Sol (Love in Translation Book 1) Page 3

But the huge grin on his face turned serious as he held the letter. “God, this sucks. If you die, that’s the only way she’s gonna know that you like her?”

  “I’m pretty sure she knows,” I’d said, thinking of the kiss in the pizza parlor.

  “I should give you her email. You could message her.”

  “Okay. But I’m gonna leave her alone. This is just in case of emergency. She needs to be able to go wherever she’s gonna go. Especially if I’m stuck in BFE for the next four years.”

  “True.”

  Still, he’d managed to show me her emails and selfies whenever she sent them, and I was copied on some emails to and from her. I took a few pictures with him, mostly in full gear—helmet, sunglasses, everything—for him to send to her. Not sure she could tell which one was me other than the name on my chest, but it did feel like I tried to reach out.

  “Need anything, Trent?” my mom called, pulling me back to the present.

  “No, thanks,” although that was a goddamn lie. I just didn’t need anything she could give me.

  She paused in the doorway. “Son. Are you okay?”

  I shook my head. “Not really. I have to tell her, Mom.”

  “I know.” Her downcast eyes lifted up to my face. “Those two soldiers gave me the scare of my life when they came up the front walkway. The moment they said the name, Degan Christopher Anderson, I felt this horrible heartbreak, even though I was so grateful it wasn’t you.” She daubed at her eyes. “Do what you need to do. Take the time you need. Let me know how I can help.”

  “Thanks, Mom.”

  I stretched my jean-clad legs and pulled out my tattered wallet for daily inventory, placing each item carefully on the desktop.

  1 - Common Access Card, U.S. Armed Forces

  1 - California driver’s license

  1 - USAA debit card

  1 - USAA credit card

  1 - Marie Thrash Therapy business card, unused

  2 - Trojan MAGNUM condoms, expired

  $73.00 in cash, and

  1 - Photograph.

  Fingering the photograph, I studied the people in it, focusing on Dani and her wide, blue, kohl-rimmed eyes. Her mess of tangled hair. That smile.

  I’d carried that picture for so many years now that the corners had rounded and the paper was starting to separate into layers, so I’d taped up the back. It had been everywhere with me.

  I wished I’d already been able to tell her. Then this misery would be over.

  Everything went back into my wallet, and my wallet went back in my pocket. I straightened the two letters on my desktop and turned to my computer. Entering her name in my laptop, I hit search and waited for the results. The laptop held me in its spell, a cyber-prison of torture. A digital asshole. I hated searching. I wanted to do something.

  I got back a list of results that didn’t help. Places in the world she’d been months or years ago. Not places she was now. Once again, I’d fallen down short. I pulled out a pack of fruit punch Mentos and chewed one while I scrolled.

  An email from the VA counselor popped up. Blah blah blah, I needed to inform her of my future plans, blah blah blah.

  I contemplated my response. My future plans were to find Dani, tell her that her brother died, and take care of her, keeping her safe for the rest of her life.

  Simple.

  But that wasn’t what the VA wanted to know. They wanted to know about signs of fucking PTSD and if I was going to counseling.

  I had better things to do.

  And they wanted to talk about Degan. I didn’t.

  Out of habit, I mindlessly clicked on page after page, and came across a new entry. A website in Spanish.

  Danika Anderson, instructora de programas del verano, Facultad de traducción, Granada.

  And there was her pretty face. The same face as in my photograph. She was teaching a course this summer for anyone who wanted to learn Spanish-to-English translation in southern Spain. Eight weeks. Three days a week. Two hours a day. I checked out the metadata. Updated yesterday.

  You didn’t have to be a college student, although a lot of students took the class. You didn’t even have to be good in either language.

  Two months in Spain.

  Two months being in the same room as Dani.

  My wallet came back out again faster than a soldier headed out on leave. My heart pounded. With a few clicks and my credit card number entered into the internet ether, all of a sudden, I knew what I was doing this summer, but I didn’t know if I’d crush her in the process.

  3

  Dani -- Class list

  “Mierda,” I hissed.

