Only problem is, I don’t have keys to get into her apartment and I’m not going to buzz her because it will be far too easy for her to say no to me. She has no idea I’m here, and I’m surprised how easy it was to get Manuel to take me here. I told him I wanted to give her flowers for doing such a good job on my knee and he didn’t think anything of it.
At least I don’t think he did.
So I wait with my backpack, shielding my face from the revellers with the massive bouquet of pink roses, and wait until someone comes out of the building.
“Gracias,” I tell them, quickly slipping in through the door before they can protest.
The apartment building is old and dark and smells like cigars and grilled meats. I head down the hall to the staircase and go up to the third floor, nearly tripping over the steps in the dim light.
That would have been pretty sad if I fucked up my knee again on my way to surprise my therapist.
And she will be surprised. Whether she’s going to let me in and listen to what I have to say is another story.
I go down the hall, knock on her door, and wait.
It opens and her eyes go wide like saucers at the sight of me.
“Alejo,” she whispers harshly as I stick the roses in her face, handing them to her as I brush past her, into the apartment. “What are you doing here? You can’t be here. How did you find me?”
“You know, the standard greeting here in Spain is hello. Or, hola, if you want to continue our Spanish lessons.”
“I’m serious,” she says, holding the roses in one hand and the door handle in the other. It’s still open. She jerks her head at it. “You can’t be here.”
“I need to talk to you,” I tell her, placing my backpack on her kitchen counter.
“We have nothing to say to each other,” she says.
I raise my brow. “You can’t speak for me. I have plenty to say to you. First of all, I want to apologize for being un imbécil the other day in your office. That wasn’t very nice.”
It’s been a few days since we had sex at Valdebebas and things between us have been strained to say the least. Too strained. It’s making life just a little bit uncomfortable for me, yet I don’t want to be transferred to another therapist either.
So, something has to be done.
“Alejo,” she says, her voice a soft warning.
“You can say my name over and over again but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m here and I want to have a conversation with you.”
“We already had a conversation about this,” she says, hastily brushing her hair behind her ears. It’s only now that I realize she’s wearing it down, all dark gold and bronze, shining in the amber lights of an antique light fixture. “What?” She frowns at me.
“Your hair,” I tell her. “I love it when you wear it down. You should wear it down more often.”
“You know I can’t at work. It gets in the way.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“My hair?” Her nose scrunches up adorably as she runs her hands down her strands in confusion.
“No. Sorry. What I mean to say is…I think who we are at Valdebebas is getting in the way of who we are inside. And who we really are to each other. When we are there, we are in the roles. And I understand the lines that can’t be crossed. But when we’re away from it all, here, just you and me, standing in your apartment, I think…we deserve to get to know who those people are.”
She mulls that over, worrying her lip between her teeth. I hate it when she does that. It reminds me that I know what her lips taste and feel like. It makes me imagine her lips elsewhere.
“What did I say about biting your lip,” I gently chide her.
She stops and raises her chin. “This is exactly why you can’t be here.”
“I’m not here to make love to you, Thalia,” I say softly, and there is no mistaking the desire in her eyes. “I’m here to talk to you. To be with you. To get to know you.” I raise my hands. “I promise I won’t touch you.”
“Okaaaaaay,” she says warily. She glances at the backpack. “What’s in there?”
“I’ll show you. Just close the door. Let me be inside with