The sweetie part was a killer. Tears came to my eyes, the front of my face feeling hot and tight. I nodded, able to keep them at bay, and turned around, walking quickly back to my room, my heart in my throat, my lungs deprived of air.

I shut the door behind me and stood there for a few minutes, trying to absorb what had just happened, trying to hold my body together. It felt as if it would come falling apart at any moment.

I was risking the chance at a new life on uncertainty, and the only thing that was certain was that if I ever returned, I’d come back to no life at all.

I collapsed to the floor.

I had made my choice.

“Shame on us, doomed from the start. May god have mercy on our dirty little hearts,” Trent Reznor sang softly in my ear. I don’t know what it is about listening to music 35,000 feet in the air, staring out the window at just clouds and rounded horizons, but life seems so much more profound. So fleeting. Maybe it was because at any moment you could plummet to your death. Maybe because it made you realize how small your life really was and the music was the soundtrack to your epiphany.

Or maybe it was because you were listening to a depressing and intensely relatable song. I sighed and skipped to the next one just as the seatbelt signs came on and the pilot announced our descent into the Madrid-Barajas Airport.

I didn’t need to buckle my belt—I never took that shit off when flying—so I rested my head against the wall, staring out the window as the clouds came up to meet the plane. I was having immense déjà vu, which made sense since I had landed in London back in late May with the same misfiring nerves coursing through my system. But there was more than just buzzing nerves this time: my entire heart, soul, and life was on the line.

The last week in Vancouver had been as miserable as you could imagine. My mother wouldn’t even look at me, and I never saw Mercy again after that. Josh was my saving grace. He was the buffer between me and the world of disappointment and hate. He made me feel loved when others didn’t.

I was extremely busy as well, trying to figure out if I needed to apply for a permit to work and stay in Spain for longer than normal. Because I was Canadian, working in Spain would be a fairly easy process but it was something I would have to deal with later. The most important thing was for me to just get there.

Naturally, my mother did talk to my father, and he didn’t sound too impressed with me either. He thought I was making a mistake. But he did say that if I ever came back home, I could live with him in Calgary. I really hoped it didn’t come to that, but it was nice to know it was there.

I didn’t want to think about that, about returning to Canada with my tail between my legs. My mind kept going to the “what ifs” all throughout the flight. What if Mateo’s friends and family hated me? What if the spark had died while I was away? What if he decided to reconcile with his wife for the sake of their daughter? What if he had forgotten how to love me—or realized he never loved me to begin with?

I was still so caught up in the questions and the lack of sleep that I didn’t even flinch when we came upon horrid turbulence upon our arrival. The man next to me was gripping his seat rest until his knuckles were chalk white, his body rigid, and yet my only fear was losing love.

Soon we landed, and while everyone looked relieved to be alive, jonesing to get off the plane, I was stuck to my seat, strapped down by fear. Suddenly, I couldn’t do it. Suddenly, I realized what a giant leap I had just taken, something so ballsy and slightly irresponsible. That wasn’t just my mother talking in my head, that was me, that was the me that feared she may have risked everything on a huge mistake. I had five hundred Canadian dollars in my bank account, and no way to get back home if something went wrong. As the flight attendant came down the aisle and asked me if I needed assistance getting off the plane, I asked, “Is there any way I can just stay on this plane and have it take me back home?” She laughed politely then shot me dagger eyes that told me to get my ass up.

I walked through the airport as if in slow-motion, everything so familiar and yet foreign. It was nice to hear Spanish being spoken again, and though it filled me with trepidation because, of course, I didn’t speak Spanish, and unlike Las Palabras, English wouldn’t cut it, it made me feel alive again. It was a kick in the pants of “Hey, I made it, I’m here.”

I just wished I wasn’t so damn afraid. Mateo had said he’d meet me at baggage claim, and I was actually a nervous wreck about seeing him. Would he look different? Did I look different? Was this going to be passionate? Awkward? Was I going to cry?

Would he still feel something for me?

I felt as if I was going to be sick. After I went through customs, I ducked into the bathroom and sat down in the stall, breathing in and out, trying to keep my nerves from bouncing like a rubber ball. I counted down to ten, did my makeup in the mirror, making sure I didn’t look like a jet-lagged mess. I looked normal…a bit wide-eyed but normal. I was wearing a long-sleeved dress that covered up my tats, just wanting to look more presentable when I flew, my hair pulled back into a braid.

Okay. Time to do this.

I walked out of the bathroom and headed for my carousel, my eyes darting around the busy area, looking for a tall handsome Spanish man. I didn’t see him. After what seemed like forever, my bags finally appeared—I had a large suitcase that Josh had given me and the backpack I had gone traveling with. I was moving my whole life over, after all, and was amazed everything could fit in those two bags. Everything else I had to leave behind, Josh promising he would take care of it and not let mom throw everything out. Not that she would, but considering her tendency to overreact, I wouldn’t put it past her.

I put the bags on one of the luggage carts and looked around. I hated feeling like he was somewhere watching me when I couldn’t see him.

After five minutes though, I was really starting to panic. What if he never came for me at all?

“Are you Vera?” I heard a soft voice beside me say.

I turned to see a girl who was at least model height, all willowy limbs, with long, thick brown hair and greenish eyes. She was wearing a loose strappy tank in a metallic green that showed off her tanned skin, and those Hammer pants that made everyone except women like her look like they had saggy diaper butt.

“Yes,” I said, smiling uncertainly.

“I’m Lucia,” she said, showing me a great flash of white teeth. She thrust out her hand. “I’m Mateo’s sister.”

“Oh,” I said slowly. Why was she here? Where was Mateo? I shook her hand, limp at first until it really clued in who I was speaking to. Jesus, where were my manners? “Hi,” I said quickly. “Sorry. I just got off the plane and…um, I guess I thought Mateo would be here.”

“He was but he got called into a meeting with the lawyers,” she said with a sympathetic smile. “He asked me to come in and get you.”

“That was nice of you,” I said, feeling terrible. I couldn’t have had the best reputation—I mean, if he asked her to come, then she knew about me. And now she had to come to the airport and pick me up.

“Do not worry about it,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Do you need help?” She gestured to the cart. “I parked in the temporary lot but it is not too far.”

“No, I’m good, thank you.”

“You are good?”

I needed to stop saying that. “I don’t need any help. I have it.”

She smiled and flipped her long hair over her shoulder. I caught a whiff of a women’s perfume I couldn’t quite place. She walked slightly in front of me, her car keys jangling from her hand. I noticed she was wearing strappy stiletto heels, and I envied her ease in them.