six and a half hours

By the thirteenth day of my first solo European vacation, I had visited six museums, toured three cathedrals, eaten an unreasonable quantity of bread, and developed a blister on my right heel that I was beginning to suspect might require medical intervention.

I had also learned something important about myself: I was exceptionally good at being on vacation, provided vacation was treated as a series of carefully coordinated administrative tasks. My itinerary was a masterpiece. Color-coded, cross-referenced, and saved offline in case I lost service. I’d researched restaurants with the same diligence I’d once devoted to technical interviews. I had backup restaurants for my restaurants. Yesterday, I’d spent twenty-seven minutes deciding whether it was more efficient to visit Park Güell before or after lunch.

Then Tessa had called.

“You’re in Barcelona,” she’d said over FaceTime, squinting at me from behind a container of takeout in her San Francisco office. “Why are you talking about tomorrow like you have a performance review?”

“I have tickets.”

Tessa took another bite of her lunch. “Congratulations.”

“And a dinner reservation.”

She chewed for a second, watching me through the screen. “Incredible.”

I ignored the tone. “And I was thinking of squeezing in the Picasso Museum before lunch.”

That made her lower her fork. One eyebrow went up. I knew that look.

“Blair. Are you having fun?”

“Obviously.”

“Then why do you sound like you’re reporting quarterly earnings?”

I stared at her. She stared back. Then she started laughing so hard she nearly dropped her phone into her lunch.

I loved Tessa Brooks more than almost anyone alive, but sometimes I genuinely wondered why. Still, she’d had a point. An irritating point, but a point nonetheless.

So at six forty-three that evening, I canceled my dinner reservation, abandoned my carefully planned route through the Gothic Quarter, and walked out of my hotel with nothing but my phone, a small shoulder bag, and a vague intention to find somewhere that served good cocktails. It felt irresponsible. I was thirty years old. The fact that this qualified as rebellion was probably something I should examine.

Barcelona was still holding the heat of the afternoon. Warmth rose from the pavement through my sandals, and the air smelled of salt, exhaust, sunscreen, and food cooking behind open restaurant doors. The late sun caught the pale stone balconies above me and made the iron railings look almost black. Somewhere beyond the buildings, the Mediterranean was turning gold.

I’d spent the afternoon at the beach. Even after a shower and a generous amount of conditioner, my hair had retained its saltwater waves, falling loose down my back. I’d given up on making it behave. My bronze-and-olive halter top left my shoulders bare, and I’d paired it with a short cream skirt, flat leather sandals, and the gold necklaces I’d worn nearly every day since arriving in Spain. My skin had finally acquired a little color, and I liked the way I looked. I’d turned sideways in the hotel mirror before leaving and decided I looked pretty.

That was reason enough to wear it.

I wandered without opening Google Maps, which lasted eleven minutes before I began to worry I was walking in circles. Eventually, I found a narrow street crowded with bars and restaurants. Outdoor tables filled the pavement beneath strings of amber lights. A woman in a red dress smoked outside a doorway while arguing cheerfully with a man who kept trying to kiss her. Above them, somebody had left an apartment window open, and a familiar pop song drifted down into the street.

I stopped outside a cocktail bar with dark green doors and tall windows misted by the cool air inside. The room beyond was busy without being unbearable. People stood shoulder to shoulder near a long polished counter, their voices rising over the steady pulse of music. Amber lamps threw pools of light across brass shelves and bottles of liquor. The whole place smelled faintly of citrus peel, perfume, and something herbal I couldn’t identify.

I liked it immediately.

I found a narrow space between a group of British women and a couple who appeared to be conducting an argument entirely through facial expressions. The bartender was making three drinks at once. I waited while he finished them, then lifted my hand when he glanced in my direction.

He nodded. Promising.

He then served four other people.

I checked my phone. Seven thirty-eight. I’d been standing there for nine minutes, which I knew because despite my best efforts to become spontaneous, I remained fundamentally myself.

I was contemplating whether the man had a personal objection to my face when someone stepped into the space beside me. I noticed him first as a change in the room: a tall figure moving through the crowd, the soft brush of linen near my bare arm, a forearm settling against the counter.

Then the bartender looked up.

Immediately.

“Oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” I muttered.

“Sorry?”

The voice came from my right, low and unmistakably American. I turned, already preparing an apology, and lost the first half of it.

