CHAPTER 1

“Foolish One (Taylor’s Version)” – Taylor Swift

TO WHOEVER SAID LOVE FINDS you when you least expect it, I’d like to have a word. For some context, it’s been 758 days since I’ve stopped expecting a soulmate to pop out of the sky and land on my doorstep. Have I kept count? Not really. If I had, though, it would have probably been a whole lot more days than that.

Besides, how does one stop expecting the thing that they’ve spent more than half their life hoping for?

Which is precisely why I’ve recently made the highly accurate and scientifically backed conclusion that it’s not easy being a hopeless romantic. You have half the world thinking you’re nuts for believing in the “make-believe”, while the other half, just like you, are trying to stop expecting what they secretly spend all their time expecting.

But there’s always someone who has it worse. What I like to call the “ultra-hopeless-delusional romantic.” (Aka me). A truly head-over-heels lover girl whose rainy days consist of A Cinderella Story playing on repeat in my living room, while my best friend and I analyze the latest steamy interaction I had with the cute mini-mart cashier boy (we said hi).

I suppose I tend to overthink (all the time) when I have a new crush (every other week), but what can I say? I just LOVE love.

All that being said, what would you think if I told you I’m 25 and have never had a boyfriend ? What about that I’ve yet to have my first kiss ? Truth is, I’ve never even held hands with a guy before. The closest I’ve come to love is through the romantic scenarios I construct for myself right before going to bed.And sometimes, I fear that’s the closest I’ll ever get to it.

I’m not exactly trying to dwell on this at the moment, with the warm sand cozying between my feet and the salt air grazing over my cheeks.

In fact, there was a time when I loved to gaze over at the lavishly decorated beach houses along the shores of Dove Cove on The Fourth of July. The same ones mostly filled with college students: flirting with their crushes, falling in love, having their first time. Now I’m left pondering why I never got to experience what most people my age have.

Yet, a part of me still thinks that on days like this I have a greater chance of meeting someone. I like to think it’s the magic in the air, but my friends call it delusion.

Sadly, my fickle glimmer of hope disappears as I watch the sky fade into a mixture of blood orange and violet, almost scoffing to myself. Still with no cute guy in sight, this year’s holiday was just another day spent daydreaming a variety of possibilities that didn’t come true . Not like an abundance of cute guys would’ve made a difference. They don’t approach me anyway.

Apparently, though, soccer balls do, as one rolls near my feet while I’m walking by the beach.

I look up and almost do a double-take when I notice a hot guy with his family on the shore. Although, hot would be an understatement.

My hands start to shake as he makes his way over to retrieve the ball. My heart’s suddenly beating a thousand times faster. Oh, and I have to remind myself to breathe.

Temporarily forgetting how I’m the least smooth person on this planet, I brilliantly decide to kick the ball back to him.

What’s the worst that could happen?

My question immediately backfires when my sandal goes flying through the air, hitting him right on the chest.

I may have forgotten to mention how I’m also the clumsiest person in the universe.

As I awkwardly stumble over to him in the sand with my one shoe, I say with a growing panic, “Oh my God, are you okay?!”

He picks up my shoe and softly laughs. “With an aim like that you could go pro.”

Wait. I know this guy . There’s something so familiar to him and yet, I can’t immediately place him. I nervously laugh while simultaneously trying to remember who he is. “Trust me, you don’t want me anywhere near a soccer field,” I say.

“You mean football ,” he playfully corrects.

It’s almost a good thing that this happened. Or else I wouldn’t have in my wildest dreams approached a guy that looks like him. His windswept hair, deep brown almond shaped eyes, and strong jawline wouldn’t be enough to intimidate me if it wasn’t for his obvious confidence, muscular build, and deep voice with a subtle accent. Did I mention he’s also at least 6’1”?

Something about him still feels familiar.

As he reaches out to hand me back my sandal, I reply, “I take it that you’re not from here then?” And then instantly regret it after hearing myself out loud. Fuck.

Why would you say that to him, Jasmine?

