But right now, as I’m standing outside of the hostel, waiting for Marco to pick me up, I am nervous. Not the idea of being around Marco. The idea of being around Luciano. Honestly, I have no idea why. There’s something about him that puts me on edge. It’s not necessarily a bad thing but it’s…different.
It’s not long before Marco’s Mercedes rolls down the cobblestone streets. I quickly go around to the passenger side and get in.
“Ruby,” Marco greets me, leaning in to kiss me on both cheeks. He smells like strong cologne. “Sorry this was short notice. I suppose I should have put some space between our dates.”
Ah, so this is a date. At least I know where we stand.
“That’s okay,” I tell him, giving him a big smile. “I had nothing else to do.” I gesture to my outfit. “Is this okay for your non-fancy restaurant?”
His eyes rest on my chest for a long time. Not so subtle, is he.
“You’re perfect,” he says, eventually bringing his eyes up to mine, heat flashing in them.
Okay. I can see what’s happening here. The shameless flirting, as if making up for a fairly tame date last night. I have to remind myself not to reciprocate too much until the interview is done.
I give him a cheeky grin in response and then bring my attention to the window as the car starts down the narrow streets. “You know, I’m grateful you asked me out again. Not only because I want to finish interviewing your brother, but because I finally feel like I’m seeing the city.”
“You haven’t been sightseeing?” he asks, incredulous.
“I’ve been researching your brother,” I admit, glancing over at him.
Briefly, a wash of annoyance comes over his eyes. Then he laughs. “Believe me, Luciano isn’t that interesting.”
“You don’t think so? His father left when he was so young, then his mother quickly married your father.”
“She’s my mother too,” he says quietly.
“Yes. Of course she is. Alice Duarte. I’ve seen the pictures of her online, she’s stunning.”
He nods, jaw firm. “It’s no wonder my father fell in love with her so fast.” He looks at me, forehead wrinkled. “But what happened to Luciano happens to a lot of kids, doesn’t it? The fathers leave. It’s not so special.”
Sometimes the mothers leave, I think to myself. But while I had no problems sharing that information with Luciano, it doesn’t feel the same with Marco. With Luciano I feel a kinship. A kinship with a stranger, perhaps, but a kinship all the same.
With Marco, with his slick suit and fast car and perfect smile, I feel like I need to be a better version of myself. Someone cool, hot, young and fun. Not the hot mess I know I am deep down, not the girl with all that pain buried in her dirty past.
I can be Ruby Turner, sports journalist, a professional living in a foreign city, someone who is going places. Or at least I can try to be that person.
The restaurant is down in Belém, where the Tagus River meets the Atlantic Ocean. We park nearby and head across the busy street. It’s quite warm and there’s a freshness in the air so close to the water. In the distance there’s a huge statue that looks like a ship’s bow facing the river.
“That’s Padrão dos Descobrimentos,” Marco points out. “A monument to Portuguese explorers. You may not realize it, but we Portuguese have influenced a lot of things. The ukulele, marmalade, Portuguese sausage. That last one is very famous. Wait until you have one.”
From the look on his face, I laugh. I don’t have to guess his meaning.
While we’ve been walking, we’ve been a few feet apart, but now that we’ve entered the restaurant, which seems a lot homelier than I imagined it would, he’s grabbed my hand as we are led over to the tables. I’m not a hand-holding type of person, my hands tend to get quite sweaty and I’ve always found it constricting, but it’s rather nice to hold his.
We follow the waiter to our table by the window, where Luciano is already seated.
His eyes drop to where his brother’s hand is holding mine, then he looks up and meets my eyes. “Nice to see you again,” he says. While his voice is warm, there’s a distance to his dark eyes. Perhaps because he knows I’m here to grill him.
“You too,” I say, sitting down across from him. I glance over Luciano’s shoulder at the river in the distance and sailboats fighting the current. “This is a nice spot. I would have thought you would have been at some hot and trendy joint.”
“Marco likes the trendy places so he can be seen,” Luciano says, giving his brother a wry smile. “I’m more fond of good food.”
Marco scoffs. “You keep saying this is the best seafood in the city, but I know you’re wrong.”
“Don’t you get harassed at places like this?” I ask him, looking around the restaurant. There’s a mix of people here, obvious tourists, old couples, families. Some people are looking his way with interest, but most are ignoring him, even though he’s one of the bigger stars on the Sporting team.
“No one really harasses him,” Marco says. “I mean, perhaps when they’re losing he gets some drunk people yelling at him, but the celebrity culture here is very different than in America.”
After the waiter comes by and Marco orders a bottle of white wine for us, Luciano says to me, “I never got a chance to ask you where you’re from.” He leans back in his chair, studying my face.
“Houston, Texas,” I tell him.
He nods. “Your accent was a giveaway. Though it’s not as strong as I’ve heard.”
“Have y’all been to Houston?”
I didn’t add that y’all on purpose, I swear.
Another slow nod. “Yes. We’ve gone to a few cities in the US, I have a lot of friends in the leagues there.”
“What did you think about Houston?”
“Very different,” he says. “I was surprised at how multicultural it
