After we changed back into our T-shirts and jeans, we were presented with the photos they’d taken, along with very nice duffle bags stuffed with souvenirs. I took a peek inside my bag and glimpsed a baseball cap, T-shirt, athletic jacket, and water bottle, all with the school’s name and logo. Clearly, Tory had bought us the most deluxe package possible, and I was overwhelmed by his generosity.
When we got back in his car, Tory said, “I did some research ahead of time, and I found a place we can go for drinks if you want.”
“Sounds great.”
We’d driven about an hour north for the class, and now he drove us to a pretty little town on the coast. When he pulled into a parking spot at the back of a compact, Spanish-style building, I asked, “Are you sure it’s okay to park here? The sign says it’s reserved.”
He grinned and said, “It’s reserved for us.”
The bar on the bottom level was crowded, but that wasn’t our destination. Instead, it turned out he’d reserved the second floor banquet room, which was meant for private parties.
Our hostess led us through the room and opened a pair of French doors, revealing a beautiful, plant-filled balcony overlooking the ocean. A table for two had been set with white linens, flowers, and clusters of votive candles. I murmured, “This is beautiful,” as Tory pulled out my chair for me and I took a seat. “You didn’t have to do so much for me, though.”
He tried to downplay it by saying, “I don’t like crowds, so I thought this would be our best option for a Saturday afternoon.”
He sat down across from me and squeezed my hand as he asked, “Are you hungry?” When I nodded, he said, “I know you’re planning to make us dinner. I’m not trying to get in the way of that, so we’re just here for drinks and snacks. This is a tapas bar, and I asked the chef to prepare a tasting menu for us, pairing different drinks with various small plates. But if you’d rather see a menu?—”
“No, that sounds fantastic.”
He nodded to the hostess, who’d been standing back and waiting for instructions. The woman said, “Right away, sir,” and hurried off.
I stared at the candlelight, which started to blur as I whispered, “This feels like a dream.”
“Are you crying?”
“No.” I’d answered automatically, but then I admitted, “Maybe.”
“Come here, Arie.” He held out his arms, and I climbed onto his lap and buried my face in his shoulder. “Is something wrong?”
“No, not at all. This is amazing! You’ve made me feel so special today, and I’m incredibly grateful. I guess I’m not used to being treated like a prince, so I got a little overwhelmed for a minute there.”
He called me sweet in Italian, and I took his face between my palms and kissed him. Then I rested my forehead against his and shut my eyes as I tried to memorize everything about this moment. Upbeat jazz music could be heard from the bar downstairs, and a cool breeze carried the briny scent of the ocean to us. I ran my fingertips over his short beard and traced his lips, which curved into a smile.
We stayed like that for a few minutes, until a waiter appeared with the first of our cocktails and fancy little snacks. At that point, I returned to my seat and tasted a salty olive beforesaying, “Since we’re having tapas, tell me about Spain. How long did you live there?”
“Almost two years, in my late teens. It’s a beautiful country, and I always wanted to go back for a visit. Somehow I never found the time when I was living in the UK, though.”
“What did you like best about it?”
Tory answered immediately. “The art and architecture.” He then proceeded to tell me all about Antoni Gaudi and his influence on Barcelona. At several points, he pulled up pictures on his phone to show me what he was talking about.
I loved his enthusiasm, but after a while he sat back and said, “I’m sorry. I’m completely dominating the conversation.”
“No, please keep talking. It’s fascinating.”
“Are you sure?”
I nodded and said, “Tell me about some other Spanish artists that you like.”
He spoke passionately about Dali, Picasso, Miro, and others. It felt like I was being treated to a master class in fine art. Again, he found pictures online so he could show me what he was talking about, and he kept trying to explain what he thought was special about each of these examples.
He was so well-versed on this subject that I wondered if he’d been an art history professor. It had to be something like that. As he’d said, lies often contained grains of truth, so that tall tale about being an art forger hadn’t come out of nowhere. Art was a huge part of Tory’s life, no question.
I didn’t ask him about it, because he’d made it clear he didn’t want to talk about his career. Something must have gone wrong there, and maybe he was embarrassed about it. That could have been why he’d suggested lying to each other about our past. Maybe he’d gotten fired, or something like that.
I hoped he’d eventually feel safe enough with me to tell me the truth. In the meantime, I was glad he trusted me enough to open up about other parts of his life.
We ended up spending over three hours on that balcony. During that time, we watched a beautiful sunset, shared around a dozen small plates of delicacies, and sampled several different cocktails—although Tory only had a sip or two of his, since he was driving.