“The station? Is that some kind of name for your gallery?”

Shit.

“Yes. That’s what we call it. The Station.” I glance around the restaurant for a moment. “I submit my pieces there and the curator… Ben…jamin puts them on display. He has a few clients who really love my work, so they usually sell pretty quick. But… they do sometimes get robbed.”

“That’s terrible! They don’t have security?”

The waiter arrives with two trays of food. He places one on the empty table behind me, then he begins unloading the tray in his other hand: two cheeseburger plates and one basket of chicken wings with a side of ranch dressing. He sets the empty tray aside and grabs the other one from the table behind me. My eyes widen at the assortment of drinks and candy on the tray: a bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey; two Snickers bars; a bag of Skittles; and a DVD of Say Anything.

The waiter leaves everything on the table then excuses himself. I shake my head as I look at this array of American stuff that would not necessarily be found on an American date, but the DVD shows that he did do at least one Google search. Suddenly, I’m overcome with emotion and regret for having spent the last ten minutes lying to him about my life in L.A.

“Are you… are you crying?”

I sniff loudly and blink until the tears disappear. What is wrong with me? I can’t share a meal with him without crying.

“I’m fine. I just… don’t think anyone has ever done anything this corny for me.”

“Corny? I’m not so sure, but I think you’re saying my surprise is a bad thing, no?”

“No,” I chuckle, reaching for his hand. “Not in this case. This is a good thing. You really surprised me. It was a good secret.”

He smiles and squeezes my hand, but he doesn’t look convinced. “Let’s eat.”

Since I was unable to visit the clinic yesterday, I decide not to have any whiskey. The assortment of junk food and candy is enough to make me sick two hours into our date. But Nick, who found himself to have quite a liking for American spirits, had five shots and two Jack and Cokes. By the time we leave the American Bar, I don’t think he can see clearly and his skin looks a bit gray.

I help him into the backseat of a cab and instantly forget about my own upset stomach when he lays his head in my lap. I lightly drag my fingers through his dark hair and the corner of his mouth pulls up in a smile. His arm reaches up clumsily until he finds my hand. Pulling my hand away from his hair, he brings my hand to his nose and draws in a deep breath.

“You smell so good, American girl.”

He plants a sloppy kiss on the palm of my hand, then hugs my arm to his chest. I laugh and shake my head, but when I look up, I notice the cab driver staring at me in the rearview mirror.

“Americana?” he asks from under his bushy gray mustache.

I nod and pretend to look at Nick so I can keep my head low. He says something else in Spanish, but I don’t understand, so I keep my face down and answer with my standard, “No habla Español.”

Nick falls asleep on the way home as I gaze out the window at the dazzling night sky. If I weren’t so on edge over the cab driver’s attempt to make conversation, I’d think this was the perfect end to a fabulous date. Just when the quiet night begins to seep in and relax my muscles, the cab driver turns onto our street. My heart kickstarts when I see a black man in a black hoodie walking down the street past my house.

I ask the cab driver to drop us off in front of Nick’s cottage. He’s nice enough to help me get Nick into his bedroom. I pay the driver cash and he glances around a bit too much for my taste as he heads back out to his taxi.

Closing the front door, I head back to Nick’s bedroom to see if he needs anything, but he looks like he’s already asleep. Just to be on the safe side, I crouch on the floor next to his bed and shake his arm a little.

“Nick, do you need anything? Some water, or a bucket, maybe?”

His eyelids flutter open revealing those vibrant green eyes that have been dulled by the whiskey. “Water… and a wet towel, please.”

“Sure.”

I don’t know what the wet towel is for. It must be an old wives tale in Spain or another one of Nick’s marvelous hangover cures. I grab a glass of water in the kitchen, then I go to the bathroom to find a washcloth. I run it under the faucet and wring out most of the moisture until it’s only slightly damp.

I place the glass of water on the nightstand, then I kneel on the floor in front of him again. Not sure what to do with the cloth, I use it to wipe his forehead. Then I move slowly over his cheek and jaw.

He reaches up and grabs my wrist as his eyes open again. His eyelids flutter under the heaviness of the alcohol, but his lips curl into a sweet, lazy grin. Letting go of my wrist, he reaches out and finds my face. His hand is warm and I hold my breath as I wait for him to say something.

“Thank you.”

I sigh and smile back at him. “It’s no big deal. It’s only fair that the American girl tends to your American bender.”

He nods as if he understands, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t. “I love you.”

My heart sputters to life, threatening to leap out of my chest. This is not good. This is not a good surprise, at all.

I kiss his forehead and lay the damp cloth on the nightstand next to his water. “Go to sleep. I’ll… I’ll be on the sofa if you need anything.”

“Don’t go. Stay with me.”

I swallow hard and brush his hair off his face. “Okay.”

I round the foot of the bed and lie down on the other side of the bed, awkwardly staring at the plaster on the ceiling for a moment. Then he turns around and lays his head on my midsection, letting out a big sigh as if now he can finally get comfortable.

I run my fingertips over the short hair above his nape, hoping it will help him fall asleep faster. Anything to help him sleep off all the alcohol. To get him back in his right mind.

I don’t think he meant to tell me he loved me. It was the whiskey. But if he did mean to say it… That is one secret he should have kept to himself.

Chapter Eight

Even though I’ve taken the time to disguise myself, I travel to a clinic on the other side of the island this time. I’ve been able to hide the scab from the bullet graze underneath my hair, but I don’t know how I’m going to explain the new hair color to Nick. First I get attacked in the city, then I dye my hair blonde. If he’s not already suspicious of my flimsy backstory as a photographer-slash-artist, then he definitely will be when he sees me today.

But after seeing the same black guy in the hoodie and the cab driver’s suspicious behavior last night, I couldn’t take any chances. The blonde hair may buy me a few more days on this island, but I’m going to have to leave soon. I may as well find out whether I’m pregnant first. Scratch that off my list. Then I’ll know where to go from there.

The taxi drops me off right in front of a small, tan stucco building with the standard clay tile roof. A red and white sign in the window reads Clínica de Familia de las Cruces; Family Clinic of the Cross. My Spanish has improved exponentially. I guess it helps that I’ve had Nick to translate for me.

The receptionist speaks English and she’s quite accommodating when I explain to her that I’m American and I’m paying cash. She gets me into an examination room quickly and within minutes, an assistant in pink scrubs comes in with a sample cup for me to pee in. She leads me halfway down the corridor to a private restroom. Without words, she points out the specimen receptacle in the wall where I’m to deposit the cup once I’ve filled it with urine and wiped it clean. I smile as she closes the bathroom door, then I lock it behind her.

I pull up my orange skirt and slide my panties down, then I sit on the toilet, wishing I’d had the foresight to drink more water this morning. About ten minutes later, I exit the restroom to find the woman in the pink scrubs leaning impatiently against the wall. She was waiting for me this whole time.