“No,” I interrupt. “He’s a terrible waiter.”
Christopher rolls his eyes. “Admitted, I’m not a great waiter.”
The boy smiles.
“And Hayden,” Christopher says.
“Hayz . . .” Eduardo frowns as he tries to say it. “Hayzzz.”
“Call me Hazy. Everyone does at home,” I tell him.
“Lazy Hazy,” Christopher replies. “Sounds about right.”
“Shut up.” I sigh.
“She needs a job, like . . . fishing or something,” Christopher continues.
I giggle. “No fish.”
The boy smiles too. “Call me Eddie.”
“All right, that’s easier.”
We get to a café, and Christopher hands him some money. “Can you go and get two cappuccinos, please, and one hot chocolate.”
Eddie nods and takes the money and walks inside. Christopher smirks as he watches him.
“Are we going to talk about last night?” I ask him.
“Nope,” he replies, his eyes still fixed on Eddie.
“I mean, I had some very good points.”
“That we are not discussing. Drop it.”
“I didn’t even kiss him.”
“Don’t care.”
“Really . . . don’t care even a little bit?”
“Shut up, Grumps.”
I smile. He called me Grumps. I know that I’m forgiven.
Eduardo returns with a tray, and he passes it over. Christopher takes out the hot chocolate and passes it back to him. “For you.”
Eddie’s face falls, and he looks up at Christopher as if he has just given him a sports car.
My heart constricts in my chest . . . oh.
“But I . . . ,” he stammers. “I’ve never . . .”
“Drink it,” Christopher orders. “Be careful, it’s hot.”
We turn and walk back to the hostel, and I’m filled with emotion at the look on Eddie’s face. He’s so proud to be drinking his hot chocolate.
I can’t make eye contact with Christopher, or I may just burst into tears.
I know he’s a player and he’s not the kind of guy that would ever fall for me or vice versa, but maybe there’s more to him underneath the surface than I initially thought.
Maybe he’s the kind of person that could actually help me loosen up.
No . . . he’s a heartbreak waiting to happen.
Forget it.
I watch Christopher watch Eddie as he smiles proudly with his hot chocolate, and my heart somersaults in my chest.
Out of all the things that I’ve done on this trip, or perhaps even ever, being here for Eddie’s first hot chocolate tops the list.
The wheels on the bus go round and round. We are en route to San Sebastián in a tour bus.
“It says here”—Christopher reads from his travel brochure—“that Basque, also known as Euskara, is one of the most fascinating languages in the world, an isolate.”
“What’s an isolate?” I reply as I look out the bus window. This man has an odd thirst for information; he reads everything.
“Meaning it has no relation to any other language in existence.” He raises his eyebrows, impressed. “And while its origins are unknown, most scientists believe that it’s the last preinvasion language in Europe.” He looks over at me. “Hmm . . . fascinating, isn’t it?”