Chapter Twenty-Five
The next few days, we don’t leave my room. We order room service that Julián curses at the prices of for every meal. We watch TV, and I use my suite status to have a pile of crosswords delivered to my room for Julián.
We play house and it’s wonderful. We make love all over my suite, against the walls, the tables, couch and chairs, the bed, in the tub. My mom gives me the space I’ve begged for for years, only having Lena come by once with a nurse and fresh refills of my medications. I take them as Julián scribbles the names of each one inside the cover of his crossword book in his hands. He promises that his pare doesn’t need him to work right now, with the transition and up-in-the-airness of the situation with the fishery. We barely speak of our parents, silently agreeing that this is our bubble for now and nothing and no one is going to pop it.
I read, I nap, I eat. Julián doesn’t ask more details about my tuberous sclerosis, but I saw the words on his phone screen while I pretended to watch Mamma Mia! , one of my favorite comfort movies. It’s almost as if nothing happened. Julián’s behavior hasn’t changed aside from watching me even more closely, which he had basically done anyway since we met.
“I can’t eat any more of the food on here,” I finally tell him one morning, scrolling through the room service menu on the TV.
I’ve lost track of the days, but I don’t care to know where we are in time.
Julián’s relieved groan lets me know he’s been waiting to hear those words from me.
“Wanna go back to the world today?” I ask him. He sits down on the bed, scooting closer to me and leaning down on one elbow, looking up at my face.
“Only if you’re ready to.”
I smile, leaning down to kiss him. “I am. And I’m ready to wear something besides this robe, honestly.” I pull at the neck of the thick fabric. As plush and lush as they are, after wearing them so much, it’s suffocating me a bit.
“Well.” Julián presses his lips against my shoulder, pulling the robe down, and down, and down, his fingers untying the bow at my waist. It falls from me, and he lays me back onto the mattress, hovering over my bare body.
“I’m ready for you to be out of that robe too. And we should celebrate our release.” He follows my eyes down to my tight, heavy breasts and matches my grin before disappearing between my thighs.
Once we’re dressed, me in a thin white cotton sundress with a crochet cutout pattern across the torso, and him in the clothes I had Amara help me have delivered here, not without protest, of course. Julián wanted none of the small stack of brand-new T-shirts and shorts we had the concierge get him, but I used my mouth and body to shut him up eventually, and he was glad to have fresh underwear and clothes, even though the price tag made him look physically ill. He asked if we could return them at least ten times since, but I convinced him it was a good thing to spend my mother’s money, as much of it as possible. And I didn’t say this part, but those outfits, socks, underwear, all of it, would be about as noticeable in her account as her almond milk lattes she orders every morning.
I let the air dry my hair as I’ve been doing since we locked ourselves in my room and don’t bother with my contacts. I do, however, bother with my medication, and Julián watches me like a hawk as I take each one, handing me my water bottle to wash them down. A little of my brain fog is creeping back, but even with it, I refuse to break the promise I made to him to fight to live for as long as I can manage. I put on sunscreen and Julián groans like a toddler as I rub the white cream across his skin, telling me he’s never worn sunscreen a day in his life. I shut him up by reminding him that skin cancer is a thing, and if I’m going to try to stay alive, so is he. He takes photos of me with his phone as I dab a little blush on my cheeks, and I blow a kiss to his phone camera.
Julián has me pick out his outfit, a beige T-shirt from Polo and linen shorts to match. He looks devilishly handsome in everything, but I’ll admit, I like him in his usual sun-faded clothes the most. As we stare into the mirror before leaving, I slide a pair of sunglasses onto his face and his mouth drops open.
“What in Saint’s name are these?” He pulls them off, examining them like a species of fish he’s never encountered, but with much less excitement.
I can barely speak through my belly laughter. “They’re sunglasses. Trendy ones. Amara picked them out and they look great on you!” I put them back on his face.
“The hell they do! And I’ll be sure to give Amara an extra-sweet fuck off when I see her.”
I knew the sleek, black, Wayframe-style glasses were a step too far, but Amara insisted, and I was looking forward to Julián’s over-the-top reaction I knew he would have. It was beyond worth it. I stare at our bodies in the mirror, his much wider than mine, dressed in similar colors, looking like a picturesque couple on a vacation in Europe. I lean my back against his chest, and he wraps an arm around me, resting his hand on the top of my belly.
“We really are great together,” he says, more to himself than to me. “Thank you for coming into my life, Ry. I needed you and didn’t even know it.”
