Chapter 2
Lucia
Geneva, Switzerland
The familiar green and yellow flag flaps in the wind above the stadium. The television screen flickers and with the press of a button a rink of ice and padded men replaces my team. A shout of approval comes from a table of raucous Americans. Charly O’Neills, the pub closest to my work, is known as the best Irish bar in all of Switzerland. As such, it attracts tourists occasionally.
Coming here is a force of habit, and one I’m not too keen to break. It’s convenient and I know the bartender well. As William readies my wine, I tap the What’s App icon on my phone.
Aunt Aline: It’s done! We are now the proud owners of a home with a pool!
A photograph frames my aunt’s beaming face. She and my uncle recently retired and found a home not too far from the coast in Portugal.
Me: I can’t wait to come visit.
As I tap out the response, a heaviness centers on my chest. How many times did Mae promise to come visit? Time is the thief of promises planned for one day.
William slides a glass of wine across the wooden bar. “Long day?”
He’s lived in Geneva as long as I have, but his British accent is as strong as ever. All the Americans mistake William for Irish, which is lucky given he’s found employment in an Irish bar. I answer his daily question with a brief nod and a smile, and then he’s off to fill a drink order.
There’s no response on my screen, not that I expect one. I hope they’re out celebrating. Buying a home, the home they plan to spend the rest of their lives in, is momentous. Aline is my mother’s second cousin, but she’s also a second mother. She was under no obligation to take me in, but she did. She’s not my aunt, but we call all the women our mothers are close to aunts. To her children, all older than me, I was a nuisance. To her, I was undoubtedly a burden. Another mouth to feed and yet another child to look after. But she and Geraldo never made me feel like less. They treated me like a daughter, and I love them for it.
A group of boisterous men shout at the televisions lining the back wall as William approaches with a stack of menus. Charly O’Neills, like most places in Geneva, offers French and English menus. William is fluent in French, but he shares my preference for English. Portuguese, my native tongue, isn’t often spoken in Switzerland. Of course, at twenty-eight, I’ve spent more than half my life in English-speaking countries. Sometime during primary school, I began dreaming in English.
I watch as the young man at the head of the table asks for the English menus. One of his friends says, “Hector, je comprends French.” I suspect he’s trying to say you comprehend French, but he’s off on his translation.
Another one of his friends opens a tour guide book and reads aloud, articulating the words vociferously. “Je ne comprends pas.” The table rips into raucous laughter.
“I want to go back to Amsterdam,” one guy shouts to no one in particular.
I shift on my stool, positioning my back to the table, and scroll on my mobile to touch base with friends.
Me: Any update on the job?
Kehlani is one of my dearest friends, but she had to return to the States. Her company doesn’t allow employees to live abroad in one country for more than seven years. She’s now in New Jersey, interviewing for positions within the company. It’s an odd policy, but she’s pretty much guaranteed to find something. Which is better than I can say. I’ve been casually watching job postings and applying, but as an EU citizen, my prospects are best in an EU country, and the job hunt has been slow going.
Me: Almost Friday. Big plans for the weekend?
Rowan is another one of my friends who recently left Geneva for another job. She took a job in Mumbai at a Lumina competitor. She’s offered to keep an eye out for jobs for me, but I’d prefer to remain in the EU.
Thanks to the time difference, it’s late for both Kehlani and Rowan, so I don’t expect an answer until morning.
“That’s a sad face if I’ve ever seen one.”
I regard the red-faced man leaning against the bar, presumably for stability, knowing if he becomes too bothersome, William, my burly friend, will send him on his way.
“Too good to speak to me, is that it, then?”
“Leave her alone mate,” William says, looking over his shoulder as he fills a pint with brew.
“Do you speak English?”
“Non,” I answer, affecting my best French accent.
“Huh.” The guy stares at me and stumbles. Judging from his glazed eyes, he’s still processing my answer.
“Brady…come back to the table,” a man in a jersey with a thermal underneath it yells. “Leave the lass alone.”
The six men at the table appear to be in their early twenties. And despite the use of the word lass, the accent is distinctly American. Based on the ruddy cheeks and booming voices, my guess is they’ve shared multiple rounds of Heinekens.
Watching them reminds me of times spent with my friends at university. I miss those days. Switzerland has been an adventure, but there’s no denying I’m at yet another transition. My close friends here have moved on. The club scene no longer appeals. The Swiss are polite, but at least in my office, the groups are subdivided. There are the expats, those who aren’t from Switzerland, and then there are the Swiss. In the last couple of years, I’ve noticed additional divisions. Marrieds and singles. Those with kids and without. Those just out of university and those who’d rather not stay out until the wee hours on a work night.
I trace the stem of my wineglass, contemplating my dwindling circle of friends. I’m not lonely, but I’m not particularly happy. Perhaps it’s boredom. Or a general feeling of discontent from watching my friends make big moves. It’s been months and nothing in my life has changed. I haven’t changed. My situation hasn’t changed since I moved out on my own.
I need this a job. Or at least, I need a reliable job. One day my father and brother will be released from prison and I’ll need to send them money. I sent Mae money for years and I’ll do the same for them.
