Love, in English

  If it had been anything else, I would have stayed and helped him, brought him inside. But this involved me too much and I hated being lied to.

  I burst into the apartment and opened up the laptop on the coffee table. I did a quick search for Diez Minutos and started clicking through the magazine, searching and searching until I searched for Mateo Casalles.

  There it was, the first story to pop up, the picture of Mateo slapping my jiggly ass. And the way the search engine displayed the results, the story underneath it was the one I had read back in Las Palabras, the one of him and Isabel at the restaurant.

  I breathed in deeply, my eyes flitting between the two stories, me with my tits hanging out, the skimpy bikini I got from H&M, all pale skin, wild hair and ink, playing in the surf with a man fifteen years older than her. Then there was Isabel with her elegant short blonde hair, mature yet beautiful face, classy dress, hand in hand with her sharp-dressed husband. I knew exactly how it looked, and therefore knew exactly how this would play out. I didn’t even need Google translate for that. I was the trashy young thing on the side. The homewrecking slut who broke up a marriage between an ex-football star and semi-royalty, leaving their younger daughter in the wake.

  I was worse than the other woman. I was Jezebel, waiting to be thrown to the dogs.

  I knew right there that we were doomed. We always had been.

  The worst part was that this whole paparazzi thing caught me unaware. It wasn’t like Mateo was being called for interviews or had photographers normally following him around or fans outside his door. To me he was just Mateo, not this ex-football star, so I never even thought about any of that in our day to day lives. Only occasionally would something remind me of it, say a clip of the Atletico team on TV or on rainy days when Mateo walked with a slight limp. Otherwise, I had lived in a bubble, totally unaware that he was someone really important.

  I sighed in frustration and steeled myself against what I was about to read. I clicked on the article about us and hit Google Translate up on the top.

  It turned out that what Mateo said was more or less true. He just left out a whole bunch about me. Mainly, that I wasn’t just “some other woman,” but according to Google translate, a wanton young girl who seemed a very unlikely match for someone as respected as Mateo Casalles. They also added there probably wouldn’t be much respect for Mateo after this, though what older man hasn’t thought about having a mistress half their age.

  These fucking magazines were just as bad as the ones back home. And though I sympathized with celebrities with the way they were treated on gossip sites, I still read the stories eagerly. I never in a million years thought I would be the subject of one of them.

  The thing is, I wasn’t sure how many people in the country cared what an ex-football star got up to, but this magazine apparently did. Shit was about to hit the fan in a major way, if it hadn’t already, and I had no idea what to do to prepare for it. I was not only humiliated and embarrassed but goddamn terrified of what this would do to Mateo and I. I felt like my heart was receiving tiny fractures that would one day lead to a break.

  Eventually, Mateo came back into the apartment. I turned away from the computer, numb to the core, and eyed him warily. The magazine was gone, probably in the trash somewhere, where it belonged. He looked as terrible as I felt, though it seemed the anger that had overwhelmed him had left and now he just looked lost and defeated.

  “Vera,” he said, his voice hoarse, as he slowly came toward me. He dropped to his knees right in front of me, lacing his fingers with mine. He rested his head on my thighs for a few moments, eyes pinched together, breathing in and breathing out. He looked so small at my feet, so meek. It unnerved me deep inside, making me feel unstable.

  He raised his head and his brow was wrought with sorrow. “I am so sorry, Vera,” he said softly. “You have no idea how sorry I am.” The way his voice cracked made my soul ache.

  I gripped his hand tight. “It’s not your fault.”

  “Yes it is,” he said. “I asked you to be a part of this.”

  “You didn’t ask me to be a part of this,” I told him adamantly.

  “Yes, I did. I wanted you to be a part of my life. I wanted…you. I never thought about the consequences, how they would affect you. I didn’t think much about anything. I was so caught up in finally having you, here in my life, by my side. I didn’t think.” He kissed my hand and gazed up at me. “I’m still not thinking. Vera, you make me mad, you make me crazy.” He shut his eyes again and spoke, his lips brushing my fingers. “Love is like a thief, it robs you of all thought and logic, and all you have left is a heart that you can only pray is strong enough to survive the rest.”