With his free hand, he pulls his phone from his pocket and takes another photo, this time posting it on Instagram. I tease him about it as we leave the room, but the validation and giddiness of being his first official Instagram relationship have me floating the rest of the way to his boat.
“I’m not sure what food I have left that’s not gone bad, so let’s stop by the market and grab what we want? Anything you’re craving?” He squeezes my hand as we walk down the tiny, winding street.
“Just you,” I remark, half teasing, half not.
“You’ve become rather insatiable.” He nudges against my shoulder, coming close enough to swipe his tongue across the shell of my ear. A shiver runs over me.
I can feel the heat in my cheeks and between my legs, so naturally I use humor to deflect from the way he can instantly turn me on.
“Insatiable? Are there any words that you don’t know? You’re not even just fluent, you have a bigger vocabulary than any English-speaking man I’ve ever met.”
We pause at a crosswalk, waiting our turn. The streets are slightly crowded but quiet. Julián’s grin is wicked, cocky, sexy. “Are you saying I’m smarter than all the men you’ve ever met?
“I’ve been doing crosswords since I was a kid. I was obsessed with learning English because my pare kept saying I’d need it, with the way the island was changing. Then they became a distraction on my worst mental health days, so my thirst for knowledge became a form of therapy as well.”
I’m impressed by him yet again.
“I hate to make your ego any bigger, but sadly I must admit it’s true.”
He doesn’t say a word, but he straightens his back jokingly, walking on his tippy toes. As an old man pulling a cart of apricots passes us, Julián turns to him. “I’m the smartest man she’s ever met,” he brags, and the grandpa shoos him away, cursing us as we crack up and cross the street.
“I would have helped him with that cart if he wasn’t so damn grumpy,” he says, pointing his finger toward a covered stall down what looks like an alley but is likely just a narrow street.
“This is my favorite market. Pollensa is the best on the island, but it’s only open on Sundays and a far drive from Palma and today is… well, I don’t know, but there would be more people out if it were Sunday.
“Do you have markets like this in Texas?” he asks as we approach.
An abundance of colorful fresh fruit and vegetables overflow their cardboard boxes.
“We call it a farmer’s market. We have them in major cities, but I’ve never been to one. I’ve seen them online though, if that counts.” I wince.
He nods, his lips making a pouty shape. “It counts. We have many, many different markets here in Mallorca. Every part of the island has their own, multiple in many, and we pride ourselves on our fresh produce, fruit, and seafood. Each one is open on different days, but if you’re lucky, you can find one open every day, like this one.”
An elderly couple behind the stall smile and greet us in Spanish, calling Julián by name. He introduces me and I do my best to say, “Hola, és un plaer conèixer-te.” My attempt at telling them it’s so nice to meet them seems to go over well and Julián tells me he’s impressed by my Spanish.
I tell Julián to surprise me with whatever he feels like making and he goes to work, picking up and inspecting a pepper, onions, fresh garlic cloves, a chunk of beef. The bag is full as he pays, against the couple’s wishes. I can tell by their body language and a word here and there that they insist he doesn’t pay, but he puts cash down on the table and playfully grabs my hand, half running away from them.
When we make it back to the boat, Julián’s face drops when he opens the unlocked door. “It’s, um… Sorry, it’s so dirty in here, compared to your place…”
I push past him, not acknowledging the difference and not caring in the least. I’m so thrilled to be back in Julián’s place, to be able to take in the details this time. I look around as quickly and as sharply as I can. Stacks upon stacks of crossword puzzles, books, newspapers. Giant aluminum cans that have pictures of tomatoes on them. Wine bottles, empty and full. With how much he works, it makes sense that his priority isn’t cleaning. He’s also a single man living on a boat, so why would he? Like the mind reader he is, he grabs an empty wine bottle and a stack of paper from the wooden dining table near the kitchen space, trying to organize them.
“Sometimes I go through phases when I clean and when I don’t. You’re seeing this in the middle of one of the bad times. It’s been much worse than this, but I’m trying to stay on top of it. Internet says it’s common with people with depressive episodes, so I’m trying.” He looks embarrassed and I want to hug him and comfort him, but I know how it feels to have someone draw attention to something you’re not ready or tired of talking about.
“Well, the best we can do is try. As we know, I’m struggling with trying as well, so let’s just keep trying together? Deal?”
His embarrassment melts away slowly and he nods. “Deal.”
