Leaving Me Behind Read online

  Peeling myself off the bed, I head to the shower, leaving my thoughts behind. While I let the warm water cascade warmly over me and wash away my concerns, I start to put together a small list in my head of the first things to do, and in the same breath, I order myself to stop. This is my thing. Lists, organizing, analyzing – the things that never really let my mind indulge in the beauty that is tranquility.

  My life is nicely tacked into organized, methodical, unyielding neat lists. But the only list I actually allow myself to spend precious mental energy on right now is the list of my many strict rules I should start disobeying.

  I stop the water and stand still for a few minutes, letting the last drops roll down to the floor till goosebumps start covering my skin. Wrapping a big, soft towel that smells soothingly fresh around me, I return to the inviting, vast bed. The tension gradually fades into the mattress as I drift into pre-sleep mode. And just before closing my eyes, I do what I do best, worry, about everything.

  The unfamiliar, yet welcomed, sound of waves crashing to shore funnels through the shades and slowly brings me to resurface from my deep night’s sleep. Excited like a little girl ready to accost her mother’s make-up kit, I hurry out of bed. Wrapping the thin bed sheet around my bare body, (sleeping naked, something new and liberating I explored last night) I nearly skip toward the window. I pull the sheer cream curtain aside, allowing the picturesque view in. The day is soft and bright, a perfect background to the ocean’s palette of clear blues. My lips stretch in utter bliss.

  I take a deep breath, closing my eyes, tilting my head back, and fill my lungs with the purest, fresh air. I slightly part the sheet covering me for the light breeze to caress my skin as I take in the magnificence revealed before me. A new sensation overwhelms me. Of adventure, tranquility, and excitement.

  A glimpse of a movement in my peripheral view prompts my eyes to narrow sideways. As my mind registers the full picture, I find myself gaping at a smiling, handsome face that nods my way.

  My eyes collect the visuals of the body of lean muscles in motion, running on the smooth sand. The details quickly set in place: tanned, tall, toned muscles alluringly gleaming with sweat, and the most significant ornament, one hell of a teasing, sexy smile.

  He slows to a light jog and winks my way. When I realize that while I was too occupied gawking, I let go of the sheet covering me, I flinch and drop to my knees, mortified. Nevertheless, I still manage to catch a snippet of his lips stretching wider. Much wider. Oh, good Lord, I just flashed the guy.

  Still mentally recuperating from the crime I’ve committed, innocent or not, there’s still an exposure harassment tinting my records now. With nothing more to do about it, I turn to start the day. I shrug on a simple, navy cotton dress and my turquoise sandals. Having a mini, new-territory panic attack, I text Kai.

  Me: Okay, I’m here. What the hell do I do now?

  Kai: Chillax and start enjoying yourself. No overthinking is allowed, neurotic love o’ mine.

  Me: I love you!

  Kai: I know.

  I grab my bag, shove in the new spiral notebook that I’ve recently purchased for the purpose of putting to paper the journey I’ve begun, as instructed by Dr. Smartass, and lock the door behind me.

  . . .

  The old town seems like a great place to start. I stop my jaunt at a relatively busy, charming courtyard surrounded by a maze of narrow alleys with a white marble fountain as its center. A stone’s throw from the old town square, I look for a café where I can burrow; somewhere I can come up with some sort of an unplanned plan. A slightly tattered, but charming sign draws my attention, Café con Aroma it reads. And really, what’s better than coffee, especially one with an aroma?

  The moment I set foot in the café, I feel at home. One of those welcoming, cluttered spaces in which the owner’s tone emits even from the tiniest of items. A theme of books and everything antique dominates the cozy place with a dash of shabby chic décor. I take in the scent of roasted coffee, vanilla, cinnamon, and a whole lot of baked goodies with a soft smile. At lightning speed, I am hopelessly falling in love with the place.

  I head straight to the counter to place an order for a large cup of café con leche. Startled, I flinch back when a flying towel hits the innocent surface mere inches from where I’m standing with a loud whipping thud. My eyes shoot up to deep cleavage and a wild mane of curls that breathes a curse. A very creative one. I have to give it to the composer.