This is what happens when I talk to guys. I try to say what I’m thinking. Except when I actually say the words, they come out completely different than how I intended. As in, this was my version of flirting. But on no planet would this have translated as charming.

Trying to come up with something to make sure that I didn’t offend him, I’m distracted when he bites down on his full lips.

“Did you just insult my accent?” he questions, a trace of amusement in his voice.

“No. No. Not at all.” I shake my head so quickly that I almost get whiplash. “I think your accent is beautiful.” Just like you . I obviously don’t add that last part. Even though it’s undoubtedly true.

Then it hits me. The accent. That’s what it is.

The guy I tutored from Spain during freshman year of college had the exact same accent. There’s no way that this could be him, though. Right?

I look down at his left hand to find what I’m thinking will be there. The tiny oval shaped scar above his left thumb that I studied far too many times during our tutoring sessions. My heart starts to thud again when it’s right where I remember it.

“Oh shit. Enrique?” I say, taking off my sunglasses, hoping he recognizes me too .

His brows furrow as he appears to be in deep thought. “Oh wait. Uh…”

“Jasmine,” I answer after a few seconds.

He claps. “Right. From Lit?”

I nod even though that clearly took him a minute.

As Enrique runs his long fingers through his silky espresso hair, he gives me a crooked grin and says, “I miss our late-night study sessions where you’d play obnoxiously loud music to wake me up.”

The warmth covering my cheeks and traveling all the way down my neck reminds me how flustered just listening to him speak used to make me. How it still makes me. Glossing over Enrique’s face, trying my best to actually listen to what he’s saying now, I realize how much he’s changed. Maybe that’s why I didn’t recognize him as quickly, his hair slightly shorter and the baby face that’s generously morphed into rugged perfection through the years.

Even if I didn’t recognize his face, I still would have picked up on his charm. For starters, he’s making our study sessions sound way more romantic than they ever were. Given how we were just friendly classmates for one semester. Even though I always wished we could have been so much more.

“I’m surprised you remember,” I reply.

“How could I forget the girl who thought my last name was Iglesias?” he teases.

I’m mortified when the memory comes rushing back.

“Please don’t remind me,” I say.

His dimples appear as he smirks. “So you think my accent is beautiful?”

“I may have said something like that, yes,” I say coyly before finally addressing my terrible attempt at a joke referencing the famous Spanish singer, “and you know I didn’t think that was your last name. It was just my social anxiety taking over.” Or my awkward attempts at flirting. I miserably tried to make a good first impression the first day that we met when little did I know that he already had a girlfriend at the time. “I’m still embarrassed by it.”

“Don’t be. I still think it was funny,” Enrique replies. “I’m pretty sure I told my friends the same day you said that to me.”

So he told his friends about me? This detail, though simple, is kind of making me have a meltdown, learning that I also crossed his mind before.

“I see you still like football,” I say, surprising myself with the relevant change of subject amidst this. “I’m still impressed by how you managed to find a way to bring up FC Barcelona every time we studied together,” I add, referring to his favorite Spanish club team.

“I forgot we talked about that.” He chuckles as his eyes shine. “It’s cool that you still remember.”

“Only because I like Real Madrid ,” I tease, referencing their rival team.

“Ah, okay,” he says. “ Now I remember why we didn’t stay in touch.”

I laugh, feeling some nerves dissipate. “So are you just visiting, or did you move here?”

“No. We still live in Spain,” he explains. “My cousin lives a few blocks away, and we’re staying with them. We try to come at least once a year, especially during the summer.”

I’m a bit surprised I’ve never run into him all these years. But then again I barely go out.

“That’s so nice,” I say. “How long are you here until?”

“We’re actually leaving tomorrow.” His grin slowly begins to fade. “This is our last day. ”

Of course it is .

“Oh. Bummer.” I hold my smile the best I can even though my face falls on the inside. The one time something seems to have a chance at working out, it still doesn’t. Typical.

“I know. It would’ve been nice to catch up,” Enrique says with a slight frown.

“Yeah,” I say, “that would’ve been awesome.”

“But listen, if you’re free soon you should totally come to Spain,” he offers. “We live in Marbella.”

