Chapter 7 #2
Among the ceramic bowls and woven scarves sits an old film camera, its metal body worn smooth by decades of hands. Nate picks it up, examining it with the careful attention he gives to instruments.
"?Cuánto cuesta?" he asks the vendor, who quotes a price that makes Nate nod immediately.
Money changes hands, and suddenly the camera is being pressed into my palms.
"Why did you—?" I ask, turning the substantial weight over in my hands. It's beautiful in the way old things can be—functional and elegant, built to last.
His smile is soft, almost shy.
"Your dad always loved taking photos. He loved capturing moments, so maybe you should try capturing your favorite moments too. Like your favorite songs, you know?"
The thoughtfulness of it hits me like a physical blow. How much he remembers, how carefully he's been paying attention to the things that matter to me.
This is why it's so hard to hate him, I realize.
Because deep down, when he loves, he loves so hard it could kill him.
And he'd gladly let it.
"It has a full roll of film in it."
Without thinking, I lift the camera and snap a photo of him standing there in the Spanish sunlight, surrounded by market sounds and the scent of fresh herbs.
"Don't waste the film," he says, but he's smiling.
"It's not a waste," I reply, and something in my voice makes his expression shift, grow more serious.
Most afternoons are spent with Nate playing guitar, sitting on the terrace while I read nearby.
His fingers move across the strings with newfound confidence, no longer the hesitant fumbling I remember.
Some songs I recognize—melodies that used to stumble and fracture now flowing like water finding its course, others are new.
It's rare, you know, watching someone fall in love with something so completely that it becomes indistinguishable from who they are.
The music isn't something he plays anymore; it's something he speaks, something that flows through him like blood through veins.
"So, I have this idea," he says suddenly, his fingers pausing mid-chord. "It's just an idea."
I close my book, giving him my full attention.
"All things start with an idea. Tell me."
He sets the guitar aside, running both hands through his hair in that gesture that betrays his nervousness.
"I've been thinking about opening a studio space—either here or back home.
Somewhere musicians could come and let music be the rehab they need.
A retreat for singer-songwriters and bands, completely free from drugs and alcohol, where they could create music without distraction. Like..." He struggles for the words.
"Like what Javier did for me, but through music."
He waves dismissively, already retreating from the vulnerability of sharing.
"It's probably nothing. Just a stupid—"
"Stop." I shift from my chair to sit cross-legged directly in front of him on the stone terrace, close enough that our knees almost touch.
"Ideas, especially the ones you can't seem to let go of, need attention. This sounds like one of those ideas that could take you places you never even dreamed of going."
We're so close now that I can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, can smell his familiar scent mixed with Spanish sunshine and guitar wood.
“You should seriously look into it.”
His gaze move from mine to my lips and for a split second, I convince myself he’s going to kiss me. My pulse quickens, and I notice the way his breathing has shifted, becoming more careful.
His eyes snap back to mine, and the air between us crackles with the weight of everything we're not saying.
"You think I should do it?" His voice is quieter now, more uncertain.
"I think you should."
The words come out more breathless than I intended, and I watch something shift in his expression—hope mixing with something darker, more complicated.
The moment stretches between us like a held breath, full of possibility and danger. I'm acutely aware of how easy it would be to lean forward, to close the distance that's both too much and not nearly enough.
His eyes are doing that thing they used to do, looking at me like I'm the centre of his world.
I clear my throat and lean back, breaking the spell. He looks away too, running a hand through his hair again.
"Javier wants to do dinner tonight," he says, his voice carefully casual. "I may have let it slip that it's your birthday tomorrow."
"Nate—"
“And I have a surprise for you," he says, running his hand through his hair—that gesture unchanged despite everything else that's shifted. "After dinner, we're going out."
"Out where?"
"You'll see." He says with a wink that makes my stomach flutter in ways I'm definitely not supposed to feel.
Later that night, the villa fills with the sounds and scents of celebration. Spanish music flows from hidden speakers while Javier works his magic in the kitchen, his hands moving with the confidence of decades spent perfecting his craft.
"The secret," he says, not looking up from the paella pan as he stirs saffron-scented rice, "is knowing when to stop stirring. You have to trust the process."
