Page 89 of No Darker Temptation

“No, it’s fine.” I check the time on my phone. “Let’s go home. Alejandro’s making dinner tonight and I’d much rather eat that than whatever’s about to crawl out of that lady’s hairnet.”

He laughs and we exit the cafeteria together.

The University of International Studies of Barcelona (or, BIS, as I’m hearing most students call it which really doesn’t make sense because the letters are backward) is one of the most beautiful campuses I’ve ever seen. It’s deceptively simple, yet beautiful. A high renaissance exterior of tan stone, high arches and windows, conceals an architectural wonder within.

Originally built in 1450, it was founded as a medical school by a Benedictine monastery. Later, in the mid-eighteenth century, it became a public university and a little over a hundred and twenty years ago, it become an international university, which is what it is today. The entrance vestibule of the main historic building almost gave me a heart attack but in the best way possible.

Suddenly, I was reminded of why I fell in love with this city in the first place. The history, the architecture, the culture. There’s so much beauty to be appreciated and learn from. Sitting through orientation the last few hours, while tedious and overwhelming, breathed new life back into me. I hadn’t realized how much I missed this; the purpose and sense of accomplishment that comes with working toward something as important as an education. My intention had always been to go as far as the PhD in both architecture and engineering. The focus in historic preservation was just a fun passion I found along the way.

I planned on interning part-time at a firm during my graduate program. Pursue my doctorate after securing my first junior position. Work for a while and figure out which field captured my attention most—was I more interested in the science of constructing a building or the art—and find my way from there. Maybe go into restoration or work for the city as one of those people who evaluates historical buildings and grants them landmark status. I even dreamed of having my own firm one day.

That’s what I’ve been missing this whole time.

Dreaming.

The entire world opened up for me the moment I sat down in the auditorium today. I no longer feel confined, alone, useless. I have a goal to work toward, potential to uncover, skills to sharpen. I’m so excited I could burst at the seams.

Pedro lets me control the music as we drive home and try as he might, he’s definitely humming along to the Cheetah Girls.

“Want me to replay it?”

“Yes. No!” he corrects quickly.

I burst into laughter.

“What is this teeny bopper crap? I’m losing braincells.”

“I’ll have you know, watching The Cheetah Girls 2 at the very impressionable age of six years old is what triggered my lifelong obsession with this city.”

He glances at me out the corner of his eye. “Really?”

“Hell yeah. They spend the entire film dancing and singing around Barcelona wearing fabulous clothes and being courted by hot guys.”

“We should make Alex watch it with us when we get home.”

A soft smile finds its way across my face. “Yeah…I can’t wait to see him.”

The car falls silent and I realize it’s because I forgot to put the playlist on loop. I put the next song to play and Pedro reaches out to lower the volume.

“You guys okay?”

My spine stiffens. “Why do you ask?”

“Because we can tell.” He casts me a wayward glance. “Always. He’s particularly insufferable when you guys aren’t in a good place. Last time, we placed bets on how long we thought it’d take⁠—”

I scoff, affronted. “You guys place bets on our relationship?”

“Fuck yeah we do. Watching you guys is entertaining as shit.” He turns the corner and lets the wheel glide against his open palm. “It’s like watching a novela play out in real time without all the dramatic music in the background. Although sometimes, we do add new songs to the playlist.”

I stare at him completely dumbfounded. “You guys have a playlist.”

He snickers, completely tickled with delight. “Oh my God, wait, where’s my phone? When we were in Colombia for Don Horacio’s birthday we all voted on a love theme for you guys…”

“A love theme…” I murmur to myself.

Pedro lifts his knees and uses them to keep hold of the steering wheel. Fishing around in his pockets he finally produces his phone. “Okay…” He frowns.

“What’s wrong?”