The American

Chapter Six

Entertained by Teo's occasional remarks from across Gram and Gramp's dining table, I become convinced that life in Girona is too beautiful to be anything short of a fantasy. When the conversation dwindles and we are met with an inevitable silence, I recall Papa's words amid Teo's fleeting glances, when he would say destiny has a tendency to deprive us before completing us. Surely the universe had taken him away, but as the hours unravel, our joyful moments begin to compensate for the absence led on by his death.

I think about Papa in the minutes that come and go, sometimes more than before, though it is no longer with the wistful longing I have carried for the past four months. His words ring in my head every now and again, a story, a lyric or a passing thought, reminding of his immortality, even after death.

I am helping Gram clean the table that night when Teo slides beside me with a towel of his own. "Long day?" he asks me. He takes over the left side of the table while I cover the right. I do not miss the smile that occupies Gram's face at the sight of the two of us, moments away from being engrossed in conversation.

"Something like that," I say.

"Mario told me you've been hungover all day."

I pause momentarily, lifting my head to meet his eye. "You've been speaking to Mario?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"He's not weird around you?"

Teo furrows his eyebrows in confusion. "How do you mean?"

I scream inwardly. Why is Mario like this? He tortures me over the vaguest matters but goes about as if he is completely unbothered to the rest of the world. I shake my head at him as I move the empty wine glasses from the dining table to the sink. "Nothing. Forget I mentioned it."

"I know we just had dinner, but," Teo digresses. He has a crimson glow to his cheeks as he drops his towel on the sink and washes his hands, tending to something frying on the stove. I finish cleaning the last of the table as he moves the contents of the pan to a clean plate. "I made you something."

I feel my knees weaken, though I cannot explain why.

"Pincho de tortilla," he adds pridefully, placing it on the table before me. "The ultimate hangover cure. I know I am a little late, but I had to run some errands and they took the whole day—"

"Oh my god," I whisper. I am so touched by his gesture that I can barely keep my hands from trembling as I wash them. I wonder how I do not collapse then and there, how I maintain my normalcy as I scoot towards the part of the table where Teo is waiting for me. I prop a piece of his pincho de tortilla in my mouth and am overcome by intense euphoria.

His dish defies the logic of traditional omelettes and melts in my mouth, like chocolate. There is something so breathtakingly delicate in its flavor, like he didn't just pour spices into this but entire heart, the way Papa used to with his many cuisines. Where did he learn to cook like this?

"How is it?" he asks eagerly.

I kiss both sides of his cheek. "Fenomenal, Teo. Gracias."

His cheeks redden again, the way they often tend to when he is flattered.

"Didn't you make any for yourself?"

He shakes his head. "I am immune to hangovers by now, if you must know."

"A true alcoholic," I say teasingly—but I cut a piece for him anyway, lifting the fork in his direction. "Try it. Please?"

A small smile toying on his lips, he leans down for a bite. And suddenly he is so close. So close that I can taste the fruity remnants of the tinto de verano lingering on his breath from our dinner, transpiring less than an hour ago. I take in the trivial details of his face: the chestnut of his eyes, the benevolence in his glance and the fading birthmark beside his left eye. As his lips touch my fork, I find myself wondering what it would be like to taste them, to incite a revolution against the insignificant proximity dividing us, to intersect powerfully, like the incoming storm or the collision of black holes, and to run my fingers through his unruly curls for the first of many times.

"Teo. ¿Puedes cerrar las ventanas antes de salir de la cocina?" Gram says from the door.

"Vale, Doña Lucia," he replies. Then he turns to me. "Thank you, Margarita."

This time I am the one blushing. I pull away from him all at once, giving myself away. 

I quietly finish the omelette as he dries the last of the dishes. When I finish, I drop my dirty ones onto the sink. "Let me," he says. I stand there, dumbly watching, until it is time for us to leave the kitchen. I am ready to go my own way when he stops me. "Margarita?"

"Yeah?"

"You are breathtaking when you blush, you know that?"

☽

Author's Note: My nostalgia is literally at its peak right now. I miss Spain like mad (I lived there for six months last year) and I swear I have been reliving my experiences through this book, consolidating my experiences with many people through Margarita and Teo. Ahhhhh, I made a whole playlist of Spanish songs for these two. Would you guys be interested in me sharing the songs on the chapters? If so, I can start posting them. Please leave your thoughts. Until tomorrow, hehe. ♥