  Goddamn it, even in the face of all this scrutiny, his passion never wavered.

  “Please don’t leave me,” he said quietly, his eyes imploring mine.

  Something inside me crumbled. “Why would I leave you?”

  “Because,” he said slowly. “I can see it in your eyes. That you’re afraid.”

  “I’ve always been afraid, Mateo,” I said. “From the very moment I met you, I’ve been afraid. But it doesn’t mean I’m leaving.”

  “This isn’t fair to you,” he said, as if not hearing me. “I thought we were safe in Barcelona. I didn’t think anyone would notice or care. I was wrong because I didn’t think and that mistake has cost us dearly.”

  I sighed and stared down at our hands. Just how dearly was this going to cost us? Isabel was going to find out now, his friends would know. What he tried to keep hidden—me—that was all going to be in the open now. It wasn’t just Mateo’s fault, it was mine too. I had known we had to lay low for a little bit longer, that we had pushed our luck already, that it was only a matter of time. I had just hoped and prayed that when we were found out, that it would happen after he was granted joint custody, after he had his rights to see his daughter.

  “What do we do now?” I asked, looking at him again.

  He gave me a sad smile and a subtle shake of his head. “I do not know. In the past, I have gotten mad at the publications. You know, when I was young and doing stupid things that I would never do again. But it never got me anywhere and I am not sure it will now. I can try.”

  I shook my head, knowing that fighting the tabloids was always useless unless it was something extremely slanderous. The magazine was not presenting anything as fact—just speculation—so there was nothing illegal about it.

  He exhaled, long and hard. “I guess the only thing we can do is wait.”

  “You could tell Isabel,” I said. “Before someone else tells her.”

  He winced. “Yes. But there is that chance that perhaps she won’t find out at all.”

  I gave him a look. “Really? If that’s what you believe, then you’re going to be in for a rude awakening.”

  “I don’t know what I think,” he said. “Let’s just see what happens tomorrow. We have the party. I will tell her after that.”

  “Oh god, the party,” I cried out. “What will they all say?”

  He squeezed my hand. “Vera, please, they will say nothing, and if they do, it won’t be anything bad. These people were all there, they all know. They have their own battles to fight.”

  I leaned back onto the couch, utterly exhausted. This kind of shit served me right, especially after such a fun and frivolous trip as Barcelona. We had pushed our luck and we didn’t care because we just wanted to be with each other. But the truth always has a way of getting out.

  And now we were still together, but having to deal with the truth: that our love affair wasn’t as pure as we wanted to believe. That good intentions meant nothing. That we chose each other despite the consequences and now they were ours to pay.

  That night we lay in bed together. We didn’t make love, we just held on to each other in the dark, wrapped in our bodies and the madness of our own minds.

  “Remember what I asked of you,” he murmured in my ear as we were drifting off to sleep.

 
“Hmmm?”

  “Promise me you won’t give up on us.”

  I won’t, I said, though not out loud. I was too afraid to say it, in case it didn’t end up being true.

  The next morning we hadn’t heard much about the scandal. There were no phone calls from Isabel or anyone disgruntled. A part of me thought that maybe we were going to sneak out of this one, that everything was going to be okay. The other part of me thought that the net was just waiting to drop, preferably when we were relaxed and unaware.

  I never wanted to let my guard down. The whole day I was a nervous wreck, shopping for party supplies and the menu and expecting the ball to drop at any moment.

  And it did—just not in the way I expected.

  I was making the appetizers—things I knew how to make like bacon-wrapped scallops and goat cheese flatbreads—and Mateo had jetted out to pick up the alcohol from the store, when my cell rang. Again, it was Claudia.

  “Please don’t tell me you’re cancelling,” I said as I answered. “Because I cannot handle this alone!”

