Barcelona Days

Jenna’s eyes and she looked terrified. She was being sandwiched between torsos. She looked like she might not be able to breathe. Will lost her behind a wall of bodies, and he thought he heard her cry out for help. There was another crack from above, gunfire this time. Will was suddenly cold with terror. There was a gunman somewhere, wasn’t there? On the stage, most likely. It was the perfect venue, the perfect opportunity—all these hundreds trapped beneath the ashcloud like this. He’d always wondered when it would be his turn. When he would unsuspectingly make a hasty decision that would lead him into the crosshairs of a mass shooting. He felt a forceful shove at his back again and he nearly lost his footing. He slammed into the person in front of him. He felt his phone in his pocket connect with the studs of the man’s belt. It sent a shock through his system. It cracked Will’s hip. But more than the pain, he worried about his phone. He couldn’t lose his phone in this mess. He needed to call or text for help. He needed to let Whitney know what was happening, and that he loved her. Though there was still shoving and groaning all around—the full force of the stampede—he didn’t hear any more shots, and he didn’t see anyone crying out bloodied. He found Jenna again and lunged toward her and grabbed her hand, then tucked her head against his body. They took one step forward at a time, and before long they were through it, emerging as though from beneath a giant wave after wiping out.

It had been nothing, it turned out. It had been a little thunder and a little lightning, and then a rush to the bathroom as the band cleared the stage.

They were at the end of the bathroom line and Jenna acted as though practically zero had transpired, as though there hadn’t just been a terror scare—that it had all been in Will’s head.

“Fuck,” she said, “I should’ve gone before we went in.”

The line looked a quarter-mile long. Will was breathing heavily still, body still cold.

“While we have the time,” she said, “want to get a couple beers and meet me back here?”

He obeyed. He knew she knew he would. He thrilled to the simple tasks. He was perfect for so many new jobs. He floated to the concession stand dazed. His head was pounding and he was ready for a drink. In line, Will turned on his roaming and checked his phone. Nothing from Whitney. Still, he was grateful to have it in working condition. He noticed his battery was low—he’d forgotten to charge overnight. After everything that had transpired. He quickly tapped out a text saying he loved her, but then deleted it. No need to stoke suspicions. No need to act like the decision they’d made at the gate was anything but ordinary. No need to mention that the object of her envy and scorn had forced a party drug down his throat and that it had made him overreact to a little weather. No need to make her think that there was any reason to worry about Will and Jenna being all alone together in the rain.

“Let’s hang a left down through here,” Jack said. “You may have been over this way after the club the other night. It’s a little sketchy, but there’s a few places I like. My movie theater’s over here.”

Off Diagonal, the blocks were gridded but narrow, somewhere between the octagons of the Eixample and the slot canyons of the Gothic Quarter. There were abandoned buildings and operational warehouses. There were Laundromats and cafés serving espresso and Moritz. And there were the standard-issue drying lines and skin-colored stucco of everywhere in Western Europe. Of Avignon, of Bologna, of Porto—and apparently of here, too, in the Poblenou of Barcelona.

“It really is wild that after three years on the same campus it took meeting thousands of miles away at some random party, right?” he said.

“‘Fate, man…’ Should I get ready for some of Jenna’s dorm-room philosophy?”

He smiled, but she could tell she’d embarrassed him. He was so sensitive about his brain. He had reached out, raw-nerved, and she’d swatted down the offering.

“It is, you’re right,” she said. “None of this makes any sense. I know what you’re doing here, but I have no idea what I’m doing here.”

“Vacation.”

“Yes,” she said. “But why? Why these days, of any days? And why here?”

Jack shrugged. “Memorial Day? And it’s nice?”

She smiled. “Yes, good answer. Half right. Half point for the half-right answers. But it makes even less sense if I really think about it. You, I get. But why us?”

He narrowed his eyes, a little suspicious of the rhetorical questions. He obviously didn’t have the answer, and she obviously did. He shrugged again, impatient.

It was growing darker still and looked very much like it might start raining any moment. They passed beneath awnings that covered the sidewalk and each time they stepped out there was a bit of the thrill of being between seats in a game of musical chairs. Red neon—a Spanish red, the red of muletas and mashed tomatoes and cured ham and rioja—blared from the window of a cheap seafood restaurant, with shrimp and lobsters visible in the tanks through the glass. The red ran over Jack like a highlighter and seemed to lift the Kukoč jersey an inch off his body. His skin was red, the fur on his arms and legs was red. His head of dark hair lit up red, too. Something about the ethereal vision—a break from the monochrome of the ashcloud—made her think it and say it and give into it:

“Beautiful…” she said, almost without meaning to.

“Hmm?” he said. Her cheeks went hot. What this vision before her had to do with the forces that had trapped them there she couldn’t say for sure, but she’d connected them, and the picture of this bright beautiful body awash in