The American

Chapter One

I meet Teo in the season of peaches, when the lush lobes of nectarines dance under the labyrinth of Girona's citrus branches. With the pacifying smell of the sea embroidering the air, the flaps of Papa's boat tremble softly, surrendering to the sultriness of the early summer breeze. A glimmer of the Spanish shore materializes in the distance as the moon meets the still water, its illuminating white our only source of light in the unending darkness.

Papa was a storyteller, guided by his love for his hometown. Having spent the better half of his middle age envisioning his great return, all that is now left of him is his legacy. I think about his nostalgic musings, now lost to the air. There is a word, Margie, he would say, to signify a mourning so intricate that it fills us not just with sadness, but joy. Joyful mourning. Isn't that what nostalgia is? 

As my eyes wander Girona's steep terraces, rugged coastline and distended trees, I finally understand the significance of his joyful mourning. Tears sprout in my eyes as Mario, my older brother, gently nudges my shoulder.

"Sahara says we're ready to anchor," he says. At the sight of my teary face, his eyes widen. "Ah, shit, Margie. Not again."

I restrain my tears with a sigh. The last thing Mario needs tonight is a sentimental teenage girl in his hands, when we are anchoring Papa's boat in his hometown after an eighteen day journey across the world. "I just can't believe we're here, Mauri," I finally say. "When Papa said he wanted his ashes buried in Girona, I didn't think we'd actually come."

"What would we do—keep it lying around in Tribeca?"

I consider it for a moment. "Well...yeah."

He chides my response with his eyes. "American girl."

I glare at him. I hate it when he calls me American, even though that is who I am: Margarita Velasco, eighteen years alive, born and raised in the corner of Greenwich and Harrison on the west end of Tribeca. The first American in the Velasco family.

"It was his only wish, Margarita, to make his great return, if not in life then in death."

I stiffen at Mario's insight and at the hollow realization that follows, that Papa never lived to experience his great return. Mario places a comforting hand on my shoulder. "Come on, Margie. Don't look so sad. He's still here, all around us. Don't you feel it?"

I brush his hand away. "It's whatever."

It is then that Sahara, Mario's beautiful fiancé, hastens into the deck, her cheeks flushed with concern. "Margarita, darling, please tell Mario I need him for a bit!"

"Everything okay?" I ask while Mario shouts "Coming!" at the same time. 

"Just need some help with the motors!"

He glances at me for my permission to leave. 

"Go," I usher, rolling my eyes.

As he exits the vicinity, I walk to the edge of the boat, where La Epifania's mahogany banister intersects with the sea. The wood is visibly rugged, a reminder of its old age, and as I roam its fading surface, I recall my father's appreciation for the richness of mahogany. He would tell us over fleeting confessions that it was in my mother's eyes that he saw the same color, that arresting hue that had made him understand what it was to be in love.

The edge of the deck provides an exquisite view of Papa's village, revealing cascades of colorful cement houses that ascend toward the ambrosial skies like a stairway to a higher existence. I relish in the view, wondering if he is somewhere up there, watching. What did Papa envision was waiting for him on the shore? Did he have a somebody, awaiting his arrival? His family? A lover? Why is his heart so deeply buried within these shorelines?

"Margarita!" Mario shouts, anchoring my attention back to the waterfront.

It is then that my unsuspecting eyes meet another. He is standing on the sand, this absolute stranger. His presence fills me with a sense of familiarity I cannot fathom, like we have met before, in another life, in a dream or a memory. His eyes the same brown as Papa's cherished mahogany, I find myself swept away by the poetry of his glance. 

"Margarita, some help please? We're anchoring!"

I blush, dropping my head. "Alright, Mario, I'm coming!" I say. I close my eyes but see in the usual darkness a glimpse of Papa's mahogany. "I'm coming."

✿

Author's Note: Hello, hello, hello! How are you? It has been absolutely forever since I wrote on Wattpad, but I really miss everyoneee, so here I am! Thank you so so so much for getting this far. This is going to be a very lighthearted, sentimental love story about Margarita and Teo, and I'm going to try to release a chapter every day so that I can finish this entire novella in August. I hope you enjoy your stay!