Nate and I finish setting the table—a task that requires more coordination than it should, our hands brushing as we arrange plates and glasses, each accidental touch sending sparks up my arms.
I catch him watching me as I fold napkins, his gaze soft and intense, and when our eyes meet, he doesn't look away immediately like he used to.
He only does when the front door opens and she walks in.
Luiza.
Even prepared for her existence, I'm not prepared for her presence. She's the kind of beautiful that seems effortless—dark hair catching the light, skin that speaks of Mediterranean summers, and a smile that transforms her entire face.
But more than that, there's something genuine about her warmth, a quality that makes me understand immediately why people gravitate toward her.
She embraces Javier first, and I recognize the gesture instantly—the way a daughter hugs a father, the way I used to fold myself into my dad's arms when the world felt too large and uncertain. There's history in that hug, belonging that speaks of chosen family and earned love.
"Hola, papá," she says, her voice warm with affection. "Huele delicioso."
Then she turns to Nate, and I watch her hands frame his face before she kisses both his cheeks.
"Te eché de menos," she says softly.
Her Spanish flows like music, and Nate's answering smile is soft in a way that makes my stomach clench with something I refuse to acknowledge as jealousy.
Before I can retreat into observation, she's moving toward me with that same open warmth. Her hug is immediate and encompassing, as if we're old friends reuniting.
"Ah, you must be Nora," she says, her English accented but precise. "I've heard so much about you from this one."
She gestures toward Nate, who has the grace to look embarrassed, his hand moving automatically to rub the back of his neck.
"All good things, I hope," I manage, trying to match her easy warmth.
"The best things," she assures me.
Dinner unfolds like a theater performance where I'm the only one without a script. Luiza and Javier slip effortlessly between Spanish and English, sharing inside jokes and memories that span years.
She tells stories about Nate’s early days here—how he burned the first meal he tried to cook, how he got hopelessly lost trying to find the market and ended up three towns over.
They laugh with the easy intimacy of family, and Nate’s responses show a comfort that speaks of deep affection for these people.
As the night goes on, I’m smiling at the right moments and asking polite questions. But underneath, I feel like I’m watching through glass—present but separate, included but not integral.
“We should go,” Nate says, looking over at me, and I catch the faint flush across his cheekbones. “Don’t want to be late.”
He reaches for my hand with the kind of casualness that speaks of habit—like he’s done it a thousand times before. His fingers slide between mine, warm and sure, and the sensation sends a confusing rush through me.
Because Luiza is right there.
And she doesn’t flinch.
She doesn’t look surprised or hurt or jealous, she just smiles.
“Have fun, you two,” Luiza calls out, her voice warm as she wipes her hands on a dish towel. She tosses it over her shoulder with a practiced flick, then aims a playful wink—right at Nate.
She and Nate… I mean—everything about tonight suggested they’re close.
Comfortable.
The kind of comfortable that takes time and history and maybe shared mornings. Or maybe whatever they have is open enough that her seeing him hold another woman’s hand isn’t a big deal. The thought tightens something low and sharp in my chest.
I force a smile, but it feels brittle.
“Give me a second, I just need to grab something,” Nate says, releasing my hand.
He disappears down the hallway, and Luiza busies herself with stacking plates, humming softly under her breath. She doesn’t look at me again, doesn’t clarify anything, doesn’t seem remotely bothered.
If anything, she seems fond.
Of him.
Of us.
Of whatever she thinks this is.
Nate reappears less than a minute later, rolling his sleeves up as he walks, hair slightly mussed like he ran a hand through it.
“Okay,” he says, breath a little uneven. “Ready?”
I nod, even though ready isn’t the word I’d choose.
The entire ride to the city centre, my thoughts are a tangled mess. When we finally get out of the car I ask, “are you going to tell me where are we going?”
“Do you trust me?”
I don’t even think before answering.
“Even when I don’t want to.”
The honesty hangs between us, startling us both. He glances at me, something shifting behind his eyes, but we’re already walking down narrow streets that pulse with nighttime life.
Friends spill out of tapas bars, laughter catching on the warm breeze. The scent of grilled seafood mixes with blooming jasmine, and the stones beneath our feet radiate the last of the day’s heat.