Love, in English

Before we left for the restaurant, I went into my room to grab my purse and leave my phone on the table. Mercy poked her head in, and I expected her to comment on how messy my room was but instead she spotted the Las Palabras photo on the wall.

“Ooh, this is new,” she said. “This from Spain?” She crossed the room and then peered at it.

“Yup,” I said in a strained voice, wishing she wasn’t looking at it and making her judgements, which I knew she was doing in her head. I didn’t want anyone to assume anything about these people.

“Who is this handsome man who has his arm around you?” she asked in surprise, her finger pointing at Mateo. I wanted to swat it away.

By now Charles had followed her in and was looking at it too, like spectators at a zoo.

“He looks familiar,” Charles mused, frowning.

I couldn’t help myself. “He played for Atletico Madrid,” I told him proudly. “Mateo Casalles.”

I hadn’t said his name out loud in a long time. It sounded larger than life.

Charles nodded. “Ah, that would explain it.” Charles was a big soccer fan and often dragged Mercy out to five in the morning games, cheering on Manchester. At least he used to—she probably complained about it until he stopped.

“He’s married,” Mercy said with a twist of disgust on her face. I raised my brows, wondering how she could see his ring clearly but she just showed me her phone. She had Googled his name and brought up a damn Wikipedia page.

Shit. I hadn’t even thought of Googling him.

I peered at the picture, swallowing hard. It was of him back in his team uniform, yelling at someone during a game, all dark ta

Now I was really glad I was leaving my phone behind.

Mercy sucked at her teeth and put her phone away into her designer clutch. Then she smacked her clutch against Charles as if he’d done something. “When we’re married, there is no way in hell you’re going to learn another language overseas. Especially if there are hussies there, leaning all over you.”

Wait. Did my sister just call me a hussy?

“Hussy?” I repeated darkly. What was this, the fifties?

“Oh VeeVee,” she said with a coy laugh. She grabbed Charles by the arm and led him out of the room.

As soon as they were gone, I gave them the finger. Mateo probably wouldn’t have approved of my anti-family behavior but whatever.

Di

My fingers itched for my phone, cursing myself for leaving it at home. I wanted to check to see if he responded, I wanted to cyberstalk the shit out of him. I was going crazy, this feeling of despair that carved out a hollow place in my bones. I knew this wasn’t good, that I shouldn’t be so upset over losing the people I cared for and loved when I hadn’t really lost them, they were still out there alive and living their lives. But I was no longer a part of his life. And sitting with my mom and my sister and Charles, it made me realize I wasn’t a part of anyone’s lives.

I thought about calling my dad tomorrow and asking if I could come and visit him in Calgary. He and Jude were always so welcoming, and now that the program was over and I didn’t have an internship, I was free to do whatever I wanted in the summer. Well, I suppose I had to try and get my job back at the coffee shop and try and earn some extra money before I headed back to school.

Wow. I wasn’t looking forward to any of that. Not the job, not the school. I wondered how long it would take for me to go back to the way I was before. Spanish Vera did not belong in Vancouver.

When we finally got back home, I practically ran to my room, my nerves tingling, my heart kicked up a notch. I closed the door behind me and picked up my phone.

And there it was.

Mateo’s name as the sender.

He had sent a reply.

Now I really started shaking, the phone nearly jostling out of my hands.

Breathe, I told myself before my anxiety got out of control. I felt giddy, excited, nervous, and pukey all at once.

I closed my eyes for a moment, took in a deep breath and then opened the email.

Vera,

It is good to hear from you. I thought you were ignoring my emails, more or less, and did not wish to harass you by phone, but I see now I was sending it to the wrong address. It looked like you wrote down “VerastarS” instead of “Verastar5”. Now, I am a bit worried what VerastarS thinks about me.

You sound like you are happy to be back, yes? I wish I could say the same for me, but that is not the case. I miss La Palabras terribly, and most of all I miss you. I couldn’t tell from your email if you feel the same. You sounded different. I wish to talk to you, hear your voice. My English is slipping away fast. I look up to the sky and I can’t see the stars from the city.

Let me know if you ever want to talk on the phone. Give me a time and I will call you. I believe I am eight hours ahead of you, but I don’t sleep much without you anyway.

Love,

Mateo

(The man you had siestas with in Spain)

I thought I was going to die from happiness. Relief pulsed hot in my veins and I was filled with this drug-like sense of euphoria. I read the email again and again, making sure it was true, it was real, I wasn’t missing anything. Each time, I grew happier.

Mateo had been trying to reach me but my chicken scratch handwriting led him astray. Oh god, I can’t believe he thought I was ignoring him. And then my actual email was so cool and professional compared to his. Ugh, I felt like such an asshole.

He didn’t sleep much without me. If I could hug my phone to my chest and dance around my room like a Disney heroine, I would. Okay, maybe I just did.

After I was done with my pathetic twirling, I quickly wrote him back. I calculated it being about four in the morning where he was and reminded myself not to expect anything back from him right away. I told him he could call me tomorrow morning after eight my time, which would make it around four his time, perfect for after work. Or, if he was really ambitious, he could call me tonight—I was staying up late.

I really hoped he was feeling ambitious. If he woke up around six o’clock, that meant he could phone me in as little as two hours from now.

Not sure what to do with myself, I grabbed a bottle of wine from my mom’s collection, took it in my room, and opened it. I put on what I knew to be two of his favorite albums, Paul Simon’s Graceland followed by Still Crazy After All These Years and just danced and danced and acted like a lovesick fool. At some point Josh knocked on the door, concerned that I was having a party in my room and he wasn’t invited. From the look he gave me, I could tell he thought about bringing the white coats to take me away.

By the time midnight rolled around, I was getting kind of depressed. Maybe it was the whole bottle of wine at the bottom of my stomach. I tried to be optimistic, knowing that at least he’d try and call me tomorrow, and it was just as I was getting into bed that the phone rang.

I nearly jumped out of my skin.

An extremely long and alien looking phone number flashed on my call display.

I stared at it for a few beats before I bit the bullet and answered it.

I hoped I’d sound cool.

“Hello?” I croaked. “Vera speaking?”

“Vera,” Mateo’s rich, beautiful voice came through the line.

It was enough for my breath to hitch. Tears teased at my eyes, tingled my nose.

“Mateo,” I said breathlessly.

“Hi,” he said, sounding so warm, so close, despite our voices being bounced around the earth. “Sorry, am I too late to call you?”