Chapter 13
Chapter thirteen
Two Days Later
The green hills fold into each other beyond the terrace.
A bell rings from the village below, its echo winds through the vines.
I think of home, of my father who taught me to taste before I could read a recipe. I miss my parents. My sister and my brother too. Even the restaurant, though I’m truly enjoying this time off.
On the other hand, I’ve never been happier. Everything moves slower here. Meals stretch, laughter lingers, flavors breathe. Santiago keeps finding ways to show me food doesn’t need to impress. It needs to mean something.
Somewhere between these hills and his loving, I remember why I fell in love with cooking in the first place.
He left twenty minutes ago to pick up dinner from a little bodega down the road. We’ve had enough artfully plated tasting menus. Tonight, we both want grease and garlic. Something simple we can eat with our hands.
While I wait for him to get back, I’m curled into a chair on the terrace of our boutique hotel checking messages, a wine glass filled with cava in my hand. I haven’t looked at my phone in days and when I do it’s blown up with texts and voicemail.
All Marcella.
Easily fifty texts, a few threatening to fly from Seattle if I don’t give her proof of life. There’s a few dozen voicemails, one from about an hour ago where she threatens, “answer your phone or I will end you.”
I grin and push FaceTime. It connects instantly.
“Okay, okay. I’m alive. Please don’t call Interpol.”
There’s a beat of stunned silence. Then—“Holy shit. You’re not in a ditch.”
I can’t help but laugh heartily. “Not even close.”
“Where are you?” Her face fills the screen, long chestnut hair wound up in a bun.
“In wine country. Outside Barcelona.”
Another beat. Then she quirks a brow. “There’s a man.”
“How do you know?” My cheeks redden.
“Uhhh…you’ve gone totally off-grid, your voice sounds raspy from sex and lack of sleep, and you’re drinking wine somewhere rural?” She tsks me through her teeth. “Oh, there’s a man.”
“Fine.” I shrug and take a sip of wine, unbothered. “Yes.”
Marcella exhales like she’s been holding her breath for days. “Tell me everything.”
I don’t tell her everything. Only the basics like we met in first class on the flight over. Talked for six straight hours. He asked me to meet him for wine after his business meetings, I said yes, we slept together and haven’t been apart since.
By siphoning out the details, I’ll admit the story sounds trite.
I don’t tell her how it felt when he looked at me like I wasn’t just Rosa the chef.
I don’t say how the minute we kissed, my body remembered something my brain hadn’t caught up to yet.
I don’t try to explain how he touches me like I’m fragile and feral at the same time.
Or the way he looks at me like he’s memorizing every breath I take.
Instead, I tell her we’ve been traveling and how I’ve seen the sunrise from Tibidabo, stood in a cloister so quiet I forgot how to breathe. About the best garlic shrimp of my life. And the quaint plaza where old men drink vermut and kids kick soccer balls into fountains.
When I mention he introduced me to his family, how his mother cooked dinner and I met his brother, sister-in-law, their kids, Marcella whistles. “This isn’t a fling.”
I nod. “I know.”
“You sound different.”
I pause. “Different how?”
“Like someone opened a window in you.” She looks at me moony-eyed. “I’m so happy for you.”
I press my thumb to the rim of my wine glass and watch a drop of condensation slide down the side. “You, Mom, and Dad were right. I needed to leave. I needed air.”
“Damn straight you did. We were tired of watching you disappear.” She looks up over her shoulder at her husband, Seamus, who waves at me from the background.
I wave back. “I didn’t realize how far gone I was.”
“You were a ghost, Ro.” Marcella shakes her head. “Beautiful. Successful. Exhausted. You hadn’t sounded like you in a long time.”
“You guys booked a first-class seat like you were sending me to rehab.”
“We were.” She points at me. “Seems like it worked.”
I laugh and recline back in my chair, holding up the phone so she can see my view. “You know what’s wild?”
“What?”
“I’m…so happy.”
Marcella doesn’t speak for a beat. When she does, her voice is thick. “I’ve waited a long time to hear you say that.”
We talk a little longer about the food, the towns, the way he looks at me like I’m a discovery he gets to keep making. She doesn’t ask for explicit details, but I can hear the joy in her voice when I say things like, “He listens.” Or, “He doesn’t flinch when I go on a tangent about over-salting.”
At the end of our call, she warns, “I know all of this seems sudden and your head hasn’t caught up to your heart yet. Promise me you won’t run. Don’t sabotage whatever you’re building because you’re scared. Enjoy being in love.”
“Okay.” My heart beats a bit faster. “I won’t.”
Marcella scowls. “Knowing you, it’s possible. If you do, call me. I’ll set you straight.”
When I hang up, the sun is sinking behind the hills, casting everything in a warm light.
I hear the crunch of gravel.
Santiago comes around the side of the terrace, holding two paper bags and an unlabeled bottle of wine. His shirt sleeves are rolled to his elbows, forearms tanned. His smile, when he sees me, is pure sunlight.
“You’re going to be excited. They let me have the last order of anchovies.” He lifts the bag. “I’m officially the best boyfriend in the world.”
I step toward him before he can say another word. “I love you.”
He blinks in wonder. The same expression every time I tell him the truth.
Then his voice drops, reverent. “Rosa,” he breathes. “I love you too.”
The paper bag crinkles between us as he sets it down and pulls me into his arms. I feel his heart through his chest. Mine matches it beat for beat.
Whatever I thought love was before, this is more.
It’s salt and air and time.
It’s garlic on my fingers and wine on my tongue.
It’s him.