Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
We make it to the small town of Tavira in two hours. I enjoy our conversation so much that I don’t realize we’re here until Fernando’s phone says, “Arrived at your destination.”
We agree to stop at the first hotel we find that looks halfway decent along the main road. Luckily it doesn’t take long. We promptly book two rooms, bid one another good night, and crash. My body is so exhausted by this point that I don’t even bother removing my clothes before I fall asleep.
It’s around ten the next morning by the time we’re ready to get back on the road.
“How did you sleep last night, Ava?” Fernando asks me.
“Like Sleeping Beauty. I could’ve slept a hundred years.” I cover a yawn with my hand. “I’m still tired now.”
“That’s the jet lag talking. Trust me, from experience, once we get to Seville and you start walking around, you’ll be wide awake,” he says.
This morning, Fernando hasn’t bothered to shave. His jaw is coated in a thin layer of stubble. It’s a good look for him. I take a deep breath and admire the way the maroon cable-knit sweater and jeans fit him. Late December in Spain is just as cool as Sequoia Valley. It’s in the low sixties.
“Would that be from the experience of traveling for competitions?”
“Yes and no. I did some traveling when I competed, but most of what I know comes from skating with Dreams on Ice. We’d go to a new city every few days. It wasn’t bad in North America, but in Europe it could be tough. There are a lot of time zones spread out over a small area.”
I take a long sip from the cold hotel coffee I brewed an hour ago.
Its bitter taste settles on my tongue. “Dreams on Ice . . . is that the show with all the fairy-tale characters like Sleeping Beauty and Cinderella?” I vaguely remember Daphne taking the kids to see something like that in Fresno a couple months ago.
“Uh-huh. Gemma was Cinderella. And my other friend who lives in Sequoia Valley, Frankie, she was Belle.”
“And who were you?”
“I think the better question is who didn’t I play. I’ve been Prince Charming, the Beast, Aladdin. The list goes on and on. We had more girls than guys, so we always had to double up our roles.”
“Go figure,” I say, trying to picture him in one of those costumes. “You’re full of surprises.”
“Yes, I am,” he boasts, puffing his chest out.
There are so many questions floating through my head. Skating professionally sounds fascinating. “How long did you tour?”
“Ten years, give or take. One with the cruise line and nine with DOI. It was the best way to get out of Spain and see the world. It’s funny, I never saw myself becoming a coach, but there aren’t many alternative jobs if I want to stay involved in skating.”
I knit my eyebrows together. “Oh. I thought you’d enjoy coaching.”
“I do now, but when I was younger, I couldn’t stand the thought of be being stuck in a rink teaching my students the same things day after day. I wanted to get out in front of a crowd and perform.”
I nod. “I can understand that. I spent so many hours locked away in libraries studying when I was an undergrad and in vet school that I couldn’t wait to be done and get out into the field.
Even if somebody paid me a million dollars, I’d never want to go back to a classroom and become a teacher or researcher.
I’ve done enough studying to last a lifetime.
” I take another drink of my awful coffee.
It gets worse with each sip. “I guess my next question is what changed your mind?”
“I matured. The last couple of years I was with Dreams on Ice, I ended up teaching the incoming skaters some of the tricks I’d picked up over the years.
And I enjoyed it. I learned I was dead wrong about coaching.
You don’t do the same things every day. Every student is an individual.
They have different skill levels and learn at different paces. ”
“I’m happy it’s worked out for you.”
“Me too. So far, living and working in Sequoia Valley has been better than I ever could’ve imagined.”
Arriving in Seville around midday, we find another hotel and grab some lunch before setting out to explore the city.
“I don’t know what I was expecting, but Seville is so different compared to Lisbon.” I take out my camera and snap a photo of a couple of orange trees, their branches filled with baby fruits. Fernando, however, is less impressed, mentioning that his hometown has oranges that taste much sweeter.
Just like our last city, we forego using a map and ramble around. Our first stop ends up being one of Seville’s main squares, the Plaza de Espana. My eyes widen as I take in the wide canal and brightly colored mosaic tiles on the surrounding walls. “How many are there?”
“Your guess is as good as mine, but I think there’s close to fifty.” Fernando rubs the back of his neck. “From what I remember, each scene is supposed to represent a different aspect of the region’s food and culture. It was built for a World’s Fair back in the 1920s.”
“When was the last time you were here?”