I close my eyes and envision the future. Me with a better job, in an executive role, possibly in Lisbon or Paris. My father and brother out of prison, working legitimate jobs and leading fulfilling lives. Me on vacation with no cares or worries. In my mind’s eye, the sun reflects off crystal clear swimming pool water and my toes relax against a plush towel on a lounge chair. No, I wouldn’t sit in a lounge chair. I would swim. And just like that, my vision changes and I’m in the pool, the water gliding around me while I bask in the warm sun.
“William, I’d like a glass of what she’s having.”
The deep intonations shake me from my reverie, and I take in the nearby gentleman. He’s standing three stools away, in a suit. There’s something about him that is familiar, but I can’t place him.
He’s distinguished. Light wisps near his crown lighten his nearly charcoal hair. My gaze follows his off kilter widow’s peak to his dark brown eyebrows and deep set dark eyes. Reddish tones blend with brown in his unkempt goatee, giving him a rakish quality amplified by the upwards curl of the corners of his lips.
He’s casually handsome, but yet not casual at all. He could blend in at my office with the executive staff. But it’s the sensuous smile that warms.
“I thought you don’t speak English?” Those lips extend into a subtle smirk.
My mouth dries. I’m only on my second glass and my brain is fumbling, allowing me to openly stare.
“Wha—?”
“I was sitting over there, when you said?—”
“You know, you’re a brave soul.”
That catches my attention. “Pardon?”
“Ordering wine from a pub.”
“Oh.” It’s true. Charly O’Neills doesn’t offer an extensive wine menu. “I don’t care for beer.”
Amusement plays across his features and heat rises on my skin. “Yet you come to a pub? Meeting a friend?”
I could tell him it’s near work and that it’s a treat I give myself. A treat I’ve been giving myself more frequently in the last couple of months. “Sometimes they play futbol on the screen.”
I don’t have a television in my apartment. Although, I could afford one now, but if I’ll be moving one day, it’s probably best to wait and buy one when I’m settled.
“And who do you root for?”
“Corinthians.” As I answer, a vision of my father shouting victoriously after a goal comes out of nowhere. That was so long ago, it’s surprising I remember.
“Brazil?” Those thick eyebrows come together, and his brow furrows, but he grins. “Are you Brazilian?”
“I am.” My shoulders straighten and my chin juts out ever so slightly. This man with his dark hues doesn’t strike me as being native to the area, either. “Let me guess. Are you British?”
“No.” He places a hand near a stool and hesitates. “May I join you?”
“Certainly.” I don’t own the bar stools. Once again, I’m struck by a sense of familiarity. “Have we met before?”
“No.” A smirk plays across his lips and he runs his fingers through his hair, brushing the strands that having fallen forward over his brow back.
“But you seem so familiar.”
“I promise you, if we’d met before, I would remember.” His heated gaze lights a frisson of energy deep in my core.
“Do you work near here?” It’s an appropriate question, the only one I can think of that doesn’t reveal the effect he’s having on me.
“I do.” His eyes and that smirk tease. My gaze drops to the base of the wineglass as heat rises from my chest, along my neck and to my cheeks.
His silence has me risking a glance up, and I catch him perusing my body. If he weren’t so handsome, I might scold him.
“Tristan,” he says, with his hand extended.
“Lucia,” I answer. “Do you also know William?”
Tristan and William exchange a glance, but William is across the bar filling a pint glass.
“I don’t. But I’ve been in here before.” He leans forward and I become his sole focus. “So Lucia, tell me something about yourself.”
It’s a pickup line. Delivered more smoothly than the man before him and with far greater effect, but he’s wasting his effort because while he’s a handsome male specimen, I’m not into one-night stands.
“You go first.” I sip my wine and meet his gaze, leaving the ball in his corner.
“I’m new to the area. Looking to meet some new acquaintances.”
That piques my interest. “Where’d you move from?”
“London.”
“I love London.”
“You’ve been?”
“Yes.” I spent my primary school years on the outskirts of London. Geraldo’s job relocated him when I was twelve.
“And do you love London as much as you seem to love that glass of wine?”
I can only smile at him, as I’m not quite certain what he’s going on about.
“The look on your face, it was…” His voice drifts and I resist the urge to touch my cheeks to see if they are hot to the touch.
“My thoughts weren’t on the wine.”
“Please. Do share.”
There’s so much innuendo in his words that I have to look away once again and pull myself together. He’s too handsome. And he’s prowling. He’s a sophisticated man looking to play, and I don’t hold that against him. Quite the opposite, in fact, but I must keep my head on.
I sip my wine and place my card on the counter, so William knows I’m ready to pay.
The handsome stranger places his fingers over the card and pushes it towards me. “I’ve got it. All I want in exchange is to know what you were thinking of that set you off.”
I empty the glass, knocking back the liquid courage, and lean forward. “If you must know, when I closed my eyes, I was thinking about the last time I…”
I let my voice catch, aiming for breathless. I suck on my lower lip and drag my front teeth across it. His pupils expand and his chest rises.
And then I can’t hold it back. Laughter erupts. Men .
With tears in my eyes from laughing too hard, I thank him for the drink, and head back to my flat.