Chestnut-brown hair fell in soft, unruly waves across his forehead, lighter where the amber light caught it, like he’d pushed a hand through it sometime earlier and forgotten about it. He had a long, refined face, a straight nose, defined cheekbones, and a mouth that looked perpetually on the verge of amusement. His jaw was sharp enough to make me briefly reconsider my opinion of the universe.

His olive-green linen shirt was open at the throat, the sleeves ending above his elbows. It hung easily over his lean frame, as though he hadn’t spent a second wondering whether it looked good. A dark watch sat against his wrist. His eyes looked grey in the dim light, maybe blue.

And they were on me.

I’d been staring. Right.

“Not you.” I pointed toward the bartender. “I’ve been waiting forever.”

He glanced toward the counter. The bartender was already heading toward him.

“She was here first,” he said, raising his voice just enough to carry.

The bartender followed his gaze to me. “Ah, sí. Perdona.” He changed direction and stopped in front of me. “¿Qué te pongo?”

“Oh, now you see me.”

The stranger laughed beside me.

I ordered a passion-fruit margarita. When the bartender asked something I didn’t quite catch, I hesitated.

“Salt,” the stranger said. “He’s asking if you want salt.”

“Yes, please.”

The bartender nodded and reached for a glass.

“Thanks,” I said.

“No problem.”

That should have been the end of it. Instead, he stayed beside me.

He ordered gin over ice, naming a brand I didn’t recognize, and rested one forearm against the counter while the bartender worked. Up close, I could see a faint pale scar near the base of his right thumb.

“Are you here alone?” he asked.

“Should I be worried about admitting that?”

He laughed. “I meant traveling.”

“Oh. Then yes.”

“Me too.”

A group pushed past behind us, forcing both of us closer to the bar.

“American?” I asked.

“Connecticut.”

“California.”

Our drinks arrived. Mine was cold and tart, the salt bright against my tongue. I took a long sip and closed my eyes for a second.

“Worth the wait?”

“Almost.”

He lifted his glass before taking a drink. There was a slight tightening around his eyes when he swallowed.

I glanced at the gin. “Do you actually like that?”

“Usually.”

I smiled into my margarita. He saw it but didn’t ask.

An hour later, he’d acquired the stool beside mine. I wasn’t entirely sure when I’d decided he could stay.

I’d learned that he hated people who used speakerphone in public, had no patience for airport boarding announcements, and considered rewatching a movie more than twice a questionable use of one’s lifespan. That last discovery nearly ended our acquaintance.

“You’ve never watched the same movie eight times?”

He turned toward me. “Eight?”

“At least.”

“Why?”

The genuine confusion on his face offended me more than it should have.

“Because I like it.”

“But you already know what happens.”

“That’s the point. Sometimes I don’t want anything new. If I’ve had a terrible day, I want takeout and something I’ve seen enough times that I don’t have to think.”

He considered that while he took another drink.

“What do you do after a terrible day?” I asked.

“Usually run.”

I groaned before I could stop myself.

He laughed. “What’s wrong with running?”

“Nothing. It’s just annoyingly healthy.”

“It doesn’t always work.”

“What, running?”

“The whole clearing-your-head thing.” He rolled his glass slowly between his palms. “Sometimes I come back just as pissed off, only sweatier.”

I laughed.

“But usually it helps,” he said. “I don’t think I’m very good at switching off.”

“That’s where the eighth viewing comes in.”

“Maybe I’ve been doing it wrong.”

“Clearly.”

A server squeezed past us carrying a tray. Someone behind my stool shifted at the same time and knocked into it. His hand went briefly to the edge of the seat, steadying it before I could slip sideways.

“Thanks.”

He’d already moved his hand away. “Yeah.”

The server disappeared into the crowd, and our conversation moved with her. We talked about childhood summers, terrible television, hotel pillows, and the strange disappointment of becoming an adult and discovering nobody was going to tell you whether you were doing it correctly.

At some point, I admitted I’d expected thirty to feel different.

“Different how?”

I traced a damp ring on the bar with my fingertip. “More settled, I guess. I thought I’d get the right job, learn to cook more than five meals, and eventually feel like someone who knows what she’s doing.”

“Did it happen?”

“I can cook seven meals now.”

He smiled. “There you go.”

“Basically thriving.”

He took another drink. “What about the job?”

I looked up.

“You said the right job was part of it.”

“Oh.” I hadn’t meant to mention that, but the smile came anyway. “Actually, yes. I start next week.”

His expression brightened. “That’s great. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.”

I couldn’t quite keep the pride out of my voice. I wasn’t sure I wanted to.

“What are you doing?”

“Tech.”

