19. Eve

CHAPTER 19

EVE

M arco's Barcelona race got rained out, pushed back two days while the track dried out. He said he was used to that sort of thing happening, but I could see he was tense with his schedule off-whack.

"We should go out," I said. "Get your mind off it."

He didn't seem to hear me, gazing out at the rain. It fell in gray curtains, scouring the streets. When I leaned up against him, I felt him shiver.

"This place makes me nervous," he said with a sigh.

"Because Rafael's here?"

"Rafael who?" He tipped me a wink, but he seemed distracted. "It always rains when I come here. Every damn time. My first race here got rained out three times. Some kind of record rain, a year's worth in a month."

"It won't do that this time."

"It better not." Marco scowled at the sky. "I've got other races. I can't wait around here."

I could feel his mood blackening, his patience worn thin. I rose up on tiptoe to kiss the back of his neck. "What do you usually do when your race gets rained out?"

He leaned back against me. "Depends on the city. But here… Never mind."

I perked up, sensing a story. "No, tell me. Here, what?"

Marco shook his head. I kissed my way up his neck. He chuckled, a low sound deep in his chest.

"You can't tease it out of me."

I nipped his ear. "Can't I?"

"Maybe you can." He turned to face me, a smile breaking through. "Would you laugh if I told you I'm superstitious?"

I laughed, not at that, but at the idea I would laugh. That I'd be surprised, knowing him as I did. "You have your whole ritual before every race. You think it's bad luck to leave your hat on the bed. I've seen you in restaurants, throwing salt on the floor."

"Over my shoulder, not on the floor."

"What else is back there, besides the floor?"

Marco's smile turned sheepish. "The devil," he said. "You throw the salt back to blind him, salt in his eye."

I bit my lip hard to keep from laughing again. "So, what does that have to do with rain in Barcelona?"

"My first race was here, my first real event. My first one with real money up for grabs. It was like an audition, to see how I'd do. If I placed, I'd get sponsorships. An agency contract. I'd launch my career. If I lost, I wouldn't, so this place feels… fateful. Especially when it rains like this, when I'm just stuck here. I usually, uh…" He looked away.

"What?"

"You know, recreate it. I stay at the hotel I stayed at back then, eat at the same places. Do everything the same. That way, it feels like I'll win the same too."

A rush of warmth came over me, sudden affection. Marco led with his cocky side, but that wasn't all of him. I leaned up and kissed him on his rough jaw. "Let's do it, then. Eat where you ate."

He shook his head. "No, we can't."

"Why not?"

"Because I wasn't rich then. I ate fast food. I stayed in pokey hotel rooms, not giant suites. I couldn't put you through that."

"You think I don't eat fast food?"

Marco stared at me like he was taking my measure. His expression was one I hadn't seen before, halfway between amusement and deep regret. I flicked some lint off of his shoulder and straightened his shirt.

"Look, you're the one racing. You have your routine. If it makes you more confident, you need to do that. I can always come back here if I hate your hotel. Eat somewhere else if I hate your fast food. But I want to see it. Decide for myself."

Marco stood for a moment, still undecided, then threw up his hands. "You know what? Let's do it."

He cadged an umbrella from the front desk, and we stepped out together into the rain. I thought he'd take us to some chain you'd find anywhere, somewhere reliably cheap. Instead, he walked us through narrow side streets, the kind where the paving was ancient and cracked, full of deep puddles which he handed me over.

"There was a Greek place right here," he said, pointing where a café was. "They had gyros this big, two for two euros." He held his hands eight inches apart. "They closed down last year, though, so now it's croissants. The ham ones are filling, two-fifty each."

I had my doubts, but I'd come this far. I strutted inside. The café was cleaner than it looked from outside, smelling warmly of lunch meat and freshly baked bread. Marco peered at the menu and his mouth drew down.

"They went up to three euros for the croissants."

"Inflation," I said. "I'll pay if you want."

Marco shook his head. "It's not that I can't pay. It's… it's not the same." He scanned down the menu, then beckoned the server. "I'll get a Coke, and the salami roll."

I saw the salami roll was priced at two-fifty. I ordered one too, and a lemon tea. Marco found us a table up front, by the window. He unwrapped his sandwich, bit into it, and sighed. I tried mine more gingerly and found it dry and greasy, but no worse than any hangover food.

"Not bad," said Marco. "But I miss those gyros. I made two stretch four days, my first time here."

I almost choked on my sandwich. "Two for four days?"

Marco groaned. "Yeah."

"Not just those, though, right?"

He laughed bleakly. "Just those."

"What about your hotel? They didn't serve breakfast?"

His laughter rose louder. I flapped at him.

"What?"