“When I was fifteen or sixteen. Mamá loves this city. We used to vacation here once a year.”
I study his facial features, noting the lines on his forehead. “You didn’t enjoy it much?”
“It was all right. We came in summer, and it was hot, hot, hot. I remember always feeling sick everywhere we went and counting down the minutes until we could go back to our hotel room, not that there was much relief there either. Most hotels in Europe don’t have air conditioning.
” He grimaces. “I don’t like the heat. I’m cold-blooded, like a reptile. I guess that’s why I love skating.”
“Ouch. I’m not a fan of hot weather either.”
He nods. “One thing I love about living in America is that there’s AC everywhere. I don’t know how I went so long without it!”
I make my own mental note to avoid a return trip to Europe in the summer. Crowds and heat are not my vibes. There’s a reason I’ve always preferred living in the mountains.
We stroll along the water’s edge, passing rowboats drifting lazily under the arched bridges. The sunlight reflects off the water, casting rippling patterns on the ceramic tiles. I stop every few steps to snap photos, each angle more beautiful than the last.
As we turn the corner, we hear the sound of flamenco music. A small crowd has gathered in front of a talented street performer playing a guitar. A few people are dancing.
The upbeat melody has me tapping my hand against my thigh to the beat. “This guy is good.”
“He is,” Fernando agrees, tossing a few euros into his guitar case. The man tips his cap to us in thanks. Fernando turns to me. “Would you care to dance, Ava?”
“Dance?” I sputter. I can’t imagine a worse way to embarrass myself in public. “Like I said the other day, I’m not coordinated.” I point to my sneakers. “I was born with two left feet.”
“It’s just for fun. Trust me, nobody here knows who we are, and they won’t judge us.
You don’t need any skills, just the ability to move your body to the music.
” He gestures to the crowd around us. There are some kids, an older couple, and two people our age.
“So what do you say?” He dips his chin and offers me his hand. His eyes are daring me to dance.
I don’t dance. Or play sports. Period. It’s always ended badly for me.
Like the time I managed to give myself a concussion learning how to do a plié in ballet.
My parents and I are still mystified about how I did that.
But it tells you all you need to know about me.
Daphne was always the athletic one, not me.
Growing up, I was happy to watch from the sidelines.
But that was then, and this is now. I want my Eat, Pray, Love moment.
I swallow hard. If Fernando is going to be my partner, I guess his ice-skating grace can make up for my missteps. A few beads of sweat pool down the back of my neck and under my arms. “All right,” I tell him. “But only this once.”
Fernando’s face breaks out into a wolfish grin. It’s the feature of his I’m the most attracted to. He takes hold of one of my quivering hands and places his other on the small of my back. “Relax,” he says. “Pretend your entire body is Jell-O and follow my lead.”
I hope he doesn’t feel the dampness back there.
I move in closer to his body. My heart is hammering against my ribs.
On beat with the music, he steps forward, forcing me to take a step back.
We repeat this easy motion. His grip is light, but reassuring.
It takes my brain a few moments to figure out that all we’re doing is an easy on-two step.
“There you go, Ava, you’ve got it.” His voice is low and soothing, like a hot cup of tea on a rainy afternoon. “Now you can look up here, instead of at your feet.”
“Oh, um, sorry,” I mumble, lifting my chin. Then I misstep, stomping on his right foot. I inhale sharply and abruptly stop. I hope I haven’t damaged it! He needs his feet in one piece. I drop his hands and take a step back. “I’m so sorry, I . . . I . . . I didn’t mean to.”
“I know you didn’t,” he says calmly. “You were doing great up until you started to second-guess yourself. Let’s try again. And this time, trust your body. Focus on me. Let your mind go blank and listen to the music.”
“I can’t believe you want to try this again.”
“Everybody has to start somewhere,” he says.
Taking hold of my hands once more, he guides me through the one-two step again. “There it is,” he whispers. “I have you. I won’t let anything happen to you. Now look at me.”
Dry swallowing, I hesitantly lift my chin, locking gazes with him. His brown eyes are wide, like an owl’s. They’re laser focused on me. He does have me. He won’t let me fall.
“Yes,” his voice nearly purrs.
My eyes close and I open my ears. I hear the guitar and its soft melody. I let go, fully give in to Fernando’s instructions, letting my body do what it wants. My brain empties and I become that smooth Jell-O.