The American

Chapter Eighteen

Papa would say that those who do not find love within their first few encounters will not find it for the rest of their lives. It is a mission in futility, he believed, to seek something that does not present itself before your bare eyes. His words are all I can think about as Teo and I board our train back to Begur. Beside us, the sun is slowly rising, illuminating the world in golden. I take in the honey color of his skin, which has gotten darker in the past few days—how sweet it had been to taste them, just hours ago, and what I would do to taste them again.

As we take our seats, I wait for him to break the silence—and he does. "I got you something," he says. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a beautifully wrapped box.

I take it, placing it on my lap. "What is it?"

"The best gift you'll ever receive," he says as if he has never been so sure of anything else in his entire life. I open it to find a pack of Lu Principe cookies. "Try one, Mar," he says. "And then you'll understand."

I unwrap the packet and bite into one of the cookies.

He's right—it's the most delicious thing I've ever eaten. It takes me less than five minutes to finish the entire pack. "The first thing we're doing when we get home is going to a supermarket," I say in between chewing.

He laughs. "No need, amor."

Before I can question him, he reaches into his backpack for another box. This one is green instead of red, with a gift bow instead of a ribbon.

I look at him suspiciously, taking the box into my hand. It's another packet of cookies. "And what if I finish this?" I ask, opening it. "Do you have another one?"

He reaches into his backpack once again, pulling out a third box.

"Oh my god, Teo."

He laughs again.

"When did you have time to do this?"

He shrugs mischievously.

I take the third box from his hand and put it on the seat beside me. "Are there more?"

He pulls out a forth gift box. "Of course there is."

I can barely process my thoughts as he leans for the zipper on another compartment of his backpack. "And a fifth," he continues.

"No."

"And a sixth—"

"Oh my god."

"And a seventh."

"Teo..."

"—but the eighth, this one's special," he says, pulling out another box, this one tinier than the rest. "It was eight in the morning when your grandmother woke me up that day, the day you were coming. I didn't know anything about you except that you were coming by sea—and I thought, what a crazy girl. What is she going to be like? I could've never imagined you, Margarita, not even in my wildest dreams."

I cannot even begin to wonder what is in the box because all I suddenly want to do is slide onto his lap—and I do. He is so beautiful up close, when I can see every birthmark and freckle on his face, dotting his skin as if it is a canvas. "This is the best gift I've ever gotten," I say—because I cannot seem to so passionately believe anything else. "This summer. You."

"Margarita—"

"You're my adventure buddy. You're my everything buddy. You make me so happy."

"You make me so happy too."

"Can I kiss you?"

He chuckles wistfully, bringing his hands to my waist. "You don't have to be so formal, amor."

I laugh too, feeling my cheeks burn to a crisp. He tastes like raspberries. "Did you eat raspberries without me?" I say in between kisses.

He laughs airily into my lips. "You were in the shower. I couldn't wait."

"Wow, I see how it is."

"I'm sorry."

"All forgiven," I say. And I kiss him again. And again. And again. I kiss him until I figure it is time to pull away. But he stops me, resting his hand firmly on my back.

"Can we stay here? Just like this? Just for a little longer?"

I try to tame the butterflies in my stomach as I nod, easing myself into him. And not just minutes, but hours pass, just like that, with the city blurring into a desolate countryside. When we are at the midway point between Barcelona and Begur, the train stops momentarily due to an engine issue; and Teo excuses himself for a cigarette. When he comes back, I see that he isn't empty-handed anymore. Perched in his right hand is a carton of raspberries.

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Author's Note: Two more chapters, omg! Are you ready for the end? I'm not.