  “And eat?” The clipped question doesn’t seem to be uttered to anyone in particular.

  Seeing as I’m the only one waiting to be served, I offer an answer. “Ahem, not at the moment, thanks. Too early.” I try to set my lips into a smile, fearing a second-wave attack. The lady turns her back to me while mumbling to herself. She continues doing so as she works the coffee machine. I can’t help but gape at her, enthralled. She couldn’t be more exasperated, and she has no reservations about letting the world know. She sets my order on a flower-decorated tray and slides it over to me. Her eyes are on me. However, her focus seems to be elsewhere. I murmur, “Thanks,” and look for a place to sit.

  A heavenly aroma indeed saturates the coffee, a roasted, semi-burned, earthy one. I take a sip and savor the taste, gazing at the mildly busy street with its buzz of people starting their day. There’s a lady hanging her laundry up to dry in a second-floor window of an old gothic-style building. The florist in the shop next door to the café arranges a bundle of long-stemmed, vibrant yellow sunflowers in a bucket next to the shop’s door, while people in business attire with phones stuck to their ears pass by local business owners opening their shops for the new day. I smile at the guy on the bicycle with the messenger bag who throws a bundle of newspapers tied with string to the pavement, and I turn to set my notebook before me. Opening it to the first page, I flatten the little gutter with the back of my hand. I fetch a pen and a pencil from my bag, as I haven’t decided yet what’ll work best for me.

  Where do I even begin? A date? A date is always a good start. Telepathically, I send my beloved shrink a wish of misfortune for making me do this. Nonetheless, I still write today’s date on the upper left side of the blank page. I tap the pen on the notebook and gaze outside. Nothing seems to come to my mind. I take another sip of coffee and turn to scratch off some dried grains stuck to the sugar holder. Focus, I need to focus. What on God’s green Earth should I write about? I force myself to concentrate, but a disturbing, creepy feeling of someone watching me prevents that. Slowly, my eyes turn to scan the room.

  My gaze doesn’t just land on the person watching me; it literally slams flat on a pair of dark eyes that intensely bore into me. Instinctively, mine cast down, but there’s something much more powerful that pulls them right back to the “dark source.” The epitome of masculinity blatantly traces every curve and line of my face . . . and generous front. He doesn’t tear his stare from me, watching me intently from across the space while waiting to be served. I shake the spell away and order myself to look the other way, anywhere.

  I bite the pencil, doing my very best to focus my attention on the white sheet that now proudly holds a date. I twist my lips, absorbed with the blank page. I shift between my crossed legs and readjust to an upright position. I send my hands to my hair and rapidly twist it into a messy bun, securing it with my pen. Still sensing those dark eyes on me, I start to scribble nonsense on the page. I write focus, dammit in big, bold letters and retrace the lines repeatedly to thicken the words.

  A shadow veiling me prompts me to tilt my head up, up to a wall of low jeans and a simple black button-down. Though, I promise you this – nothing about the total look is even the slightest bit simple. I trail my eyes higher, right to a hint of a teasing smile on lips that just scream festivities. He smiles with a spark and my eyes melt at the dimple sinking into his semi-shaven, mocha cheek. He looks familiar, but I can’t place him. Although, how can anyone look familiar when my seniority in this town hasn’t even passed the forty-eight hours mark?
>
  Feeling less at ease with every passing second of intense staring, I murmur a tentative, “Umm . . . Hey.” A glee of amusement that seems to be a product of my discomfort touches his stare. Involuntarily, my eyes take a short, detailed tour of his face. Frankly, what is a girl to do when a whole lot of attractiveness showcases before her to admire? Her only choice is to appreciate the goods, right? Anyway, any other action would be disrespectful and ungrateful to the gods of supreme male creation. And the last thing I’d ever do is mess with anything that’s holy. So, drink him up I do. He is beyond handsome, in an embodiment of virility kind of way.