He walks over to his dresser and grabs a T-shirt, the one he was wearing when we first met, and changes into the cut-sleeved T-shirt and cloth shorts. Neatly folding the new outfit and placing it on top of the dresser. We purposely left the rest of his new wardrobe in my room for the times, many, many more times, that he’ll stay over.
“Not because I hate them, but because I’m about to cook and I’m a pretty messy cook as it is.”
“Mhmm,” I tease him with a smile. “Can I help?”
He regards me for a moment. “Actually, yes. I’d love to show you how to make arros brut.”
“Arros brut,” I repeat.
He smiles at my pronunciation. “Every region has their own version of this dish, even in the States. The direct translation is ‘dirty rice.’ Have you had it?”
“Once, from a barbecue place outside Fort Worth, but it definitely didn’t have any vegetables in it.” I laugh, excited to help him cook.
“I have my own touch too. You’ll see.” He tosses me an apron and leads me out to the dock, to a little corner between a few empty boats. Not a person in sight. There’s a grill and some contraption that looks like an outdoor stovetop. There are at least eight chairs set up, bottles of wine and beer cans, coolers, and plates scattered around small stumps of wood being used as tables. It’s lively, lived-in, and a place where I can tell many memories have been made.
“This is our… communal kitchen. Where we come to eat, talk about work, complain about everything, fix marriages and contemplate divorces,” Julián explains with a rough laugh.
“Plus, it’s too hot to cook inside and the flavor is better when you sear the vegetables and roast the beef over real flame. There’s also this view, which is much better than in there.” He nods to the boat gently wading, anchored and parked at the dock.
“You had me at ‘complain about everything.’?” I wink, tying the apricot-printed apron around my waist.
“You sit while I chop. Have some wine, it’s for everyone.”
I reach for a bottle of white wine and read the label, even though I don’t know the difference between any sort of wine, just that I prefer white. I pour it into a plastic cup from the stack and take a drink.
“Good?” Julián asks me, spreading out a bundle of ripe tomatoes onto a wooden surface that’s clearly multi-use: a cutting board, an island, and table. It’s waist high and the biggest of the table-like pieces.
“Wait, shit,” he says in a panic. I jerk up, hoping he didn’t already chop a finger off. “Are you allowed to drink? Does that make you more likely to have a seizure?” he asks, guilt written all over his face.
I walk over to join him. “I can drink. I’m not going to get wasted, I just want a little wine. But no, it doesn’t make me anything… don’t worry about me. Unless you don’t feed me soon, then you should be afraid… very afraid…” I tease and stand on my toes to kiss him. He wraps his hand around my neck, pulling me in as his tongue savors mine. A groan escapes from his throat, and I swear every time he kisses me feels like the first time. The bubbly confetti exploding in my tummy, the swimmy marshmallow feeling in my head, swirling my thoughts around in glitter.
I reach my hands up and wrap them around his broad shoulders. A throat clears and I jump back away from him. I move to hide behind him like a child, a trained reaction from having such a helicopter mother my entire life. Mateo is standing there with two other men I haven’t seen before. The three of them are dressed in full work gear, and one, who looks to be at least ninety, has a thick net wrapped around his arm. I look more, peering around Julián’s shoulder, and feel him shake in amusement. The one in the middle grabs a bottle of vodka from the ground below him and the net-holding grandpa grabs a small pack of beer. His eyes are skeptical, not exactly happy to see me, but I wave to Mateo, and he smiles warmly at me, waving back. The little old man follows Mateo’s behavior and manages a smile for me. Whatever anger Mateo has toward my mother isn’t present on this dock, and I couldn’t be more relieved.
“Soparem per a dues persones,” Julián tells them, and they nod, grinning, leaving us just as quickly as they appeared.
“Did we take their dinner space? They could have joined us. I feel bad,” I tell him.
He turns around to me with a small smile. “They’re fine. It’s not dinner yet and they just finished work, so they were coming here to drink. They got their drinks and now they’ll be out of our sight.” He kisses my forehead, reassuring me.
“After everything my mom and SetCorp have done, the last thing I want is to be any more of a burden or intrude on anyone else’s space here.”
He takes my face between his hands, brushing a gentle kiss against my temple.
“This is my space, and you will be intruding on it every single day if it’s up to me. Got it?” His voice is soft and playful, nothing but a murmur on my skin. I can feel his smile and breath, warm against my own, and that quickly, we’re back to our own world again. Just a woman and a man and a dock, wishing and pleading to have all the time in the world.