5
It’s nice to have company,” Syd says as the foursome trudge up the hill.
“Curtis and I have been cooped up alone for months. If we don’t have some outside stimulation soon, we’re going to murder each other.
” It’s a joke, but she sees Curtis smart from her words.
She feels guilty for a second, and then she remembers.
“I get it,” Bianca says. “Damian and I have been living in a van for nearly a month. He’s had to sleep with one eye open for the past two weeks.”
“Oh, I haven’t been sleeping,” Damian responds, and they all laugh.
The van sitting idle on the side of the road is an old Volkswagen Westfalia.
Sydney is no expert on camping vehicles, but her auntie Jean had a similar van when she married her second husband, Uncle Murray.
They drove all over North America in it, sleeping in the back, eating sandwiches at their little table.
As a child, Sydney had thought it was romantic, bohemian.
But she can’t imagine living like that now.
“Let’s see if it starts,” Curtis says, walking up to the driver’s-side door. “Maybe it was flooded.”
“It wasn’t flooded,” Damian replies, but he gets in, turns the key. The engine sputters but refuses to catch. He climbs out again.
Curtis peers inside. “You’ve got a manual transmission.
We could try to push start it.” His tone is confident, knowledgeable, bordering on macho.
Since when does Curtis know anything about cars?
They had a Range Rover when they lived in New York, a luxury vehicle that they stored in an expensive garage.
It was washed, buffed, and maintained for them.
It’s not like Curtis spent his weekends tinkering under the hood.
“That only works if the battery’s flat,” Damian tells him. “The engine wouldn’t respond at all if it was.”
“Right,” Curtis says, like he knew it. He didn’t.
Damian ushers Bianca into the driver’s seat. “It’s in neutral, babe. You steer it into the driveway. The three of us can push.”
Bianca takes the wheel, and the rest of them move to the back of the vehicle. “Release the hand brake!” Damian calls to his partner.
“Done!”
“Okay, let’s push.” Damian gives Sydney a quick wink that makes her feel like part of the team, though they probably don’t need her.
Months of anxiety and depression have taken their toll on her physical self, and she’s light and weak.
But the three of them lean against the rear end of the vehicle, the two men grunting with the strain of getting it off the verge, back onto the asphalt.
Sydney pushes with all her might. She’s enjoying this.
For the first time in weeks, she feels fully awake, fully present.
“There we go,” Damian says as the van begins to roll.
“Don’t push too hard on this incline.” The van moves forward, Bianca steering it back onto the road.
Syd’s hands are planted on the warm metal surface, her head down, eyes on the ground beneath her.
It feels good to be physical. She’s felt so frail and powerless.
Suddenly, the vehicle evaporates under her touch.
She looks up to see the van gathering speed, cruising down the hill.
“Hit the brakes, B.!” Damian calls.
“I can’t reach!” the girl cries from inside the van. “The seat’s too far back.”
“Fuck!” Damian swears and breaks into a run. “Pull the hand brake!” he yells, sprinting after the speeding vehicle. “Pull the hand brake!”
Curtis and Syd run after them, eyes on the van careening down the hillside.
Syd’s stomach twists with dread. Bianca’s not wearing a seat belt.
If she hits a tree or a fence at this speed, she could be hurt.
Badly. The van is almost at their property line now, still traveling at a dangerous pace.
Suddenly, there’s a screech of metal, a cloud of dust, and the back wheels of the van lock up.
It skids to a stop, coming to rest at the mouth of their driveway.
Damian runs up and opens the door. Bianca climbs out, falls into his arms. He holds her, stroking her hair as she trembles in his embrace.
“Are you okay?” Syd puts a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder.
Bianca turns toward her, looking shaken but also exhilarated. “I’m fine. But I could use a bloody drink!”
With the van parked safely in their driveway, Syd digs in the fridge for a bottle of cava. “We’re seriously drinking?” Curtis asks. There’s a hint of judgment in his tone, like she’s offering their guests a bag of cocaine.
“Bianca’s been through a trauma,” she says breezily, popping the cork.
“And we live in Spain now. Day drinking is perfectly acceptable.” She rinses the dusty flutes and pours the bubbles as Curtis puts the frittata in the oven.
He hustles around the kitchen, making his excellent pan con tomate and tossing a bright, citrusy salad.
If he’s annoyed that Syd’s invited their guests to stay, he’s hiding it well. Curtis is the consummate host.
Sydney takes the flutes to the dining room, where Damian and Bianca sit side by side at the timber table. “Brilliant,” Damian says as Syd sets a glass in front of him.
Bianca accepts the flute and sips the cava. “Thank you. I needed this.”
Damian turns to face his girlfriend. “I thought you were going to roll away and leave me forever.”
“Never.” They kiss. It’s so tender and intimate that Syd looks away.
Curtis enters with the frittata and a plate of crusty tomato bread. “Lunch is served.”
They fill their plates, all of them famished from the day’s excitement. Compliments fly around the table as they tuck into their meal, and then Bianca says, “I’m so sorry you’re stuck with our broken-down hunk of junk in your driveway. I told Damian we should rent a vehicle, not buy one.”
“It was such a good deal, though,” Damian says, crunching into a piece of bread.
“Because it’s a piece of crap!” Bianca cries good-naturedly.
“You’re definitely having an adventure,” Syd says, smiling at the younger couple. “What made you decide to come to Spain?”
Damian opens his mouth to respond, but Bianca talks over him. “My mom was obsessed with Spain—the food, the language, the people. But she never got to see it. She never had the chance to travel.” The blonde takes another drink of her bubbly. “I didn’t want to make the same mistake.”
Syd meets her gaze, and they share a moment, an understanding. They are two motherless daughters who have been shaped by their losses.
Curtis grabs the bottle to top up Damian’s flute, but there’s only a dribble left. He surveys the table. “Should I open another?”
“Why not?” Sydney says. She’s enjoying discussing topics besides renovations, grapevines, and their troubled relationship. A couple of glasses of cava in, she almost feels like her old self.
Bianca looks at Damian. “We need to sort out the van,” she says.
Damian groans, leans back in his chair. “Yeah, we do. I should make some more calls.”
Syd checks her watch. “Everyone will be having lunch now. And after that, they have siesta.”
“I keep forgetting they sleep all afternoon.” Bianca’s face is creased with concern.
“Spend the night,” Syd suggests. “Curtis can drive you to Girona tomorrow. It’ll be easier to communicate with a mechanic in person.”
“That’s so generous,” Bianca says.
Damian turns to Curtis. “Really? You wouldn’t mind?”
All eyes are on Syd’s husband. His expression is unreadable and she’s afraid he’ll say no. He’ll tell Damian that they’re too busy working on the property, fixing up the house, and trying to rebuild their marriage. That the two travelers should move along.
“Stay,” Curtis says, and he almost sounds like he means it. “I’ll take you to a garage tomorrow.”
Sydney smiles at her partner, her chest warm with gratitude. “I’ll grab some more bubbles.”
On light feet, she moves to the kitchen.