6
The city of Girona is just over an hour’s drive from the hillside house.
With a population of over one hundred thousand, it has an airport, a hospital, and all the services of a midsize city.
It’s a picturesque town, with medieval walls, colorful buildings, and narrow winding streets.
Game of Thrones fans flock to Girona because several scenes of the popular show were filmed there.
The first time they’d visited, Curtis had marveled at the expansive stone steps of the Girona Cathedral, remembering how Jaime Lannister had ridden his horse up the Great Sept of Baelor.
But Syd didn’t watch the series. She wasn’t into fantasy, and she’d heard the sex and violence were over the top.
“I really appreciate this,” Damian says as Curtis navigates a wide roundabout. “Hopefully I can buy a new fuel pump for the van and install it this afternoon.”
“You know how to replace a fuel pump?” Curtis is impressed. Growing up in the city, working in the business world, Curtis had little opportunity to develop those hands-on skills.
“I know my way around an engine,” the Aussie says. “And YouTube can help me if I get stuck.”
“Hopefully one of the garages has what you need.”
“I hope so.”
They lapse into silence then, both dwelling on the likelihood of that.
At least Curtis is. What are the odds that a mechanic will have a fuel pump for a Volkswagen Westfalia from the 1980s on hand?
If he doesn’t, how long will a part take to arrive?
What will Damian and Bianca do in the meantime?
They can’t sleep in Curtis and Syd’s driveway for days on end.
They’d spent last night there, and it had felt a little awkward.
“Stay in the spare room,” Syd had offered.
“It cools off at night, so we’re totally comfortable in the van,” Bianca replied. She was making pasta for dinner, had insisted on cooking to make up for the intrusion. Syd had opened a bottle of wine despite complaining of a cava headache earlier.
Damian spoke up. “We don’t need a bed, but I’d take a shower if it’s on offer.”
“Of course.” Syd hurried to a linen closet for fresh towels, delighted to be playing hostess to these strangers.
Curtis was okay with it—it couldn’t be helped—but when the pair had gone to bed in their van, he’d slept fitfully.
They’d left the front door unlocked in case their guests needed the facilities.
It was perfectly safe—probably—but still Curtis felt restless.
Now, as he maneuvers his Citroen C4 onto the Girona exit, his eyes check the digital clock on the dashboard screen. It’s 8:56 a.m. All the garages will be open by the time they arrive. There are several mechanics in town; surely one of them can get Damian his fuel pump in a timely manner.
The GPS directs them to the first garage, and Curtis pulls up out front. “I’ve got some errands to run,” he says, car still idling. “Text me when you’re done.”
“Thanks, mate.” Damian climbs out of the vehicle. “I’ll get this sorted as quick as I can, and we’ll get out of your hair.”
“No problem,” Curtis says, but the car door slams on his words. He drives off.
His first stop is the hardware store. They need more white paint, painter’s tape, and new rollers for the basement walls.
The main bathroom shower needs re-caulking, so he gets the supplies.
While he’s there, Curtis checks out lumber for fixing the old shed and turning it into their winery.
He didn’t have time to take measurements before this emergency trip, but he does some rough cost calculations on his phone.
Next, Curtis drives to the market to pick up milk, fruit, and a whole fish for dinner.
He knows the odds that their guests will leave tonight are slim.
With the groceries in a cooler bag, Curtis heads for a café.
He orders a coffee and a traditional pastry with a name he can’t pronounce and sits at a small table outside.
The sidewalk is shaded, and he’s pleasantly cool despite the morning sun promising another hot day.
He sips his coffee, tears off a piece of deep-fried pastry, and observes the locals heading to work, speaking their Catalan dialect that seems to vary from town to town. And then he pulls out his burner phone.
He’d like to leave what happened in New York behind him, but it’s not that simple.
Things got complicated. Messy. And Sydney can never know about that.
He gave her the passwords to all his devices—an effort to regain her trust—but his wife doesn’t know about this phone or the secret email address he keeps.
He’s one hundred percent devoted to repairing his marriage, but he can’t just ignore the disaster he left in his wake.
“It’s me,” he says, voice lowered, though the Spanish couple at the next table likely can’t understand him. “Just checking in.”
But the response, distant and tinny, barely registers because Curtis sees Damian’s muscular form moving down the sidewalk toward him.
“I’ll call back,” he says, abruptly hanging up.
He turns off the phone and shoves it deep into his pocket.
Curtis’s pulse is ragged due to nearly getting caught.
Damian was supposed to text when he was done with the mechanic.
When Curtis checks his regular phone, he sees that he has.
Wrapped up. Going to grab a coffee. Want one?
“Hey,” Damian calls as he approaches. “Not great news, I’m afraid.”
“What’s up?”
The Australian pulls out the wrought iron chair and sits opposite Curtis. “I checked three mechanics, and they all said they’ll have to order in a fuel pump. It’ll take a couple of weeks. One guy said maybe ten days, so I went with him.”
“Damn.”
“But don’t worry,” Damian says quickly. “I can have the van towed into town, and Bianca and I can get a hostel here.”
Phew. “Sure, whatever. No rush.”
“We won’t wear out our welcome. You and your missus have done enough for us already.”
“Syd’s loved the company.” Curtis takes the last bite of his pastry. “And me too. Did you still want to get a coffee?”
“Nah, I’m okay. I should get back and explain the situation to Bianca.”
Their chairs scrape across the pavement as they stand, move down the street toward the Citroen. They’ve only gone a few yards when a woman’s voice calls out.
“?Senor!”
Curtis turns to see an attractive Spanish woman standing, waving at him. She has long hair, a bone-colored dress, impressive cleavage. She’d been seated at the table next to him, but he’d been so engrossed in his phone call that he hadn’t noticed her.
“?Sí?” he responds, taking a step toward her.
She says something in Spanish so rapid he doesn’t understand. He looks to Damian, who shrugs, then winks. “Maybe she likes you?”
Curtis snorts, but his ego swells. He can’t help it.
Since Sydney learned of his affair, she’s been physically repulsed by him.
They’ve only had one intimate moment in their new home—after a lot of wine—but it hadn’t gone to plan.
The pressure of the encounter, combined with the alcohol, had inhibited Curtis’s performance.
Syd had pulled away from him, disappointed and hurt.
He’d tried to explain, to blame the booze, but she’d gone inward.
Since then, Syd hasn’t shown any sexual interest in him, let alone desire.
And now, this beautiful Spanish woman is calling out to him.
It’s normal to be flattered by the attention.
“Aquí. Tu bolsa,” she says, pointing toward the table they just vacated. The cooler bag sits forgotten under it.
“Almost forgot your purse!” Damian jokes, but Curtis ignores him.
“Gracias,” he mumbles, hurrying back to retrieve his groceries.