He waited a second, apparently expecting more. I took another drink.

“That’s it?”

“I don’t give my résumé to men I meet in bars.”

“Probably smart.”

“It’s a leadership role,” I added after a moment. “My first one at this level.”

“That’s a big step.”

“Yeah.”

“Excited?”

“Very.”

That answer was easy. Then I thought about Monday.

“And a little terrified.”

He nodded. “Makes sense.”

There was no immediate reassurance, which somehow made it easier to keep talking.

“I’ve worked really hard to get here.” My thumb moved through the condensation on my glass. “And now I’m terrified I’ll walk into the office and find out everyone knows something I don’t.”

“They probably will.”

I looked at him.

His mouth pulled to one side. “Know things you don’t. Not know everything.”

“Excellent recovery.”

“I’m serious. You’re new. Of course there’ll be things you don’t know.”

I looked back at my drink.

“They hired you anyway,” he added.

It wasn’t profound. It didn’t magically make Monday less intimidating. But it helped.

“Thanks.”

He nodded and finished the last of his gin.

A few minutes later, I asked what had brought him to Barcelona.

“Finished something important.”

“Work?”

“Yeah.”

“Good important?”

“Mostly.” He looked toward the bottles behind the bar. “Something I’ve been working toward for a long time finally went my way. I had a few days with nowhere I absolutely needed to be, so I got on a plane.”

“Just like that?”

“Pretty much.”

I tried to imagine myself spontaneously booking an international flight because I happened to have four free days. The idea made something in my chest tighten.

“What do you do?”

“Tech.”

I stared at him. He smiled.

“Oh, you’re an asshole.”

“You started it.”

We touched our glasses together, a small toast to two people in tech.

I learned one more thing about him that evening. He wasn’t married, engaged, or otherwise spoken for. It came up when he mentioned traveling alone and I asked, lightly enough, whether somebody was waiting for him back home.

“No.”

“Good.”

The word escaped before I had the chance to inspect it. I reached for my margarita and discovered there was barely anything left.

He didn’t tease me. For a few seconds, neither of us said anything. Someone behind me laughed loudly enough that I turned my head. When I looked back, his attention dropped briefly to my mouth, then his eyes returned to mine.

My stomach tightened.

Maybe it was the cocktails. Maybe it was Barcelona. Maybe it was the fact that he was beautiful and funny and I’d spent the last hour talking to him as though we’d known each other longer than we had. Whatever the reason, I wanted to kiss him.

I looked away first.

“Have you eaten?” he asked after a moment.

“Not technically. I canceled my dinner reservation earlier.”

“Why?”

I sighed. “Personal growth.”

He laughed, and I told him about Tessa’s accusation that I’d turned my vacation into a project plan. By the time we left the bar a little after ten, I’d agreed to let him help me find somewhere to eat without looking at reviews first.

I did check the rating when he wasn’t looking.

Four-point-six.

I relaxed.

We found a tapas place several streets away, where wooden tables crowded the pavement beneath tiny lights strung between old balconies. The air smelled of garlic, grilled seafood, warm bread, and cigarette smoke from the next table. Our waiter moved through the narrow gaps carrying dishes balanced along one arm and appeared personally offended by our indecision.

We ordered too much. Patatas bravas, croquettes, pan con tomate, grilled prawns, and something neither of us could pronounce. Our knees occasionally touched beneath the table.

The first time, I shifted.

The second time, I didn’t.

“You can have the olives.” I pushed the dish toward him. “I hate them.”

He pulled them closer. “Works for me.”

My phone buzzed against the table.

TESSA:How’s your wild night of unscheduled activities?

I smiled.

ME:Pretty good actually.

Her response arrived almost immediately.

TESSA:You’re at a restaurant aren’t you?ME:Maybe.TESSA:Did you make a reservation?ME:NO.

There was a pause.

TESSA:Who are you and what have you done with Blair?

I took a picture of the food and sent it to her. Unfortunately, his hand happened to be in the corner, reaching for the bread.

Three dots appeared.

TESSA:WHOSE HAND IS THAT???!!!

I laughed and locked my phone before she could send another message.

“Everything okay?” he asked.

“Tessa. My best friend.”

He nodded, and I reached for my wine.A few minutes later, he mentioned his mother, and somehow we ended up talking about our families. His parents were retired and still together. He was an only child.

“That explains a lot,” I said.

He gave me a look over his glass. “I’ve heard that before.”

“What did they do?”

“My dad worked in insurance. My mom taught elementary school.”

“What grade?”

