Once we got to the cobble-strewn town square of Acantilado, we sat around the edge of a fountain, waiting for the rest of the vans to show up—Peter drove like a madman. Claudia gently nudged me and leaned in. “Are you okay?”

I nodded and gave her a tight smile. I hadn’t talked to her since the party, since she saw me with Dave. For a moment I wondered if she thought of me as a big ol’ slut, then I looked at Ricardo on the other side of her, his hand on her knee, and realized she was the one who wanted me to go for it.

Only, there was nothing to go for anymore. There never had been.

“It will be okay,” she said softly so that the others didn’t hear us. “You will see. Spanish men are very territorial.”

I frowned, not sure what she was getting at. Before I could ask, the other two vans pulled up to the edge of the square, with Jerry hoping off and immediately launching into a story about the fountain we were sitting around, an apparent fountain of youth.

No thanks, I thought. I apparently had too much youth at the moment.

I stiffened when I saw Mateo step out and immediately turned to Claudia to busy myself as everyone gathered. Then the guide, whom Jerry introduced as Luiz, a supremely tall man in shorts with socks and sandals, waved us all over to follow him.

I lagged at the back of the group with Claudia and Ricardo. It was cute to see him hold her hand, even though there was a part of me that was raging with jealousy because I couldn’t have that, not with the man I wanted.

I sighed to myself, totally despondent. Sleeping with Dave didn’t help me get over Mateo at all. I wasn’t sure at this point anything would—not his wife, not the age difference, not our citizenships. Nothing. The only good thing I had going for me was that he was leaving in a week. It was going to suck, but at least I’d start getting over him faster.

We walked through the winding streets of the town and I started snapping photos to take my mind off of things. It was so damn cool and so different from what I was used to. The streets were crooked with a line running through the middle of them that acted like a gutter during the Middle Ages, when people would just throw shit out their windows. Literal shit.

The buildings were mostly granite on the first floor, with dark wood beams and finishings on the floors above. I caught snippets of Luiz telling us that the buildings were all preserved as they were and all new buildings must match the look and not be higher than three stories. Upstairs it seemed more residential, with narrow iron balconies and potted plants. The occasional rusted gaslight lantern gave it a gothic quality. I started imagining what it would be like to live here, to go to the market each morning to buy vegetables, to spend nights on the patios of the tapas bars, drinking sangria. Everything about Spain just seemed so much more real, so much more alive than back home.

As we walked along, we stopped by a few shops that had their doors open to the summer breeze. It was actually my first chance to buy some Spanish souvenirs. The choices were overwhelming—there was daintily painted pottery, large rustic barrels lined with burlap and overflowing with a million varieties of nuts and powdered spices, bottles of olive oil and jars of figs. Eduardo came running toward us with a t-shirt that said “Spanish Triathlon: Eating, Drinking, Fucking” with the corresponding stick figure pictures.

“You must buy this!” he said to me, his round cheeks red with amusement.

I managed to laugh. “I do like all those things. Glad I was the first person you thought of.”

Next, blue-haired Nerea came over to us with a bulging shopping bag and handed me a small bag filled with what looked like white chocolate bark.

“It is turrón,” she said with her heavy accent and graceful smile. “I buy for all the Anglos. It is special to a place like this.”

I thanked her profusely for her kind gesture and while she went to go distribute the rest, Claudia told me it was a Spanish delicacy made from egg whites, honey and almond. As much as I wanted to tear into it and started eating, I knew I had to save it as a memory of this place.

When we were done with the shopping, we continued following Luiz down the narrow street until it opened up at an ancient looking church. In front of it was a huge bronze statue of a pig with abnormally large balls. While Luiz led everyone inside the church, telling everyone it was built in 1300s (which was mind-blowing to me since we considered an “old” building in Vancouver to be 100 years old), Claudia, Ricardo, Eduardo, Polly and Sammy went over to the pig statue and started fondling it. Naturally I had to get out of my camera and snap away. I guess we overstayed our welcome when Eduardo slipped the Spanish Triathlon t-shirt on—I can’t believe he actually bought it—and started riding the pig like a cowboy. A disgruntled local came over and told all of us off. There were a lot of gestures involved.

Eduardo quickly apologized, then under his breath muttered “puta coña”, and we sheepishly scurried into the church.

Inside it was as still as a tomb, even with Luiz’s hushed voice telling everyone about the 16th century granite pulpit and a gothic copper processional cross. With his six foot height, Mateo was easy to spot above the crowd. He was beside Luiz at the altar, listening intently and occasionally nodding. Since Spain was such a Catholic country, I wondered what Mateo’s religious beliefs were. Not that it mattered to me, but I always loved the idea of faith and found people who had to it to be fascinating. It then got me thinking about Mateo growing up—what his sister was like, where he lived, if his parents were still around. I’d been talking about myself every day but the truth was I didn’t really know a lot about him.

Was that why I found him so fascinating? Because he was mysterious? Or was there something else that pulled me to him like gravity gone wild?

I didn’t realize I was staring so blatantly until Mateo’s eyes were locked on mine. I froze like a deer in headlights, expecting to get a glare in return or the cold shoulder. But his eyes actually softened at the corners and he gave me a subtle smile.

I tried to return the same. Then I gulped and turned to my side, pretending to be enthralled with the colorful, sculpted carvings that adorned the support beams. It wasn’t a stretch—they were fascinating. But I stayed that way until long after Luiz thanked everyone for being part of the tour and everyone gave him respectful applause. I pretended to be occupied until I thought the church was empty.

I turned around. And I was wrong.

Mateo was just a few feet away, standing in the middle of the faded red-carpeted aisle, his hands casually jammed into his pockets and looking at me with a most intense look in those smoky brown eyes.

“Vera,” he said and my nerves squirmed at the throaty quality of his voice, “can I speak with you? Please?”

“Yeah,” I said non-committal, even though I had a whole speech prepared in case he actually did end up lecturing me. It went something like “Why is it your business who I sleep with, you’re married, you’re not supposed to care?” Whether I ended up voicing that to him was unknown.

“I just wanted you to know,” he said, taking a step forward and then stopping, “that I’m staying here an extra week.”

Okaaaaay.

He read my expression. “My partner suggested it and I told him I could use the extra help with English.”

Well, that last part was bullshit. Aside from needing help with a few phrases and words here and there, Mateo was nearly fluent. His confidence level during the business portions needed some work, but considering the only language I knew was a shoddy level of French, I would have been happy with that.

Mateo must have been a perfectionist. Or, maybe, he just didn’t want to go home.