"Eve, I was poor. I came up from nothing. My first sponsor was my aunt, who ran a garage, and it took all she had to just get me started. I got here that first time with two hundred euros, and that was to last me three days, till my race. Then it got pushed back and pushed back again, and by the time the rain stopped, I was hungry . The guy at the hotel let me stay three days on credit, betting I'd win and come back and tip big. But if I hadn't…" He wiped crumbs off his shirt. I stared at him dumbstruck, uncomprehending.

"I don't get it," I said. "You have a huge family. Your uncle in fashion, the one who's a baker. Surely, they?—"

"No. It was different back then." His tone had gone harsh. I caught my breath.

"Different how?"

Marco's jaw was tight. He looked away. "Different, is all. We fell out of touch. It was just me and Ma when I was starting. But that's in the past now, so— so let's drop it."

I reached out for him slowly, afraid he'd pull back. But when I slid my hand over his, I felt him relax. The storm clouds scattered from over his head, not all at once, but by degrees. I watched his nostrils flare as he breathed deep, his chest rise and fall as he found his calm. I'd touched on a sore subject, that much was clear.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I shouldn't have pried."

"I shouldn't have brought you here. Into this mess."

I twined my fingers with his. Squeezed his hand. "What mess?"

He jerked his head at the menu, as if that explained it. As if the low prices were the key to his past.

"Here's how I see it," I said. "I asked to come. And you brought me to this clean, friendly café. You got me a sandwich, which, trust me. I've had worse. If this is your mess, that you had to eat here once… which is more embarrassing, this or Rafael? Me ripping my wedding dress to get away?"

Marco's lips twitched at that, halfway to a chuckle.

"I don't care if you were poor, or if your family's dramatic. Whose isn't? You've met mine, remember?"

Marco let out a long breath, loud through his teeth. His shoulders went lax, like his strings had been cut. "I think this was enough, though. To count for my ritual. We can go back to our real hotel with our soft beds. I'm not so superstitious I need a sore back."

We both laughed at that, and with the release of tension. By the time we'd finished eating, the rain had eased off. The sun broke through the clouds and lit up the streets. Where they'd seemed gray and decrepit, they now seemed quaint. Cheerful. Looking up at a stone arch, I tripped over a flagstone. Marco caught me and steadied me before I could fall, and pulled me to him. We kissed in the shadow of the old, crumbling arch, and my first thought was, had somebody whipped out their phone? I tilted my head up to catch the light better, but when Marco pulled back, the street was deserted. No one was watching us, much less taking pictures.

I smiled, stood on tiptoe, and kissed him again. We kissed some more in an alcove as a fish truck rolled by, then held hands picking our way through the puddled back streets. The setup was perfect for rainy-day selfies, cuddling in doorways, sharing one umbrella, but I didn't want to whip out my phone. I didn't want to shatter the fun, playful mood. Marco was smiling, his glumness forgotten. Telling stories from races across his career. When he got to an exciting part, he gripped my hand tighter, or turned to smile at me and catch my eye. The air crackled between us, the day ripe with promise. Something had shifted, something between us. Like our last pretenses dropping away. All that remained was to put words to the feeling: we're real, aren't we? This between us, it's real.

"Let's go in through the kitchen when we get back." Marco frowned in the direction of our hotel. "I don't want to deal with the press today, or people with phones."

My heart leaped. "Me neither. Maybe it's enough?"

Marco's brow furrowed. "What's enough?"

"With the promo shots from our commercial going viral. It's not going to get any better than that, so maybe… maybe it's mission accomplished? We've got our revenge, so we can enjoy this."

I couldn't make sense of Marco's reaction, a bright smile, then confusion, then his mouth turned down. Then he laughed, took my hands, and spun me into his arms. His kiss was rough. Fierce and demanding. I bit his lip, wanting. He bit mine back. I savored the tiny, sharp prick of pain, then the slow sweetness as his kiss turned gentle.

"We should get inside," he growled. "If we're done showing off." He glanced down the alley and I saw we had an audience, an old man and woman walking their dog. I broke out giggling and we ran hand in hand, round the side of the hotel and in through the kitchen, up the side stairs to our shared suite. He flung me down on the bed and I pulled him with me, down in a tangle of laughter and limbs.

"This should be my new ritual." His breath tickled my skin. "You and me, this. I'd never lose."

My heart raced at that. His new ritual. Race after race, stretching out to forever. I'd never let him lose. I'd keep him so happy.

"I'll be there," I gasped. "Your biggest fan."

"Yeah, scream for me…" He tugged my shirt open. I moaned as he leaned down to tease me through my bra. I'd scream for him, yes, and after the race — after he'd won, and it was just us — I'd seize my moment to tell him yes. Yes. If he wanted me, he'd have me, his loudest cheerleader. The real thing, no games, as long as we wanted.