Page 6 of It Takes Three To Tango

“Look, nothing happened,” I protest. “I had a drink, and I left. And anyway, I told you, I’m straight.” I have no idea why I needed to blurt out that last bit again, but Florencio’s expression turns to full smugness.

“Mmmm, I’ve heard that one before.”

When my eyes landed on the guy from yesterday, the air felt lighter and the room was brighter somehow, which is ridiculous. Here in the bar, the lighting is the same day in and day out, so I don’t knowwhyit seemed that way. I guess it’s because I was afraid I’d scared him away. I was quite abrupt with him last night. Most days, I can cope well enough, but for some reason, last night, sharing my story with the stranger made it feel raw again. I thought time would heal the grief, but it hasn’t. It just makes it easier to bear. That is, until something reminds me of the future I can never have with Valery, and then it catches up with me. I push the thoughts away, determined to not go through it again.

I help the staff finish clearing up for the night and lock the door after them. I glance over to where Rafe is sitting, talking with the other guy, Florencio. At first, I was a little annoyed that Rafe wasn’t on his own when I went to apologise earlier. Had I wanted to talk to him alone? Had Iwanted him to myself? That’s a curious thought that I might unpack later. Was it a wise decision to ask them both to stay? I spend far too much time on my own, and I don’t make great company. This could be a chance to finally crawl out of my shell and engage with the outside world. I could do with trying to make some friends.

On my way back over to their table, I choose a bottle of wine. It’s one of my favourites and I feel like sharing. Also, staying off the spirits might be a good idea.

They both look up, stopping their conversation as I pull up a chair and sit.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” I say as I apply myself to opening the bottle.

“Do you know Rafe here is a famous author?” Florencio smiles widely and I watch Rafe’s brow crease.

“No, not famous at all. Barely known, really.” His expression is painful, as if he’d rather not talk about it.

Instead, I pour us all some of the wine. I watch as Rafe lifts the glass and peers at the wine before giving it a swirl and bringing it up his nose to sniff it. I catch the eye of Florencio, and he’s smirking slightly, almost as if he knew this would happen. Rafe takes a sip, leaving it there for a minute, and he even closes his eyes for a few seconds.

“That’s a damn fine Rioja,” he says. “Where’s it from?”

He reaches for the bottle, picking up his glasses from the table, obviously needing them to read the label. They suit him and give him a kind of dishevelled teacher look. I can see him spending hours writing, peering down at the words he creates, his focus totally consumed by it.

“It comes from a small vineyard my cousin Luis Eduardo owns just on the edge of the Navarre region,” I enlighten him, and he turns his attention to us, becoming aware we’re both watching him, our own wine glasses untouched.

“I—”He puts the bottle down. “Sorry, was I being a wine bore? I get told I am all the time.”

“I’m not sure you can be one of those in Spain. I’m just not used to seeing our wines being appreciated by . . . outsiders.”

I grimace, wincing at my own words, wishing the biases we acquire didn’t rule us unconsciously.

“I’ve already made that mistake tonight.” Florencio laughs, picking up his glass and taking a hearty swallow. “He’s forgiven me, so I’m sure he’ll forgive you too.”

“I actually like surprising people.” Rafe is smiling, much to my relief. “I forgive you.” He raises his glass and nods before taking a drink.

“Gracias.”

He tips his head with a small smile, and I realise I’ve answered in Spanish.

“Sorry. I—” I start to explain.

“It’s fine. It’s actually one of the few words I do know, so I understood.”

I turn to Florencio. “So, you’re from Argentina, correct?”

He currently has his glass to his lips, so he makes a flourish with his hand.

“Wait, you know where he’s from? You just met.” Rafe pulls back slightly in surprise.

“You must have the same with your English dialects,” I explain.

“Well, yes, of course. I’ve not really thought about that for other languages.”

“And you can always tell an Argentinian,” I add with a slight smirk.

“¡Que maleducado!” Florencio slaps a hand on his chest, but his smile is wide.

Rafe’s brows knit together as he stares off into the distance, his bottom lip caught between his teeth. I watchtransfixed as he chews it slightly, remembering too late that we were excluding him. I’m about to apologise again, but he speaks first.

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