  “What, Dani?” asked Lulu in her rich, low voice, speaking in my ear. I pressed the cell to my still-wet cheek while rivulets of water slithered down my legs to the cool tile floor, a small sea foam green bath towel barely covering my skin. Drip, drip went the drops of water from the ends of my almost white-blond hair.

  My breath went somewhere. Not sure where, but it was absent. Gone. Knocked out of me. My hands started shaking. It was all I could do not to drop the phone. My jaw dropped while my eyebrows went sky high. Look up the term gobsmacked in the dictionary, and you’d see my picture.

  Gobsmacked (adjective): see also Danika Anderson. Astonished Spanish teacher/yogi/bohemian/ex-patriot.

  Good thing I’d taken my yoga class this morning. Downward dog, check, and a half-dozen other asanas, check. A regular practice of meditative poses kept me calm whenever I was surprised like this.

  Yeah, right.

  I was so excited I didn’t know what to think. As I stared at the website, a shiver went through me, like when you ignite lines of gunpowder. Did this mean what I thought it meant? Was he really taking my class?

  Two minutes ago, I’d been so anxious to see my class roster, to find out the names of my students, that when I’d realized it was time for the lists to be released, I’d leapt out of the minuscule European shower, snatched my towel from the rack, and ran naked to my laptop, willing it to wake up and tell me about how my session was gonna be. My best friend Louise—Lulu—had called while I was logging on, eager to check her class list as well.

  But now, staring at the screen, all I could think was, am I seeing what I think I’m seeing?

  “Shit,” I said into the phone.

  Her breath came out with the exertion of walking. “Yes, I know mierda means shit. I teach French. We say merde. Not much difference. Why you freaking out, girl?” Louise learned French from her Senegalese parents, then went on to learn English, Spanish, and Italian. She taught at the translation school at the University of Granada and managed to, last-minute, get me this summer job.

  I’d been teaching Spanish-to-English translation for a few years now, in different countries—Ecuador, Peru, Mexico, and most recently in Salamanca, Spain, where I’d been happy to be reunited with Louise. She’d texted me, saying that the University of Granada sought an instructor, and did I want to come? No-brainer for me.

  Latching on to her words to distract me, I huffed, “I’m not a girl. I’m a fully-grown woman.”

  “You act like a child. So I call you that. No harm?”

  I smiled. “No harm. It’s easy to forget that I’m a goddamn professional.”

  “You absolutely are.” She paused. “In your own way.”

  “I’m twenty-six years old! You’re younger than me!”

  “Everyone is my child,” she retorted.

  That made me mutter, “And people call me the earth mama.” I studied the computer again, feeling like Obi-Wan Kenobi.

  Trent Milner. That’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time.

  Lulu would be here soon. I should dry off. I should get dressed. I should—fuck.

  Red heat infused my cheeks, remembering the last time I saw Trent. The way his lips felt against mine. How badly I’d wanted him.

  I started pacing. “I can’t do this. He can’t be in my class. That’s too much.”

  “Uh. Crazy woman? What’s set you off
this time?”

  I raised my arms in confusion, trying to rationalize with the forces behind the computer. The forces of the Universe.

  “There has to be a mistake in the roster. Trent Milner is not going to be my student. There must be another Trent Milner. How many are there in the world? There have to be hundreds. Thousands.”

  Lulu chuckled. “What on earth? Who is Trent Milner?”

  “Someone I haven’t thought of in four years.”

  Not true. Someone I’d thought of plenty of times. Thinking of his lean, lanky body, his gentle eyes, his sexy smile. How good he always smelled. What a great guy he was.

  How no other guy I dated was like him.

  Whenever I heard from Degan, I thought of Trent. Those pictures they’d send? It looked cold in Afghanistan, with scrubby brush and snow on the ground, but Trent was always hot. His smile lit up grainy images. And the poses? Holy shit, they were scorching. Standing there on a hill, taking command. Shirtless, playing Frisbee. Arm in arm with Degan on their base, surrounded by bags of supplies.

