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Eric is stunned.
“Miss Flores, besides soccer, you also know cars?”
“Remember I told you my father has an auto shop in Jerez?” I say. “You’re going to let me drive it, aren’t you?” I ask, not coming close to him, though I really want to.
With a straight face, Eric just looks at me until—finally!—he tosses the keys in the air for me to catch.
“All yours, sweetness.”
I’m dying to grab him and kiss him, but I contain myself.
Eric and I leave the hotel, and as soon as we climb into the car and I engage the ignition, I turn on the radio. Prince’s “Kiss” comes on, and I shimmy my shoulders, enraptured. Eric rolls his eyes. I smile playfully at him, and before anything else, I put on my sunglasses.
“Hold on, babe.”
It promises to be a fantastic day. I’m driving an impressive Lotus next to an even more impressive man. When we leave Barcelona en route to Tarragona, I detour down a little road.
“I don’t know if you know I used to summer in Barcelona many years ago,” I tell him.
“No, I didn’t.”
My adrenaline is running as I drive.
“I’m taking you someplace where we can really try this baby out. You’ll flip!”
“Jude,” he says, ever serious, “this road isn’t for cars.”
“Relax.”
“We’re going to blow a tire, Jude.”
“Be quiet, party pooper!”
My adrenaline is really pumping now.
I stay on the road, and we pass various puddles. Our shiny car gets splattered, and Eric glares at me. I keep singing along to the radio and pretend I don’t see him. I continue on my way, but then the car swerves, and I fear we’ve blown a tire.
My joy vanishes in a matter of seconds, and I curse to myself. He’s undoubtedly going to remind me he told me so. I slow down, and when I stop, I bite my lip and give him a contrite look.
“I think we’ve blown a tire.”
Eric’s face says it all. It’s clear he loathes the unexpected. We’re in the middle of nowhere with the noon sun beating down on us. Without a word, he exits the car and slams the door. I get out too. The car is beyond dirty. It looks nothing like the beautiful, shiny vehicle we took for a drive forty minutes ago. The flat tire is the front one on my side.
“If the spare is where it’s supposed to be, I can change it in a jiffy,” I offer.
He doesn’t respond. Ill humored, he goes to the back of the car, opens the trunk, and takes out the spare and the tools needed to change the tire. He comes back and drops the spare on the ground. His hands are black.
“Can you get out of the way?”
“No,” I say, “I can’t get out of the way.”
My answer surprises him.
“Jude,” he snarls, “you’ve just ruined a beautiful day. Don’t make it worse.”
“You’re the one who’s ruining our beautiful day with your bad manners and your sour face,” I respond. “Jesus! It’s just a flat tire. It’s not that big a deal.”
“Not that big a deal?”