  There’s nothing refined about him. He’s all rough, sharp, and dripping of sin. Tan skin. His eyes warm; luring pools of dusky brown framed by thick, black lashes. It’s more than evident his nose was broken. Nonetheless, it just adds the necessary touch of roughness. And . . . hand on heart, who doesn’t really healthily appreciate roughness? His dark hair seals the heart speeding deal with a crew-cut style.

  “Hola,” he finally answers after giving me a much more blatant scanning, a bit on the molesting side. The tip of his tongue reaches to stroke the edge of his front tooth. His look makes me think he might have been in a serious fight, one that has left him imperfectly, perfect.

  “May I?” His hand tentatively inches toward me.

  Ah? I gape at his hand frozen in mid-air, aiming toward my . . . hair? At this point, I literally squirm, my eyebrows melding into one, and I bite my cheek. Slowly my head tilts sideways in question. In place of an answer to my wordless muddle, he moves his hand to the pen holding my hair and gently pulls it out. A warm tremor trickles up my spine as I study him watching my golden strands as they cascade down my shoulders. I blink, more than once, and swallow hard as his eyes caress the sight of me, sluggishly trailing back to my eyes. I gaze back at him, entranced. Gone is my breath. Present is a tidal current in my stomach.

  “I like it better this way,” a thick, somewhat strained voice ringing with a delicious Spanish accent explains. While I’m struggling to remember what comes first, the inhale or the exhale part and how to get damn air back to my lungs, he reaches for a cluster of my now loose hair, making my attempt at breathing even more of a challenge. He plays with the lock, threading it between his fingers, watching the action attentively. If I wasn’t in a seductively heated stupor, I might have pushed his hand away, or at least done something, anything. He is a complete stranger, after all. Hair or not, alluring as he is, I don’t let complete strangers touch me, ever.

  “See you around,” he says next, letting the little bundle of hair drop back. I watch him motionless as he retraces his steps back to the counter, gives the lady at the register a heart-melting grin as he grabs his paper cup, and heads to the door. He sends me a glance over his shoulder and steps out to the street.

  I absently take another sip of my coffee, this time a tad too generous, resulting in a first-degree burn of my tongue. Shit.

  Did that just hit on me?

  And I can easily crystallize my doubt by going back to the fundamentals of my so-called relationships throughout my “dating life.” The prototype of the guys I usually saw/dated/was in a relationship with were, as painful as it is to admit, hotness challenged. Smart? Yes, all of them. Cute? Yep, some less, some more. Attractive? You can say that, mainly in the geeky-chic spectrum. Heart racing virile? Sadly enough, never.

  All of my relationships, starting from my first boyfriend in junior high to the last one I broke up with merely a few months ago were always too serious, happened too fast but, yet banal and painfully so, lacked passion. Better described as some sort of an out of convenience and lack of energy from both sides consensually coupling. Life was too demanding to even have the time or will to be picky. For a very long time, I wasn’t “looking for something,” I was more into “settling on someone.” Most of my men were always about my age, and all had the same interests as me. I usually met them through work, and it was always just too ordinary. I think I can count on one hand the number of times I had sex with the light on.

  “I apologize for before.” The towel whipper lodges herself into the chair opposite mine. Surprised, still reeling from the hot-stuff typhoon, I send a questioning look her way. “For being a loud mess before.” She waves her hands dismissively. There is only one word to describe the spectacle opposite me. Exuberant. And that’s putting it mildly.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I return with a thin smile, still assessing her, and her choice to sit next to me out of the many vacant tables. My stare gets caught by her smile. With the shortest of peeks, it transferred so much. Her smile is a smile from within. By this smile and this smile alone, I know she is truly content.

  “Oh, embrace it. I don’t usually do apologizing,” she adds; her accent vividly tints each and every word. She raises an eyebrow and lightly laughs.

  Something about her makes my lips pull up on their own accord.

  “C’mon, I’m a woman, aren’t we always right?” She winks and my smile broadens. “Vivian.” She extends her hand to me. I shake it while studying her vibrant features. She has an untamed halo of black curls, big, almond-shaped hazel eyes, and one of those sexy moles just inches below her left eye.