  Speaking of which, it had been a while since Degan had emailed me. Where was he? Was he coming with Trent? I was overdue on sending him an email. Used to traveling the world with patchy Wi-Fi, I only checked my messages sporadically. There was never anything but spam anyway. This new place had great connection, though, so I’d eventually get around to sorting through the 453 unread emails in my inbox.

  Yay.

  “I’m here,” she said. “Hit the buzzer to let me in. See you in a few.”

  We hung up. I hit the button opening the street-level door.

  Then I heard a knock at the door.

  I checked my state of undress. If it was Lulu, she’d seen me naked zillions of times, having been my roommate in college. If it was the tío de butano, the dude who came by a few times a week roaming the floors offering small cans of butane for sale for the hot water heater, well, he’d get an eyeful. Even though it was about the time he’d normally come, chances were good I’d be shocking my friend rather than the butane guy.

  Although, since he smoked while delivering highly flammable products, I doubted much shocked him anyway.

  No peephole to see in advance. Time for my armor. I snatched the half-sized, threadbare towel.

  Fuck it.

  I wrenched open the heavy wooden door with the towel wrapped around me and tucked under my armpit. An elegant African-American woman, wearing head-to-toe yellow from her stylish turban to her long skirt printed with orange and gold designs, eyed me with undisguised disgust.

  “I’d hug you, but I can see way too much,” Lulu said. “And what I do see is way too wet.”

  “It’s okay.” I spread my arms wide to squeeze her, but my towel fell off again. I smiled sheepishly and shrugged, my tiny nipples at attention.

  We burst out laughing.

  “Crazy woman, put on your clothes. We need to talk.”

  “We do,” I agreed.

  “Get dressed and let’s get some cafe con leche before you give your neighbors reason to stop paying for cam girls.”

  “You kissed him. Don’t lie and tell me you didn’t.”

  Lulu rested her chin on the back of her hand, her elbow on the tall metal counter, warm eyes assessing me. Her words weren’t an accusation. More of a gentle, analytical question. She’d known me since we went to college together at U.C. Santa Cruz. In fact, she knew me best of everyone.

  She was right, of course, but I didn’t want to answer.

  “Tell me, sugar. Did you sleep with him too?” she continued with an amused smile.

  “What? No!”

  I couldn’t decide whether to gasp, laugh, or be pissed that she could read me so well. So I settled on staring at her with the open-mouthed face of a guppy. Then I huffed and took a big, hasty sip of my espresso laced with hot milk, almost choking on it. After I’d swallowed, I shook my head vehemently.

  I hadn’t slept with him, but that didn’t mean I didn’t want to.

  We were standing at the no-frills corner bar, eating breakfast. I’d been out of the United States for so long, I’d accepted bars as part of my daily life and forgotten that they had a different, seedier connotation back home. Here, it was just a place to meet that happened to have food and drink. Standing at a bar first thing in the morning? No big deal.

  Running a finger along the rim of her small, white coffee cup, she raised an eyebrow and examined me hard. “You’re complaining as if you have something to hide. I think you liked him. Maybe still do.”

  The linoleum floor, littered with thin, waxy napkins from previous diners, suddenly became way more interesting. My eyes stayed on the ground as I complained, “I thought I had a better poker face. At least I have clothes on now.”

  She chuckled. “This is true.” I didn’t look up, but I knew she was silently asking me to give up the goods.

  “No, I did not sleep with him,” I muttered to my leather sandals. I picked at the corner of the bar.

  “Mm-hmm,” she hummed. I lifted my eyes to see hers full of humor mixed with concern. “But you wanted to.”

  I began to shake my head no, but then changed it to a shrug morphing to a nod under her gaze.

  With buttoned-down delight that she’d figured it out, she kept pressing. “He’s cute?”

  I thought about Trent, with his huge, blue eyes. His over-the-top winning smile. How even though I was older than him, I always looked up to him, because of the way he had everything under control—and the fact that he was about a foot taller than me.

  His height didn’t seem to matter that one time in the pizza parlor, right before he left, when any restraint between us dissolved. I could still feel the stubble on his jawbone under my fingers. The beginnings of sharp cheekbones shaping his handsome face.