  “I’m not cancelling,” she quickly assured me. “Ricardo and I will be there in an hour to help. I just…”

  “Oh Lord, what now?”

  “They know your name.”

  My heart froze. “What do you mean they know my name?” I asked slowly. “Who is they?”

  “They,” she said. “The magazine, Diez Minutos, they know your name. It is online now with the pictures.”

  “What?!” I roared into the phone, seconds away from having a coronary. I shoved the tray into the oven and ran over to the laptop, frantically going to the page, which I had bookmarked.

  “Did you talk to the press?” she asked me as I clicked along.

  “No,” I said, my chest feeling heavier than lead, my breathing shortened and painful. I pulled up the page and scrolled down to the description. Now it said, “With a Canadian woman, Vera, whom Casalles had met at an English language program this June. This young woman, who is said to be in her early twenties, is rumored to live with Casalles in an apartment in the Salamanca barrio.”

  “Oh, fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck,” I gasped, my hand curling into a fist over the phone. “How the fuck did they figure this out?”

  “Someone must have told them.”

  “But who? Someone from Las Palabras?” My paranoid mind began scrolling through everyone, from the guests who were coming over, to Lauren. But everyone had liked us, and Lauren, as much of a bicycle as she was, wasn’t in Spain as far as I knew.

  “I don’t know,” Claudia said. “I wouldn’t think so.”

  I thought back to the only other person who knew, the woman who heard us doing it in the washroom stall when Mateo got all jealous over that guy. Sonia.

  “I’ll see you in a bit,” I told Claudia, and then hung up, immediately ringing Mateo’s phone.

  “Did you forget something?” he asked as he answered. “I just left the store.”

  “What did you tell that Sonia woman?” I asked through grinding teeth.

  “What?”

  “The woman, your old friend, the one who caught us fucking in the bathroom. I went outside and you talked to her. What did you tell her about us?”

  He paused and I could almost hear his mind racing. “I only…wait, why?”

  “Just tell me!”

  He sighed, frustrated. “I don’t know.”

  “Did you tell her my name?”

  “I introduced you as Vera, remember?”

  “Did you tell her where we met? Where I was from?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fuck, Mateo!”

  “Don’t fucking scream at me,” he sniped.

  Don’t fucking tell me not to fucking scream at you, I wanted to yell back. It took a lot out of me to hold it in. “She told the magazine about us,” I seethed.

  A pause. “How do you mean?”

  “Well, come home and I’ll show you. But the photos, they now have my name and where you met me. And that I live with you now in Madrid, in the Salamanca neighbourhood. Did you tell her all of that?”

  There was silence. I could hear him breathing hard, his footsteps through the phone. Finally he said, “Yes, I did.”

  “Mateo!”

  “Listen, Vera. I do not like it when you use that tone, all right? You know I have never done anything to hurt you, not on purpose. How am I supposed to know that Sonia would take useless bits of information and report them to the magazine?”

  “Didn’t you know what kind of person she was?”

  “I didn’t think—”

  “No, you didn’t think,” I retorted. “That keeps on being your excuse. That you didn’t think. Well start fucking thinking.”

  And then I hung up, my heart in my throat, my gut coated with despair. I had never yelled at him like that before, never hung up on him. Even during our heated arguments over the phone, when the long distance aspect of our relationship was really getting to us, I had never hung up on him.

  Luckily, he’d be in the house at any moment and I could immediately apologize to his face. I sat on the edge of the sofa and rubbed my hands on my dress, so fucking sick I felt like I was going to vomit.

  The door opened and Mateo came in, carrying a canvas bag full of liquor. He kicked it shut, and that’s when I knew this wasn’t going to be easy. He was in a bad mood now and I feared that I wouldn’t have a partner in this battle. I couldn’t handle this alone.

  “I’m sorry,” I immediately said to him as he put the bag on the counter. “I’m sorry I yelled at you and I’m sorry I hung up on you.”

