Understanding colors her features, softening the sharp, regal lines of her face. She accepts our new reality without a fight and it feels like an acknowledgement of something…perhaps the fact that for the first time, life is sending us on two completely different paths. It’s a difficult reality to come to terms with but one we must accept nonetheless.

“If anything goes wrong, if you’re unhappy, if he mistreats you, or if you simply want to leave, you come back. You call me and you come back, okay? I don’t care how grown up you are,” she says. “You’re always going to be my little cousin. I’m always going to take care of you when you need me to.”

Karina reaches for me and I let her, falling as easily into her embrace as I did when we were little. The two of us hold on tight and for a brief moment in time, we’re kids again. Dahlia and Karina against the world.

“I love you, prima,” she whispers.

“I love you, too, Kay.”

THE BARCELONA HOUSE

Dahlia

When we land in Barcelona a week later, the city is exactly as I remember.

Alejandro tells me the temperature in January is mild, rarely cold enough for snowfall, and even so it hasn’t rained in ages. The streets beyond are a blue and gray blur in the darkness but I still catch sight of familiar store signs and streets I once visited with Karina when we were here last year. Most of my summer was spent in the villa but one thing I’ll never forget is what the ride to the airport felt like that last time when I thought I might never come back.

A lot can change in a few months.

We’re supposed to go to the villa but I think Alejandro needs to stop by the apartment first. All of my clothes from over the summer are there and while most of them will do little to protect me in this weather, the few things I brought won’t suffice. I packed for a New York City winter, not a Barcelona one. I’m suffocating in these clothes and if I’d known January in Barcelona felt more like April in New York, I wouldn’t be wearing a North Face and Timbs right now. Might as well have worn an I<3 NY T-shirt with a Statue of Liberty fanny pack if I wanted to stick out so much. A bigger pair of hoops and some brown lip liner are all that stands between me and becoming my mother, circa 2002.

I don’t think of it much, however, as I’m certain my poorly dressed state will serve as the perfect opportunity for Lettie to design a whole new wardrobe for me.

My stomach flips with excitement. Lettie and Diego don’t know I’m here. God, I can’t wait to see them. I hope they’re happy to see me too.

We take a turn down a street I don’t recognize. Then another and another and I know we’re driving slightly north of El Aliciente instead of toward it. With a frown I turn to Alejandro.

At the next corner, the car slows and he parks on the curb.

“Why did we stop?”

“I wanted to show you something first.”

He gets out and opens my door. I take his outstretched hand and my boots meet the pavement with a satisfying thump.

Barcelona doesn’t have brownstones or townhouses like back home. It’s mostly long, beautiful buildings with dozens of apartments inside, the penthouse being the most highly coveted. I look up at the building in front of me; five stories high and made of stone the color of a sunflower’s petals with sage green shudders flanking French style balcony windows. There’s a single tower with a pointed top and green shingles line the roof. Judging from the street signs, I’d surmise we’re about fifteen or so blocks from El Aliciente. I wonder what we’re doing here.