“Look,” he said, “I’m going to the Met tonight with some people. Why don’t you come with?”
Ugh. The Met. That skeezy bar was such a hit or miss. Still…I was up for getting out of the house, doing anything to take my mind off of things. I couldn’t believe I actually missed talking all day long.
A friendly Facebook message from Claudia and an email from Sammy later, I was shimmying into a pair of black skinny jeans and a tight Queen baseball tee that put Freddie Mercury’s eyes right on my boobs. Hearing from those two girls helped my mood, even though Sammy’s email contained a picture of a penis.
The Met was located in the bad part of downtown that resembled a typical episode of The Walking Dead. It was too far to walk, both of us were too cheap for a cab, and Josh wasn’t going to drive drunk, so we got on the bus. It was weird sitting on it and observing the people around me. Though Madrid had also been a bustling city, there was more life and friendliness there. More smiles.
“Why does it look like you’re plotting to kill everyone?” Josh leaned over and asked as the bus zipped down Broadway. “Is there something I don’t know about?”
“They were right, you know,” I said. “Whoever said Vancouver was a no-fun city.”
“Maybe, but…you know you can still have fun, right?”
“People in Spain were so…I don’t know…happy to see you. Friendlier. Talkative.”
“Vancouver has always been this way. It’s not that different from other big cities.”
“It’s changed.”
“No, Vera. You’ve changed.”
He was right. I’d been happy with my beautiful no-fun city up until now. This became more apparent as the night went on. We got a table in the corner of the dingy hipster bar, and while we waited for his friends to show up, I couldn’t help but notice the atmosphere. Oh, it was pretty much the usual—drunk chicks, cocky boys, $3 cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon on ice—but I was now noticing the differences between here and Spain. The men would stare, but only the really drunk or overly arrogant men would approach the women. There was a lot of lusty looks that eventually led to grinding by the jukebox, but no friendly smiles or flirty conversations.
Josh’s friends weren’t much better, I knew this, but at least when they were around me they talked and didn’t stare endlessly at Freddie Mercury. Well, not all of them. I’d known the lanky Brad since I was a kid, and body modification lover Phil had been my friend since high school. I was pretty much a sister to them.
Then there was Adam, a guy I had only met a few times before. He was pretty hot, I had to give him that—green-blue eyes, wide jaw, spiky dark blonde hair, strong build—which is why I normally didn’t mind when he stared at my breasts. Now, though, it just felt wrong. He was pretty much leering and I wished I could make Freddy give him the stink-eye.
“So, Spain,” Adam said. “Bet you partied pretty hard there. Did you go to Ibiza?”
I shook my head, turning the can of beer around and around. “No, I was just in one place. Acantilado, teaching English.”
“That sucks.”
I gave him a sharp look. “Believe me, it didn’t.”
He leaned back in his chair and gave me a wry look. “I don’t know, teaching? That sucks. That’s, like, totally not a vacation. You should have seen some culture or something.”
I exhaled in a hard puff. “There was plenty of culture.”
“So who were you teaching? Were they kids?”
“No, adults.”
“Were they, like, retarded?”
I glared at his choice of word, feeling very defensive. “No, they were professionals. They all had a basic level of English. This was just for conversational English. To build their vocabulary and confidence in business situations.”
He shrugged. “I don’t know, that still sounds boring to me.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever.” I got out of my seat and looked at Josh who had been looking at me with a strange look on his face. “Do you want a drink?”
He nodded and Adam said, “Get one for me too, babe.”
I held out my palm in front of him and wriggled my fingers. He looked confused. “Give me money,” I said, “and I’ll get you a drink.”
He grunted and fished out some cash, tossing it across the table, nowhere near my open hand. He gave a chagrined smile to Josh. “Jeez, Josh, your big sister comes back from Europe and suddenly she hates my guts.”
I gave him an odd look and snatched the money off the table. Hate his guts? I didn’t even know him. Sure, I had made the flirty eyes, touchy-touchy moves on him a few times before, but that was then and this was now. Adam was just a boy, and I didn’t want a boy anymore. I wanted a man, I needed a man, and one man in particular.
I went to the dirty bathroom, checking my phone for texts and emails while I was in the stall. Nothing from Mateo.
I felt like crushing the phone in my hand, my lips pressed together. I stuck it back in my purse and made my way out to the bar. While in line, having a chick spill beer on my boots, I started thinking maybe I’d had enough of this place. When “Summertime Sadness” came blasting on through the speakers, much to the squeal of all the hipster girls, that’s when I really knew. I bought Josh and Adam’s beers and then plopped them down on their table.
“Where’s your beer?” Josh asked.
“I’m going home,” I told him.
He started to get up but I put out my hand. “No, I’m fine. Stay. It’s the jet lag. Need to go to sleep.” I gave everyone else a quick smile. “Have a good night.”
I turned and walked, hearing Josh yell, “Vera!” and then Adam saying, “Let her go, she’s probably PMSing.”
“Fuck you,” I grumbled under my breath. I walked out onto the puddle-strewn street, the lights reflecting forlornly in them. It wasn’t cold out but the dampness made me hug myself as I walked, my head down, my pace quick. I walked up a few blocks until the sketchy junkies were replaced by drunk bums, then walked past a hostel on the way to my bus stop.
I couldn’t help but stop. They had a small bar and computer area right by the windows. I stared in at the warm glow of the room, the travel posters of Vancouver and BC on the red walls. There was an Indian girl and a German-looking guy having a drink and chatting, all shy smiles, guidebooks in their hands. There were two Asian girls on the computers, fueled by paper cups of coffee, and writing up a storm. A tall couple with blonde hair and backpacks were talking to the young woman at reception who was pointing to a map of the city.
That had been me in London six weeks ago. All this promise and possibility ahead of me, the novelty of the new. Those people inside were experiencing something that would change them forever.
And here I was, standing on a dark, damp city street, alone.
Just memories.
No messages.
Chapter Nineteen
I’d become obsessive.
This wasn’t a new thing for me; I’d always gotten easily wrapped in things. When I was twelve, I saw Indiana Jones for the first time (yeah, I know, took me long enough), and I became obsessed with not only Harrison Ford, but with archeology. I decided I was totally going to be an archeologist instead of an astronomer, and wanted to live my life traipsing through the jungles and deserts on wild adventures. I also decided I would invent a time machine to take me back to the 1980s when Harrison Ford was younger and less grumpy, then somehow convince him to marry me and bring him back to the future.
When I was sixteen I became obsessed with Nick Cave and everything Nick Cave related. I joined chat rooms and fan groups, I poured over lyrics, analyzing them, I collected interviews and read them over and over again in hopes of gleaning something from his words. I started babysitting, even though I wasn’t a big fan of children at the time, so I’d have enough money to drive around America and follow him on tour. Needless to say, I never saved up enough money for that, but I did earn enough to buy signed LPs for my non-existent record player and rare concert posters.