Chapter 17
Barcelona
Brady
I’m holding Hayes’ hand as we stand in front of Gaudí’s masterpiece, the Sagrada Familía.
The stunning architectural marvel soars above the Barcelona skyline with an otherworldly combination of Gothic and art nouveau details.
I’m trying to focus on the beautiful building and not the fact that Hayes and I have had more skin-to-skin contact since we arrived in Barcelona two days ago than we’ve had in over a year.
His palm is damp against mine and I can’t tell if it’s the intense Barcelona heat or something else causing his sweaty stigmata.
“Brady, you looking at the chin of Hayes. Again.” Isabella drops her camera to her waist with an exhausted sigh.
She’s been assigned as our babysitter in Barcelona.
She’s maybe thirty and a graduate of the Istituto Europeo di Design in Barcelona, with a degree in Mixed Media.
A Libra who likes to garden. I’ve been going through my contact list thinking of women to set her up with since we met.
The shaved head and pierced septum make her look tough on the outside, but I’ve overheard her on the phone with Aisha and her voice gets squeaky and small.
She’s terrified of our boss and worried about disappointing her.
“Senora Aisha will not be happy with any of us. Can you look in his for real eyes, por favor?”
I can hold his hand, have his arm around me like I did at three cafes in Las Ramblas, and even let him carry me around piggyback through the vibrant and incredibly photogenic gay neighborhood of Eixample. But I cannot do any of it while looking him in the eyes. That’s impossible.
“Sure,” I say, turning my head to look back at the church as I search for an excuse.
The massive building looks like it was turned upside down in wet sand and set to dry in the intense Spanish sun.
Parts of the structure are covered in scaffolding and modern cranes that compete for attention.
The masterpiece remains unfinished. A giant question mark. I know the feeling.
I look up toward the cloudless blue sky and angle my face so I catch a bright ray of sun intentionally.
I wait for a tear to water my eye and then hold up my hand and wince.
“Wait, the sun is so bright.” I grab a pair of my darkest, thickest sunglasses out of my cross-body bag and put them on.
“Sorry, I’ll be seeing spots for the rest of the day if I don’t wear these. ”
But to appease Isabella and our British overlord I move closer to Hayes and rest my head on his shoulder.
It’s fake, I remind myself. It’s all fake.
I breathe in and hold my breath, not just because it helps my chest look more developed, but also because it stops me from taking in too much of Hayes’ scent. That would push me over the edge.
Hayes feels nothing. I know he hates having his picture taken, but at one point while we were in the Mercat de la Boqueria posing between stalls of freshly harvested fruit and cured meat, he told me he thinks of all this like working with a cadaver.
He said, “It’s all just part and pieces,” then shrugged his shoulders.
Clearly, he feels nothing toward me. He’s able to remain still and grounded, which might be why he looks so good in every photo.
I’m a whirling feverish mess of desire and confusion, even if he does think of me as a dead body.
Isabella bends down on her knee, then peers at the camera screen and uses her hand to wave us even closer. “I need to get the carvings too,” she instructs. Behind us dramatic figures in intense poses emerge from the swirling organic design on the walls.
She snaps a few shots and then rises. Hayes asks, “Do you know what is happening in the scene above the doors?” He turns toward the building and points above as Isabella puts her camera in her bag.
“Each of the entrances depicts different religious scenes, but Gaudí was more interested in the human connection.” She gestures up vaguely.
“The one above is the Saint Joseph. It is about how no matter how bad things are the one thing you always have is hope.” She recites the information like she may have been forced to memorize it during a grade school class trip.
“Hope.” Hayes stares up and puts his hands on his hips. The word floats up and disappears in the sunny sky. “I guess Gaudí wants us to know that anything can happen.” He looks down and almost winks at me, but it might be the heat.
“I have to upload the media before Aisha emails me again. I will see you both tonight for the dance class.” Isabella waves goodbye.
“She’s very sweet, but tightly wound,” Hayes says. Although that is also what people said about him at school.
“Could you imagine having Aisha as your boss? She’s so intense.” I shudder thinking about our difficult meeting in London and how Hayes saved the day. I walk toward the park next to the church to find some much needed shade.
“I’ve got news for you Brady. She is our boss.”
“But only for the summer,” I say.
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “All this is only for the summer.” His voice has a gentleness to it. “I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of battling other tourists out here. The beach at the hotel looks amazing. I could use a swim.”
“There’s a cabana with our name on it. And I mean that literally. Aisha has a cabana reserved for us during our stay and it has both our names on it.” Within minutes we are in a cab driving across Barcelona toward the beach.
Mar Bella Beach in Barcelona is a sunny stretch of sand and endless blue water with a strong gay vibe.
A gentle sea breeze makes the emerald and white striped fabric of our cabana ripple like the waves on the ocean.
The overcast skies that were our constant companion in London are gone.
Only sand, water and clear blue sky are ahead of us now.
Or so it seems.
The truth about pretending to be a couple for the job has finally come to the surface like a spoiled oyster somebody ate too quickly.