“Third, mostly.”

I smiled. “That’s cute.”

“She’d love that you said that.”

He told me his parents still lived in Connecticut, in the same house he’d grown up in. His mother had been trying to convince his father to move somewhere warmer for years. His father responded by sending her listings for increasingly ridiculous houses in Florida that neither of them had any intention of buying.

“The last one had six bedrooms and a dock.”

“Do they have a boat?”

“No. He gets seasick.”

I laughed.

His phone buzzed on the table. He glanced down at it, and something in his expression softened.

“My mom.”

“Does she know you’re in Barcelona?”

“Yeah. She’s checking that I’m alive.”

He typed something quickly and put the phone facedown again.

“Mine does the same thing.”

“Your mom?”

“Both my parents, but my mother is more aggressive about it. She uses my full name when I don’t answer.”

He laughed. “Effective?”

“Extremely.”

I told him about my older sister, Emily, and her two children. Her youngest, my five-year-old nephew, had recently announced that he wanted to become a Tyrannosaurus rex.

“Not a paleontologist,” I clarified. “The actual dinosaur.”

He leaned back in his chair, smiling. “Okay.”

“He’s worried about the arms.”

“Understandable.”

“He asked Emily whether he’d still be able to use his iPad. She told him no, and he cried for twenty minutes.”

That got a real laugh out of him, the kind that made him put his glass down. I found myself smiling back.

Then I reached for another croquette and dropped it directly into my lap.

We both looked down. He pressed his lips together and handed me a napkin.

“Thank you.”

He nodded. His shoulders moved once.

“Just laugh.”

He did.

“Fuck you.”

That made it worse. I was laughing too by the time I retrieved the croquette from the folds of my skirt and deposited it firmly on the edge of my plate.

We stayed long enough for the restaurant to thin around us. By the time we left, the streets had grown busier rather than quieter. Music escaped from open doorways, and groups of friends moved past us in clouds of perfume and cigarette smoke. Someone had set up a speaker near a square, and a loose crowd had formed around two people dancing in the middle.

We slowed to watch for a minute.

For once, I had no idea where I was. I didn’t reach for my phone.

We kept walking. His arm brushed mine occasionally when the pavement narrowed. Sometimes we moved apart to let people pass and ended up beside each other again a few steps later.

Eventually, I looked over at him.

“So, what’s your name?”

He glanced down at me. “Why?”

I stopped walking. “Because that’s generally how introductions work.”

He took another step before realizing I’d stopped, then turned back. A couple squeezed between us, carrying paper cones of fries.

“We’ve managed without them,” he said when the couple had passed.

I looked at him questioningly.

“Names.”

I folded my arms. “You’re very strange.”

He approached slowly, hands tucked into his pockets. “What if we don’t exchange names?”

I laughed because I assumed he was joking. He wasn’t.

“You’re serious.”

He pulled his hands from his pockets and spread them in a loose shrug. “We’re both leaving soon. We’ve had a good night.”

“And?”

“And maybe we don’t need to do the whole names, LinkedIn, pretending we’ll stay in touch thing.”

“You really know how to make a woman feel special.”

“I’m trying.”

His gaze held mine, patient and unexpectedly direct. I could hear a motorcycle passing behind him, the scrape of chairs from a nearby café, somebody calling to a friend from across the street. I should have found the suggestion strange. I did find it strange. But I also felt a small release at the thought of being unknown. He wouldn’t know anyone I knew, or have any reason to care what I did when I went home. He’d know I hated olives, made spreadsheets, and dropped food on myself in public.

There were worse ways to be remembered.

“Fine,” I said.

His eyebrows lifted a fraction. “Really?”

“No names. But if you murder me, I’m going to haunt you.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.”

We resumed walking. After a few minutes, he asked what I was doing the following day. I began listing my plans and noticed his expression growing more entertained with each item.

“Sagrada Família in the morning. Lunch near Gràcia. Art Gallery after that, although technically I could move that to the evening. And there’s a place I wanted to go for dinner, but I haven’t decided whether—”

“Do you actually want to do all of that?” he asked.

“I booked it.”

“Not what I asked.”

I looked at him. He wasn’t mocking me this time, exactly. He seemed genuinely curious.

“Mostly,” I admitted.

“Spend tomorrow with me.”

My sandal caught on an uneven stone. I recovered before he could reach for me.

“Doing what?”

“I don’t know yet.”

I stared at him.

He laughed. “We’ll figure it out.”

He was smiling now. I hated that I was smiling too.