  “Liv.” I return the gesture.

  “So, did you sign up for my cooking lessons yet?”

  I find myself momentarily searching my brain, questioning if I was supposed to do so, if there was anything I missed.

  “No?” I ask tentatively.

  “So you must! Now. It’s even in English . . . sometimes. You can start tonight.”

  Something about this person makes it hard to say no. She just pulls you in. Scratch that, hoovers you in. And before I manage to let out a single word, she adds, “It’s Catalan food, muy deliscioso!”

  And who can really argue with very delicious? Obviously I can’t, hence my size twelve. Yep, momma’s “concerns” are deeply entrenched.

  “Well, I can’t say no to that.” My smile gets wider. I like her. A lot.

  “Excelente! So, when did you move here?” she asks next, rearranging the salt and pepper shakers, and the little white vase that holds a single red chrysanthemum.

  “What makes you think I’m not a tourist?”

  “Tourists around here smile like the sun radiates from their throats. You, querida, have some sort of a lost Bambi air about you.”

  “Thanks, I guess . . .”

  She laughs it off. “I like you, Liv.” She glances at me and pivots to tell the girl currently working the register, “Estrellas,” raising two fingers, and in a place of a thank-you, she winks.

  The Estrellas, which I quickly learn are local beer, don’t take long to arrive. I can’t help but think she didn’t even bother asking if I’m into alcohol at eleven freaking thirty in the morning. Well . . . when in Rome, drink as the Romans do. Vivian produces a bottle opener from a pocket in her apron. “Cheers.” She winks again. I nod and take a sip.

  “So, you were telling me your story.” She narrows lit eyes at me.

  I smile and take another substantial mouthful. Uncharacteristically, I tell her but just the highlights. When I arrived and the overall reason, more precisely, the official one I choose to publicize. Mainly, a vague, “I’m on a sabbatical, looking to improve my Spanish and to get to know this beautiful country.” She eyes me for a lengthened moment, making zero effort to look even remotely convinced.

  “We’ll get there,” she says idly and puts her bottle on the table. I don’t answer and instead overtly turn to look at my notebook. “I’ll let you get back to whatever I stopped you from doing.” She gestures with her chin to the notebook. “So, tonight the cooking lesson, you join us!”

  “I think, I will,” I answer, returning her stare.

  “It starts at seven, come at six thirty. That’s when we start drinking.” She gives me a crafty smile before heading to the back of the café. I watch her as she sways away and can’t‎ help my thoughts from drifting back to the short encou
nter I had before she joined me. A bulb lights up in my head. Oh shit, of course. Dark Intense was familiar, and it’s no surprise that he acted borderline creepy. I. Flashed. Him. Earlier.

  . . .

  It takes me a while to convince myself to join the cooking class. Eventually, the part of me arguing against embracing old habits, meaning indulging in a comfy bed and TV, wins but only by the minimal required votes. A few hours later, I end up showing up at the café a bit after six thirty.

  “She’s here,” Vivian’s vibrant voice throws everyone’s attention my way.

  I wave, rather self-conscious. “Hi.”

  Five pairs of scrutiny-embedded eyes give me a thorough once-over. The youngest of the group, a freckled, sweet looking redhead, sends me a warm smile.

  “I’m Embar,” she says, inching my way for a handshake.

  “Dominique Bouchon.” An elegant, absurdly thin, blonde half smiles.

  “Alma-Maria,” says a woman with a bouncy, stylish, shoulder length ‘do who seems to be my age. She eyes me with a “new female to assess” look.

  “Stephania . . . Stephy,” says a fleshy, sweetly smiling beautiful lady. I return the same welcoming gesture.

  “I’m Liv; nice to meet you all.” I smile at all the sets of eyes that look my way.

  “Bon, now dzat we got formalities out of dze way, what are you drinking?” asks Mrs. Elegance, the refined blonde, in a somewhat conceited French accent. I blink, still cataloging each of them in my head.