I’m grateful Hayes handled it so amazingly in London by stepping in and not letting Aisha blame me for everything.
But now I have an entirely new problem that I didn’t predict.
I’m so confused by all the pretend stuff that I’m losing my mind.
It’s torture. I look out toward the sand.
A muscular figure bathed in warm late afternoon sun and dripping in fresh sea approaches me as if in slow motion.
Damn Hayes for only packing the skimpiest red speedo to save space in his luggage. Let the punishment begin.
“How was your swim?” I roll over on the lounger so my front is facing down to avoid showing the physical evidence of what I’m actually feeling.
“Great. The water is warm and clear. The surf is mild. Reminds me of some of the beaches in Alabama.”
“Alabama has beaches?” I ask.
“Yes, Brady. Beaches are not only found in the Hamptons. A small portion of Alabama runs along the Gulf. Past Mobile. It borders Florida. Did you miss that at Clarkson?” Hayes jumps up and down on one foot and wiggles his finger in his ear to release some water.
His entire body bounces like a mountain of muscle during an earthquake.
I try to catch my breath to speak. “I’ll have you know that I’ve created some incredible geography lessons for my niece. She can recognize rivers, lakes, mountains,” I say rolling over and sitting up. Then add, “Oh, and the closest Hermès store in most major cities.”
Hayes laughs easily and then throws his towel at me.
It took me a while to get used to the hyper masculine things he would sometimes do as a way of showing affection.
They don’t come naturally to me. The first time he body-checked me with his shoulder I thought he was trying to fight me.
But I’ve learned that things like a towel thrown at my head means he feels comfortable with me.
Part of being in a relationship is learning the other person’s language, no matter how strange it may seem.
Not that any of this is real. I have to keep reminding myself that this is all fake.
He opens his beach bag and takes out the Sudoku puzzle I packed in his care kit for the flight.
His thumb flips the pages. I notice he’s finished more than half of them.
He finds a blank page then clicks the top of his beloved mechanical pencil and retreats to logic heaven.
Once we were in Diller Hall and he was working on a puzzle when the fire alarm went off. He didn’t even notice.
I lean back on my lounger and put the towel he tossed at me over my face to try and nap. Twenty minutes later I have quieted my breath, altered my inhale and exhale, and cleared my mind to the best of my ability, but I’m no closer to sleep, so I sit back up.
“Is everything you said about being a teacher back in London true? I’ve been wanting to ask you,” Hayes says, putting down his mechanical pencil and letting his puzzle rest on his lap.
“I guess.” Maybe I shouldn’t have told him about it.
It’s not that it’s a secret or something I’m ashamed of, but it’s not something I can see happening.
My parents have made it clear they will pay for law school and nothing else.
I’d need to be certified to be a teacher and I don’t even know what the tuition would cost. And most importantly, my parents would never respect my choice.
I say it doesn’t matter, but it does. That’s the part that I’m too embarrassed to say; that their opinion of me matters.
What people don’t tell you about being the black sheep of the family is that it’s exhausting.
“I thought about it, but maybe I just like playing with my niece.”
“Maybe. But who knows how to make things fun more than you? I can see you decorating the classroom with construction paper numbers and letters, making games with sock puppets or making up funny songs.” Hayes holds up the puzzle book I bought for him.
“I bet you would make a care kit for each kid. They’d be lucky to have you. ”
I like the picture he’s painting. I let my mind drift for a second, thinking about a bunch of kids working on addition or feeding the class guinea pig or running around on the playground during recess.
I shake my head and erase the thought like letters on a chalkboard.
Hayes always thinks I’m more than what I actually am and I have no idea why.
“Buenas, I’m Juana,” a woman wearing a sexy emerald bandeau and white shorts with gold buttons says.
She’s holding a tray with a bottle and two glasses.
“I was told to bring you a bottle of the best cava we have and this note.” She places the tray down on the small table between our lounge chairs and I grab the note to read it.
Juana pours the sparkling amber colored wine into two vintage-styled crystal tulip glasses with thin stems.
“Gracias, Juana.”
“Con much gusto,” she says, and heads back to the bar near the hotel.
“What does the note say?” Hayes asks.
“To a fresh start in Spain. I know you can deliver. Check your email for inspiration. Aisha.” I fold the note and place it back on the tray. “That woman is like the Eye of Sauron. Even when she’s not here, she’s here.”
“True, but I like her sentiment.” He sits on the edge of the lounger. “Why shouldn’t we have a fresh start? I’m glad we’re here. Together.”
“You are?” I ask, my eyes wide, my breath suddenly short. Has he been feeling what I have been feeling?
“I am. I know it hurt you when I said in London that I thought after our breakup we would never talk again. But that’s because I never thought we could just be friends. But with a fresh start, maybe we can.” He takes a glass by the stem and holds it up. “To a fresh start. To just being friends?”
I raise my glass. “To a fresh start and…” I swallow hard, trying to get the last words out. “Just being friends,” I echo. The disappointment sinks to my stomach like the fried calamari we had for lunch.