Wait. What? My heart stops, a tightness forming in my chest.

Is he asking me out? Across the globe?

The romantic in me knows a summer vacation in Spain would be unreal, full of endless possibilities to experience things I’ve only ever seen in movies. But the realist in me knows there are a myriad of reasons why it could never happen.

“I wish I could,” I say. “But I think it’ll be tough finding somewhere to stay during the peak of summer.”

“Oh that’s no problem,” Enrique replies casually. “You could just stay at our resort.”

Did I just hear him correctly?

“Your family has a resort?” I ask, still dumbfounded.

“Yeah. It’s super chill,” he says. “My friends come over all the time.”

I believe this considering how nonchalantly he just invited me.

“Just think about it,” he adds. “It would be fun to reconnect. We could even go to a football match.” He smirks at that last part.

It’s hard to stifle my squeals. Considering how he just confirmed he’s interested in us connecting again. But I try to keep my cool at least outwardly. “It would be nice to seeReal Madridcrush you guys per usual in two weeks,” I say .

“Okay, someone knows the schedule.” Enrique crosses his arms, impressed. “And if they win, which they won’t, it’ll be a little less painful if you’re there.”

My heart flutters at his overt flirtatiousness. This guy who I crushed on for an entire semester in college is flirting with me now, years later, and I have absolutely no idea how to feel about it.

“I really appreciate the offer,” I say. “It’s really sweet of you.”

His lips curve upwards. “Do you still have my number?”

“Of course.” Okay, calm down . I quickly try to sound more nonchalant. “I mean, yeah I still do.” Like I’d ever delete his number.

“Hopefully we’ll see each other soon,” Enrique says.

Then he leans forward, my heart momentarily stopping before realizing he’s kissing my cheeks.

Is this a custom in Spain that’s more friendly as opposed to romantic? Yes. Does my body know this? Absolutely not. And my mind is most certainly going to convince itself that there was a romantic motive behind the gesture.

Hoping that my cheeks have somehow returned back to their normal shade after that subtle contact, I say, “It was really nice seeing you.”

“Same here.” Enrique’s dimples appear one last time before he picks up the football and walks back toward his family.

I try not to lose my shit when he leaves. Although it’s almost impossible considering this is the first time a guy kissed my cheeks.

Being the foolish person that I am, I immediately start wondering if this was fate.

Why else would I run into the guy that I daydreamed about for months this many years later for it not to mean something ?

Already looking forward to picking apart every detail of that interaction with my best friend, Georgia, my smile doesn’t leave my face as I walk back to my car.

_________

If anything’s fate, it was meeting Georgia during freshman year orientation at University of Dove Cove. Our mutual obsession with Taylor Swift’s music may have been what first sparked our friendship, but our default to laugh at the silliest things has kept us inseparable ever since. One of the qualities that makes Georgia so special is her thoughtfulness. The way she always makes time for people who she cares about. And how she notices details that are often overlooked by others.

To my dismay, she was already asleep last night when I got back to our small apartment by the Dove Cove marina. So as soon as she walks into the kitchen the next morning, I hand her a cup of coffee, not wasting another second.

“You’re never going to guess who I saw yesterday,” I blurt, feeling like I’m going to burst at the seams.

“Who?” she asks, almost uninterested, but clearly just still half-asleep.

“Enrique!” I eagerly reveal.

“ Who ?” She squints, trying to put a face to the name in her mind.

I guess I’m a little excited.

I take a breath, and then explain, “The guy from Spain who was studying abroad freshman year from my lit class.”

She snorts. “The one who you asked if his last name was Iglesias?”

Now she’s awake .

And of course she also remembers this. “Yes, him.” I sigh. “Anyway, he’s been staying with his cousin who lives here, and he’s leaving today. But he also invited me to stay at his family’s resort in Spain.”

Georgia’s eyes grow as wide as mine were yesterday. “His family owns a resort? Damn.”

“I Googled it last night, and the place is honestly breathtaking. Like for a second I was thinking that I should actually go.”

“To Spain?” She narrows her eyes at me. “ On your own ?”

