But something tells me I’m not going to escape her now, no matter what I do.
She’s back in my life.
Except it’s not my life this time.
It’s my brother’s.
And if God has the wicked sense of humor that I think he does, he’s going to make sure she stays.
Twenty
Ruby
He hates me.
I mean, he really fucking hates me.
I always used to tell myself that indifference was worse than hate, because it meant that they didn’t care at all.
Turns out that’s not true at all. Hate is worse than indifference. I’d rather Luciano not care about me at all then to have his heart so bitter and angry. It just reminds me of what I did to him, even though he has no idea why I had to do it, and how hard it was on me.
The last seven years have been a whirlwind. The last place I thought I’d end up was Madrid.
But when it looked like Real Madrid was headed to the finals, and this was the first year of me doing my on-camera work for Ruutu+ Urheilu 2, the Finnish sports channel I sometimes work for, I told them I could get some interviews with the players. I hoped that if I could do this, maybe they’d try and get me on camera even more.
This was a big fucking deal and a big chance to cement myself. I mean, I had been doing everything I could over the years to try and get back into journalism, and when you have to work illegally, that’s an uphill battle. I started with my own YouTube channel, did as much freelance writing as I could. Because I had stayed in Helsinki for so long, became fluent in Finnish (now that’s a language) and spoke perfect English, and I guess have the looks for it, I slowly got my foot in the door.
Plus, I know what I’m talking about. I’m not just a pretty face on camera, in fact I get very emotional and angry when I’m watching the games or doing interviews, but I think the Finns like that for a change of pace from their usually straight-faced reporters.
I am only part-time, and I live in fear that they’ll change their mind. They’re paying me as a contractor, but I’m scared they’ll discover I’m not permitted to work for them. That’s why this trip was so important, a chance for me to prove myself and possibly have it so that they won’t ever let go of me.
So I came down, taking the ferry from Helsinki to Stockholm, driving down across the bridge to Denmark, then all the way down to Madrid. I told them I wanted to combine it with a vacation, and somehow I made the drive in two crazy days.
I got in touch with Marco and…
Well, history repeats itself, I guess.
And I already looked back on Marco as the safe bet. I knew I could again. Just to have someone I knew here, not to mention that he was my in when it came to Real Madrid.
I had fallen in love with someone who was the opposite of safe.
There’s no way I would go through that again.
And yet, here I am.
Walking through the streets of Madrid, about to meet Luciano for an interview.
I have no idea how Marco managed to swindle this. I mean, I looked deep into Luciano’s eyes the other night and I saw a man who only held coals inside his chest. And the worst thing about it is, I can’t blame him.
I can only blame myself.
Because I made that choice for myself back then.
I made the selfish choice.
And I’ve regretted it every single fucking day.
I should have told his stepfather to fuck off and get me deported.
Everything would have been better in the end.
I wouldn’t have had to carry so much goddamn guilt with me all these years.
I round the corner and glance down at my Google maps, trying to find the bar. It’s supposed to be at the edge of a plaza, but there are so many plazas in Madrid, it gets confusing.
It’s hot too. Summer is in full swing and I’ve got sweaty hands and chafing thighs and I’m wishing I’d worn shorts under my sundress.
I nervously pat my crossbody bag, the pad and paper in there because I’m weird and like to take notes old school, writing it down on my Nokia doesn’t cut it.
You can do this, Ruby. You’ve interviewed a lot of stars and big names by now.
I want to laugh at myself.
As if Luciano is just a big name.
He used to be the biggest and brightest star in my fucking sky.
I find the bar. It’s fairly empty, an old place with lots of wood and big tropical fans whirring on the ceiling. Totally a bar Luciano would pick.
And there he is, in the back in a small booth.
He’s staring at the menu, hasn’t seen me yet.
I take this moment to ground myself.
To give myself courage.
Patience.
To hold onto my own heart before it tries to make the leap.
Because it wants to.
We’re turning back our history, and suddenly I feel like I’m just walking into a bar back in Lisbon, that I’m going to go kiss his face, see his beautiful smile, feel the tenderness and fire in his gaze.
He looks like that man I knew.
Older, sure, but not much has changed except he has grey in his hair, and he’s rocking a beard.
That’s it.
He looks the same.
Maybe that’s what is throwing me off so much.
He’s changed so little on the outside and so much on the inside.
I take in a deep breath, bracing myself. I walk toward him.
He lowers the menu, glancing up at me over it, those gorgeous brown eyes glinting with risk.
I can’t get a read on him.
I just want him to smile at me.
I just wish he was happy to see me, that he wanted to see me.
“Hey,” I say to him. I try to sound light and breezy.
He immediately tenses, his fingers gripping the edge
