he blurts. “When we’re practicing, I mean. The band. Me and the guys. Anytime.”
“Wow.” I blink. “That’s very generous of you.”
“We’ve got practice time here through—what is it, Carmen, December seventeenth? The nineteenth?” he says, looking away.
He palms the back of his neck. Is he blushing? No way he’s blushing.
Is he?
“The twentieth,” she replies, crossing her arms. “It’s the best I could do.”
My pulse hiccups. December twentieth is my last day of exams here in Spain. I booked a flight back to Atlanta on the twenty-first, so I’ll be home just in time to spend my first Christmas without a family. I have no idea what the holidays are going to look like now that my parents are split, and my dad is…well, what he is. We’re probably all getting coal and/or therapy from Santa.
The holidays used to be my favorite time of year.
But now, if I could stay in Madrid and just skip the whole damn thing, I would. To say that I’m dreading Christmas is an enormous understatement. My parents put our house on the market back in September. While they haven’t gotten any offers yet, there’s still a chance they’ll sell it before I head back to the states. The thought of waking up Christmas morning in some tiny apartment with only half my family there—ugh, I’d rather run away with the Grinch, to be honest.
“So that means we have a little more than a month’s worth of practices left.” Javier is saying. “If nothing else, that gives you quite a few hours inside the church to do your thing, Maddie.”
“Awesome,” I say. “I mean, I don’t want to impose on your practice time or anything—”
“Please.” Javier grabs his guitar, and the three of us start walking up the aisle. “The guys and I loved having you here today. Having someone so enthusiastic around definitely helps boost our morale. So far, you’re our only fan.”
“What!” Carmen says. “Por favor, Javi , I’m a fan, too.”
“That’s right.” He elbows her affectionately. “I forget you’ve been my fan since the beginning.”
“And I am an even bigger fan now that you play with Juan,” she says. “You’re going to go back on tour with him, right, Javi? This new band of yours, it is good, but Juan is Juan .”
I blink again. Juan? Javier was on tour with an obviously well-known guy named Juan?
“Whoa,” I say, falling back. “Whoa whoa whoa. Javier, you told me you worked in the music industry. You didn’t say you were, like, on tour or anything.”
María Carmen throws her head back and laughs. “How like our Javi to be so modest. He does not like people to know he is famous—”
“I’m not famous,” Javier grounds out. Oh, he’s definitely blushing.
“When you play guitar in Juan Ramos’s band, you are too famous.”
My heart skips a beat. I stare at him. “Juan Ramos? You played guitar with Juan freaking Ramos ?”
“You know him?” Javier replies weakly.
“Do I know Juan Ramos? Of course I know Juan Ramos! The only person more famous in Spain is Jesus. They play his songs, like, nonstop at all the bars and discotecas here. Juan’s songs, obviously, not Jesus’s. I love his stuff. Holy shit, Javier. The concert you said you ‘went to’ in Atlanta—that was your concert , wasn’t it?”
I’d pin Juan Ramos as Spain’s equivalent of an Ed Sheeran/Adam Levine mashup. He’s very talented, a guitarist at heart with a distinct pop-Latin flair. He’s a really big deal in the Spanish speaking world, especially in Madrid, where he was born and raised.
Javier shrugs, a small, tight motion. He looks intensely uncomfortable. “It was.”
“That’s amazing!”
“It was a lot of fun, yes, but I’m glad to be home now.”
“If I wasn’t so star struck,” I say with a sly little grin, “I’d ask you to take a selfie.”
“I have a policy against selfies—the angle gives me this ghastly double chin, you see.”
“Ghastly. What an awesome word.
“Wow.” I blink. “That’s very generous of you.”
“We’ve got practice time here through—what is it, Carmen, December seventeenth? The nineteenth?” he says, looking away.
He palms the back of his neck. Is he blushing? No way he’s blushing.
Is he?
“The twentieth,” she replies, crossing her arms. “It’s the best I could do.”
My pulse hiccups. December twentieth is my last day of exams here in Spain. I booked a flight back to Atlanta on the twenty-first, so I’ll be home just in time to spend my first Christmas without a family. I have no idea what the holidays are going to look like now that my parents are split, and my dad is…well, what he is. We’re probably all getting coal and/or therapy from Santa.
The holidays used to be my favorite time of year.
But now, if I could stay in Madrid and just skip the whole damn thing, I would. To say that I’m dreading Christmas is an enormous understatement. My parents put our house on the market back in September. While they haven’t gotten any offers yet, there’s still a chance they’ll sell it before I head back to the states. The thought of waking up Christmas morning in some tiny apartment with only half my family there—ugh, I’d rather run away with the Grinch, to be honest.
“So that means we have a little more than a month’s worth of practices left.” Javier is saying. “If nothing else, that gives you quite a few hours inside the church to do your thing, Maddie.”
“Awesome,” I say. “I mean, I don’t want to impose on your practice time or anything—”
“Please.” Javier grabs his guitar, and the three of us start walking up the aisle. “The guys and I loved having you here today. Having someone so enthusiastic around definitely helps boost our morale. So far, you’re our only fan.”
“What!” Carmen says. “Por favor, Javi , I’m a fan, too.”
“That’s right.” He elbows her affectionately. “I forget you’ve been my fan since the beginning.”
“And I am an even bigger fan now that you play with Juan,” she says. “You’re going to go back on tour with him, right, Javi? This new band of yours, it is good, but Juan is Juan .”
I blink again. Juan? Javier was on tour with an obviously well-known guy named Juan?
“Whoa,” I say, falling back. “Whoa whoa whoa. Javier, you told me you worked in the music industry. You didn’t say you were, like, on tour or anything.”
María Carmen throws her head back and laughs. “How like our Javi to be so modest. He does not like people to know he is famous—”
“I’m not famous,” Javier grounds out. Oh, he’s definitely blushing.
“When you play guitar in Juan Ramos’s band, you are too famous.”
My heart skips a beat. I stare at him. “Juan Ramos? You played guitar with Juan freaking Ramos ?”
“You know him?” Javier replies weakly.
“Do I know Juan Ramos? Of course I know Juan Ramos! The only person more famous in Spain is Jesus. They play his songs, like, nonstop at all the bars and discotecas here. Juan’s songs, obviously, not Jesus’s. I love his stuff. Holy shit, Javier. The concert you said you ‘went to’ in Atlanta—that was your concert , wasn’t it?”
I’d pin Juan Ramos as Spain’s equivalent of an Ed Sheeran/Adam Levine mashup. He’s very talented, a guitarist at heart with a distinct pop-Latin flair. He’s a really big deal in the Spanish speaking world, especially in Madrid, where he was born and raised.
Javier shrugs, a small, tight motion. He looks intensely uncomfortable. “It was.”
“That’s amazing!”
“It was a lot of fun, yes, but I’m glad to be home now.”
“If I wasn’t so star struck,” I say with a sly little grin, “I’d ask you to take a selfie.”
“I have a policy against selfies—the angle gives me this ghastly double chin, you see.”
“Ghastly. What an awesome word.
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