“What if you came with me?” I ask, trying to make this sound less insane.

She sighs. “I can’t, I’m working. And I don’t have enough vacation hours right now.” When she senses my disappointment, she adds, “I know it sounds fun, but going to Europe by yourself and out of nowhere like this? Isn’t that a bit spontaneous for you?” This is the ultimate Georgia response that I don’t even bat an eye.

“Okay, yes I agree. But it’s a new experience, and I’m just so tired of nothing changing. I feel like I need to do something, and maybe this is my push to finally do it,” I argue.

She looks down at her coffee, taking a long sip. Clearly thinking hard about this. “Actually? Maybe you’re right. Maybe it is the perfect opportunity.”

Georgia is definitely the more logical one out of us two, so I question if I misheard her when her response shifts this quickly, momentarily stunned silent before snapping myself back to the conversation.

“I think it could be great especially since I don’t have a job right now,” I say.

The only time I’ve ever been “laid” is the job I got laid off from two weeks ago as a publicity coordinator at a major publishing company. After the initial shock of losing the closest thing I’ve had to a career faded away, a part of me felt a little relieved, knowing how I wasn’t enjoying the role. Though I wish I still had another job, at least I have the time now to do something I wouldn’t have had before.

“Who knows if I’ll have a chance like this again for a while?” I add, giving Georgia a knowing glance. “And you know how much I liked him.”

“ I know .” She raises her brows and grins. “You wouldn’t stop talking about him for an entire semester.”

“That’s why I’m saying there has to be a reason why I bumped into him. Don’t you think this is fate?” My delusional side is starting to seep through.

And she senses it.

“I wouldn’t exactly make that conclusion yet since you barely know him. But like you said, this could be your chance to experience something new,” she says before walking to the sink and rinsing her coffee mug.

“Exactly,” I say. “Plus I’ve always wanted to go to Spain.”

“Oh your parents are going to love this.”

I groan internally, her words reminding me that it’s Sunday, therefore family dinner tonight. And now suddenly, I’m dreading the inevitable conversation that’ll result from bringing this up to my parents.

“I just know what they’re going to say.” I mimic their predicted condescending tone, “That I’m crazy for even considering it, not to mention also irresponsible and distracted. Then they’ll try to discourage me by pointing out all the reasons why I shouldn’t go.”

“And are you going to let them?” Georgia asks, almost as a challenge.

I reply, “Let them what? ”

“Make this decision for you.”

I bite down on my lip. I don’t want them to make this decision for me. I want to make it for myself .

So all day I find myself debating whether or not I should go. I realize that it would probably be smart to make sure that I didn’t imagine the whole thing. But when I openmy phone, there’s more than just Enrique’s contact information. There’s also a new message from him:

Enrique: Good news, the resort has one suite available still

Jasmine: What a coincidence...

Enrique: Already made up your mind then?

Jasmine: I’ll get back to you on that

When my heart flutters at the sight of his name on my phone screen, I have my answer. I really want to go. The bright side of not going many places means I at least have enough money saved to actually go on this vacation.

I’m just worried about getting there and not knowing what to do. Not just with the whole traveling-by-myself-to-another-continent part. But more so, the possibility of being that close to a guy that I’m attracted to, who I now know might also be interested in me. When I’ve never even gone past sharing glances with a single crush previously. Not between passing periods of university lectures, not at the grocery aisle at my local Trader Joe’s, not ever .

Then there’s my parents’ reaction to the possibility of me traveling like this.

I know, you’re probably thinking, she’s 25 and still has to ask for her parents’ approval to go on a vacation? I would also be thinking the same. Except, it’s a bit more complicated than it sounds.

I think my parents invented the word “strict.” To the point where I felt like I was walking on eggshells for most of my life. More recently, I realize, their relentless scrutiny and control on anything that remotely deviated from what they approved on while I was growing up has scarred me more than I thought. Their rules that often felt impossible to navigate, that now I thankfully no longer need to follow.

So no, there is no requirement to tell them. But it’s expected of me to still share information like this with them. A hidden rule, fueled by years of spiraled anxiety.

