“Makes me think I probably shouldn’t have come here so soon,” I said carefully, my words pricked with regret.

“Perhaps,” she said. “But falling in love with another woman does not mean you are not a good parent. That should have no effect on it.”

“Even if the other woman is fifteen years younger, and covered in tattoos and piercings and is Canadian?”

She studied me for so long with those pretty eyes of hers that I was afraid we were going to collide with the back of a van. “We like Canadians,” she finally said. “It will be fine.”

After that sobering conversation, I asked her about things that didn’t make me feel like a horrible human being. She told me all about her job in marketing for a major cell phone company, how she still lived with her parents because she and her last boyfriend had only broken up six months ago and she had nowhere to go. Now, despite the car, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to move in with her new one. When I asked her why she didn’t move out on her own, she told me that didn’t sound like a lot of fun.

Eventually the car pulled down one of the prettiest streets I had seen yet. It was wide, with classic buildings and lots of greenery and color. There were all sorts of smartly-dressed people on the sidewalk, tons of boutiques and tapas bars. Even on this grey day, it had life to it.

“This is the Salamanca barrio,” Lucia said. “My ex-boyfriend lived down that street right there. I love it here, you’re lucky that Mateo got a place. It can be quite expensive.”

“Where do you and your parents live?”

“We are just north of the city. My boyfriend now lives in the Ibiza neighborhood, and it is not so bad. If he asks me to move in with him, I will not mind.”

We drove around the block a few times, Lucia peering at the apartment buildings, until she drove down toward another road. “Sorry,” she apologized. “I have only been here once. But now I remember.”

Finally she found a parking spot in front of a cream colored building with almost a Parisian look to it. “Here we are.”

I stared up at it through the car window. It was gorgeous. I was going to be living here?

We got out of the car, Lucia swinging the pack over her shoulder, me with the suitcase, and we walked through the glass doors of the entrance. The floor had white marble tiles, and the concierge desk was dark wood. Lucia nodded at the man behind the desk who was sifting through a newspaper, and we continued over to the elevator.

“He is only here during the day,” she said as she pushed the button. “At night you need to use your keycard to get in the building.”

The elevator was tiny as hell, barely fitting us and all my stuff; the floor was red velvet that had seen better days. I guess not all the building was as well-renovated as the lobby. I liked that. It felt more like me, to have something a bit tired and rundown.

We got off on the top floor, which was the sixth, and I followed Lucia down a long hallway of sleek hardwood floors with a red and gold runner carpet down the middle. The doors to each apartment had intricate moldings around the frames. You’d never find a place like this in Vancouver and have it be from the actual time period.

“How old is this building?” I asked.

She shrugged as she tried to find her keys, her glossy hair falling in her face. We had stopped at one of the doors at the end of the hall, light streaming in through an ornate window. “Mateo would know. Maybe two hundred years old, more or less. Our buildings here aren’t as old as the other European cities.”

“It’s old to me,” I told her, amazed.

She stuck the key in the lock and we walked into my new home.

I sucked in my breath. It was beautiful.

The floor was hardwood like the hall, but a lighter maple color. The walls were textured and a creamy off-white. The ceilings were very high and had iron chandeliers hanging from them, much like Las Palabras, but these were painted the same color as the walls. As I slowly walked down the front hall, marvelling at the Matador paintings on the walls, I came across the kitchen to the left, a big open space of gleaming chrome and granite, fit for a chef. Beyond that was the living room with a flatscreen TV and soft white leather couch. Windows on the far wall stretched from floor to ceiling, bathing everything in light. You could hear the muffled sounds of the street below and had a view across the street to another beautiful apartment.

“This is amazing,” I said under my breath, peering out the window. I looked over my shoulder at her. She was standing to the side of the kitchen, my backpack still on her shoulders, texting someone on her phone.

Deciding to give myself a tour, I looked to my right and saw another hallway with a bathroom at the end of it. I walked down it and peered into the first room to my left. It was a small den, barely furnished except for a roll-top desk, a laptop, and an open filing cabinet. A few papers spilled onto the carpet beneath. A large amount of boxes were stacked along one wall. Seeing that, seeing the proof of Mateo having to move, having to start his life over, picked at my heart a bit.

I wasn’t the only one faced with massive change.

I continued down the hall, calling over my shoulder, “Do you know when Mateo will be back?”

I opened a door across from it on the right and peered into what looked like a small guest bedroom, tastefully decorated but unlived in.

“He just texted me,” she said. “Should be another hour or so, he hopes.”

I nodded and opened the door on my left. The last one. The master bedroom. It was gorgeous: a king bed with a fluffy white duvet that you’d find at fancy hotels, a large window that opened to the street, a humongous antique dresser, a walk-in closet (great excuse to go shopping with Lucia), and what looked to be a vast en-suite bathroom.

“So,” Lucia said. I turned to look at her putting the backpack down on the couch. “Now that you are here, I’m afraid I have to leave before the traffic gets too bad.”

I walked down toward her, both afraid to be alone and eager to take in my new place by myself.

She embraced me in a quick hug and a perfumed kiss on each cheek. “I will see you soon, yes?”

“I hope so.”

She smiled coyly. “This is your home now, Vera. You are with my brother. We will see each other so much that soon I will be a pain in the butt to you, too.”

She turned and strutted toward the door. Then she stopped and said, “I forgot to leave you these,” and put down a key and a key card on the kitchen island.

Then she was gone and I was all alone in my new place.

I was immediately overwhelmed by the silence, by the unpacking that needed to be done, by the shower I needed to take, by the exploring I needed to do. Instead I lay back on the couch and closed my eyes.

The sound of keys rattling in the door woke me.

My eyes sprung open, my heart immediately off to the races. I sat right up and turned to look at the door, blinking a few times. I had to remember where I was. Mateo’s place. My place. I had fallen asleep on the couch, my body and mind weary from my travels.

My god, was it Mateo at the door?

I didn’t have to wonder for long.

The door opened and in he stepped.

All the breath was taken out of me.

Time came to a crawl.

My heart kicked up a notch.

The air became charged, electric.

All those cliché things that actually do happen to you once Mateo Casalles steps into a room.

He looked unbelievable. A sharp cut steel grey suit that showed off his broad shoulders, a white shirt underneath with top buttons undone to show off the dip of his throat, and no tie. Grey loafers with no socks so you could see a sliver of tanned feet. A thick briefcase in his large hands.