  I bowed my head. “Yeah, he’s cute. I would have slept with him.”

  With a wave, Lulu encouraged me to elaborate. I told her about the kiss in the pizza parlor, and she got a huge grin on her face.

  “Back then, the boy I always knew had turned into a man going off to war. And when I saw that, I realized that I’d always kind of liked him. Is that wrong? I mean, he hung out with my little brother, and he’s into the military. But he was grown, and was so considerate. Mindful of how I was doing.”

  “Is there a chance he likes you?”

  Two Spanish businessmen walked in and ordered coffee next to us. I paused. “Yeah. After that kiss, yeah. Okay, before that, too.”

  “You guys didn’t keep in touch after he left?”

  “Not really. A few emails. He didn’t come to my graduation. I mean, he couldn’t—neither could Degan because of the military, but I was all alone.”

  “As I recall, I had to talk you into walking, Miss Nonconformist.”

  I shrugged. “True. I guess I secretly hoped they’d show up, even though I knew it was impossible. Anyway, after we graduated, I went to Caracas, then I started dating Brian. Although Degan keeps me posted. ‘We’re headed to the xyz part of the middle of nowhere.’”

  “Oh. Fucking Brian,” Lulu muttered, then sipped her coffee. “Is there a chance that it’s a different Trent Milner?”

  I shook my head. “I only wish it was a different one.”

  Right?

  The bartender came by asking us if we wanted more coffee. We ordered two more cups, and I turned back to face my friend. “I saw his address. It’s definitely him. I don’t know what he’s doing taking my class, though. I kind of figured he’d just re-up. I wonder when he got out.” I wondered if Degan had reenlisted and didn’t want to tell me, knowing how I’d react.

  “Does Trent speak any Spanish?”

  I shrugged. “He might.”

  Lulu clapped her hands. “Oh my God, it’s so romantic. Maybe he’s come to Spain to sweep you off your feet so you can go live like a princess in a castle on a hill.”

  “You’re ridiculous,” I said. But I couldn’t help thinking that I’d probably go with Trent anywhere, if he was
the way he used to be.

  “If it is him and things don’t work out, you’re going to stay for the whole summer course, right?”

  “Of course,” I said quickly.

  “Don’t ‘of course’ me. You know how you are. We both do. You’re as whimsical and mercurial as they come. You’re the type to decide to one day go to Siberia because you’re feeling a little hot.”

  I giggled.

  “You decide to go to some mountain in Argentina because you want to try a weird tea.”

  I shifted, nodding.

  “I can see you deciding to go somewhere just because you feel like learning a language only six people in the world know. You pick up languages the way other people pick up men.”

  That made me laugh out loud.

  “Okay, so he’s the right Trent Milner. How old is he now?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  A broad grin spread across her red lips. The proprietor set down plates of toasted baguettes with olive oil and a salty tomato spread. I bit into the pan con tomate, chewed, and swallowed.

  “He could make for an interesting summer,” she said.

  Yes, he could.

  After paying the bar for our breakfast, Lulu and I went out to Plaza de la Trinidad and found a bench in the square under the broad-leafed plane trees. A group of old men in gray sweaters—even in summer—played petanca with steel balls on bare, rammed-earth hardscaping, jeering at each other raucously.

  She sat down on the bench and turned to me without preamble. “So the problem is that you won’t be able to get through the class because you wish you were doing the horizontal oh-yeah with a student.”

  I kicked at the ground. “No. I don’t know. Isn’t it awkward? I mean, he’s my brother’s best friend.”

  “Is he a jerk?”

  “No. He had this air about him. Like a caretaker. He always made sure that Degan got lunch first and didn’t get picked last for sports.”

  Rustling in her purse, she pulled out her lipstick and reapplied it, surveying the old guys across the way. “He sounds nice.”

  A particularly cranky old man threw the steel ball, hitting his opponent’s. The magazine kiosk opened up for the day right next to us, unlocking the displays and setting them out. The line grew bigger for bread at another kiosk on the far side.