Although maybe, just maybe , a small part of me also wants to tell them, hoping it’ll convince them how this would be a great thing for me, to finally face my fears and be more independent the way they always wanted. To make them proud for once . The way I never seemed to do as a kid. Or as a teenager. Or in my early twenties.

Needless to say, waiting at the dining table for the right time to bring up the topic was more stressful than I thought.

After my plan to smoothly ease into the topic desperately failed, my dad places his utensils onto his plate, his patience already starting to diminish just minutes into the conversation.

“Why are you telling us?” he asks, the exhaustion in his eyes standing out, the muscles in his neck tensing up. “You’re an adult.” He crosses his arms. “You can do whatever you want.”

But I know he doesn’t mean any of this. He’s used similar phrases with me ever since I turned 18, more so as something to hold over me knowing that I won’t actually do anything even though I’m old enough. But I don’t want it to work this time.

I take a deep breath and reply, “Because I didn’t want to keep it from you.”

If I had decided not to tell my parents about this vacation, they’d also make it an even bigger deal once they found out that I hid it from them. Another thing that sadly I’ve learned the hard way before that’s led to days of “the silent treatment.” Apparently generational guilt doesn’t disappear even when you’re a financially independent adult no longer living with your parents.

He continues, “But you don’t care that we both think this is a dumb decision to make.”

“It’s not a smart thing to do, Jasmine,” my mom agrees, the few wrinkles that have begun to appear on her forehead over the last couple years somehow looking deeper.

My dad then gives me a stern expression, one that’s so uncanny, it takes me right back to the ones I remember receiving as a kid. “You’re not normal ,” he scolds. “A normal person wouldn’t even suggest something so stupid.”

His words hit me like punches to the gut, exactly like how they would all throughout my adolescence. He looks at my mom and sarcastically adds, “Maybe she should go to Spain by herself? See what problems she’ll face.”

“Now hold on,” my mom says, glaring at him.

I scoff to myself. This is so typical. My father trying to make me less like me and more like him. More normal .

Whatever that means …

Of course he does exactly what he always does next when he’s done with a conversation. He gets up and just leaves .

Once he’s made his way into the living room, his focus now on the television, he adds, “I’m telling you both right now so you’re not surprised later, if anything goes wrong on this trip I don’t want to hear about it.” His voice gets deeper. “Maybe your mom will answer your phone call because I won’t.”

I want to scream. I want to cry. Even though I saw this all coming, it stings just as much hearing it. Part of me now regrets even telling them, the hopeful, na?ve side of me learning a lesson the hard way: to leave well enough alone next time.

“Please keep thinking about it,” my mom tries to convince me as she walks me out the front door not long after dinner. “Don’t rush anything.”

I often wonder if she would have been more lenient with me if it wasn’t for my dad’s input. A part of me thinks so.

I kiss her cheeks before making my way back to my car, to this day not fully grasping our dynamic as a family and even more so why they’ve always been this excessively strict with me. They immigrated to the US before I was born, and I always thought this maybe played a role in wanting to protect our family and me. But I don’t think I can continue justifying their behavior on the basis of their upbringing no matter how much I empathize with them.

The front door locks closed, followed by my deep exhale, the slight chill of the summer night brushing against my cheeks. Disappointing my parents has never been my intention. It wouldn’t be fair to discredit all the positive things that they have done for me: making sure I got a good education, financially supporting me up until recently, and providing me with a life that has been comfortable.

But I’ve also given the better part of my life trying not to disappoint both of them. What I’m realizing is that I will always find a way to mess up something in their eyes. Disappointing myself is no longer an option.

Replaying my father’s words from tonight, I’m reminded that conversations like these are usually the turning point for me. One where my blood boils so hot, my fear starts to fade, and I’m finally willing to make a change. In a way, I’m grateful that they reminded me exactly why I have to go on this trip and why I am going .

Is this a bit irrational? Absolutely. But there are worse thoughtless decisions to make I presume.

Before starting my car, my phone screen glows in the darkness as I shakily craft a hopefully endearing message to send Enrique:

Jasmine: Guess who’s coming to Spain?