  He plunked his elbows down on the counter and leaned over, running his hands through his hair in anger before burying his face in his palms. I watched him with bated breath, unsure of what he was going to say or do. When he still didn’t move, I started to get really worried. Maybe I pushed him, pushed us, too far. I knew that this, that everything, was either both of our faults or neither of our faults, but no matter what we were in it together.

  I got up and walked carefully over to him. I gently placed my hand on his lower back as if he were made of glass.

  “Mateo,” I whispered.

  He nodded, then suddenly stood up and pulled me into his chest, his strong arms wrapping around my back. I felt my whole body give into his, too exhausted to even stand. I relished the feeling of his warmth, his strength, his support. It felt like I was given a tiny piece of relief, an anchor to prepare for the oncoming storm.

  “Please do not fight me,” he said into my hair, kissing the top of my head. “Please do not get angry. I am angry too, enough for the both of us. I am more scared than you. But I cannot take it out on you because you did not ask for this. Please don’t take it out on me. I need you with me, not apart.”

  I nodded, feeling tears pricking at my eyes. I managed to keep them inside, on the other side of the dam. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know. And I am sorry that Sonia went and told the magazine. Sometimes you don’t really know a person, though I should have figured and that was my mistake. All I can tell you is,” he pulled back and peered down at my face, “more mistakes will be made. I don’t know what I am doing, but I will do everything in my power to keep my daughter and to keep you.”

  And what happens if it comes time to choose between me and her? I thought. But of course I knew the answer to that.

  I’d like to say that our spirits picked up for the party, but they didn’t. Not until Claudia and Ricardo showed up with even more bottles of wine, which in turn got Mateo and I buzzed in a hurry. I did what I could to put on my party face, ignoring that weight on my back.

  Though we invited every local person that was at Las Palabras and all of them had RSVPed, not all of them showed up. It reminded me of the one time I threw a party in high school and only a handful of the guests actually came. Luckily, Mateo told me to not take it personally—people were notorious when it came to being flakes, always promising to be places and then never following through.

  The
first to arrive was Lucia and the infamous Carlos, even though they hadn’t been at the program. Lucia seemed a little tipsy, her cheeks dark red and she was constantly giggling. Carlos seemed to be an all right guy, in his early thirties and a bit stuck-up. Not at all whom I thought Lucia would be with. But he seemed nice enough, even though Mateo would not stop giving him the stink-eye, sizing him up like he was debating tossing him out of the party or not. His brotherly love made me love him a little more.

  After Lucia and Carlos came Jerry, Angel, and his equally timid date, Patricia. It was so nice to see them again that I almost started crying. It didn’t matter that Jerry was still a huge overenthusiastic dork or that geeky Angel forgot all his English, just having them there was like opening a door to another life, flooding me with shiny, sunny memories.

  Soon Antonio came, still cute and portly with his bushy mustache and a joke for everything, then Manuel with his rocker look, gentle Nerea (now with bright pink hair), and pervy Eduardo. Lucia and Carlos seemed to get along with everyone too, with Carlos and Antonio talking about business and the rest of us just drinking and eating and reminiscing about the old times. More than once I caught myself getting teary-eyed over shit, especially when the alcohol started getting to everyone. The damn Spaniards and their emotions—it was hard not to be affected when everyone else was so obviously missing what we had back at Las Palabras.

  At some point though, Lucia, since she wasn’t affected by the Las Palabras effect, put on some dance music. Then the party went from brooding and emotional to happy and drunk. I danced in an Eduardo and Angel sandwich that Mateo pretended not to care about, but I still knew he was watching carefully, making sure Eduardo didn’t try any “Sex Pest” moves.

  “Do you still talk to Polly?” I asked him, whipping my hair around.

  He shook his head, looking a bit sad. “Not really. On Facebook, yes. More or less. But we are not…together. Not like you and Mateo are.”

  “Mateo is lucky,” Angel said from behind me as my hair unceremoniously whacked him in the face.