Enrique: Is this a trick question?

Jasmine: lol no

Enrique: Wait. Now I have to check if the suite is still available. One moment

This seems like something he’d say playfully. But it’s not exactly easy to detect a person’s emotions through texting, especially a person you don’t know very well. So I say:

Jasmine: I hope you’re joking

Enrique: I already reserved it for you last night...

My heart starts to flutter as I send him a flirtier message that only texting makes me bold enough to do.

Jasmine: Someone’s a little excited to see me again

Enrique: You have no idea

Yeah. I 100% made the right choice in deciding to go. Who cares about the trillion things that could go wrong? Clearly, not me right now.

I almost forgot how it felt to have a crush. The butterflies. The racing heartbeat. The smiling like an idiot at your phone. I may have giggled more in the past 12 hours than I probably have in months. I also may be abruptly traveling for a crush who I barely knew years ago, but if at the very least I can also have a pleasant experience knowing that I’m facing my fears, it just might be worth it.

_________

When I walk through our apartment door, Georgia quickly puts down her phone and asks, “How did it go?”

“As shitty as we expected,” I say, sinking onto the couch.

Her brows crease. “You look happy though?”

“That’s because I’m going.”

She sits up, leaning toward me. “So it’s for sure now?”

“Yes. I booked my flight right after I left their house,” I reply, barely believing my words even as I say them. I’m not sure it’s fully sunk in yet. “I leave in three days.”

In my defense, this was the only flight that was available and decently priced for the next few weeks. Although it’s good that boarding a plane as soon as possible also means less time to overthink all of this.

“In three days ?” Georgia repeats. “Okay. Wow. And when are you coming back?”

“I think a few weeks? I know theReal Madridvs.FC Barcelonagame that we want to go to is in like two weeks so definitely not before that,” I explain.

“Shit. You’re really doing this then,” she says, glancing at me slightly skeptically. But something about the glint in her eyes lets me know that she’s also impressed.

“Yeah. I know. It’s pretty insane,” I admit with a nervous smile.

“I mean, the idea isn’t wild. It’s how quickly you’re leaving. But I get that sometimes you quite literally need to escape.” Her voice softens. “I know last week was pretty tough with the whole job thing. I think you’re going to have a lot of fun in Spain.”

Georgia has a unique way of understanding me when I feel no one else does. And for that I’m forever grateful for her.

“Thank you for your support. As always. It means everything to me,” I tell her.

She grins while getting up from the couch. “Ice cream?” she asks, and I nod as she heads into the kitchen. “Are you excited?”

“Oh, I don’t think I’ll be sleeping until my flight,” I reply. “I’m also pretty fucking scared out of my mind, but what’s new?”

“Don’t be. You got this,” she reassures while scooping the ice cream into bowls. “And if it’s a crappy experience, I’m sure there’s plenty of other guys there that you’ll text me about,” she adds with a smirk.

I laugh. “Please just answer your phone. I have a feeling I’ll be calling you every five minutes.”

Georgia chuckles before walking back to the living room and handing me my bowl of coffee ice cream. “I’ll try my best. Just text me if anything. And most of all, have fun,” she says with the same warm smile I know I’m going to miss the next few weeks.

I lean in to hug her tightly, wishing we’d be going on this trip together.

Closing my eyes, I try my best to forget about all the things that will inevitably bring me anxiety throughout this trip, knowing that if I start going through them one by one I’ll cancel my flight.

So yes, I’m intentionally not considering how I’m about to travel across the globe and stay at a resort in a foreign country by myself. In just three days.

Then there are the more pressing issues like the thought of potentially having my first kiss. Or hooking up. And the unimaginable: losing my virginity .

Already feeling sick after giving these thoughts just a few seconds of my time, I push the negativity out of my mind before it has a chance to ruin this for me, done thinking about the what could have been .

I thought things would change once I turned 18. I wondered if they would get better when I turned 21. But they haven’t.

Everything continues to feel the same as before. And I hate it.

I finally have a chance to do something about it now. Here goes nothing I guess…