Page 41 of Sombra
I’m not used to decadence, unless you count deep fried butter. I’m used to sensible. Five- and ten-year plans. Laminated menus in bright restaurants where I know what’s coming next.
Here, I have no idea. I didn’t know he was going to kiss me or that one all-consuming kiss would createextraordinary anarchy.
I blame this place. It’s too damned romantic. The property is hauntingly gorgeous, with a low-walled garden full of tomatoes, cucumbers, garlic, and flowers, and acres and acres of greenish-gray olive trees as far as the eye can see. Where else can you live on ground previously occupied by the Romans? With a dim, stone barn hundreds of years old?
This charminglydilapidated two-story house, baked in the Spanish sun and designed for the Mediterranean lifestyle, is about as different from my parents’ 1960’s ranch-style house as you can get. It doesn’t snow here, so there’s no basement. No heavy doors. No glassed-in patios. Life is indoor-outdoor, with open windows and doors, eating outside under the stars, and feeling the dirt under your feet.
Iabsolutely love it.
And the difference isn’t just the atmosphere, but the rhythm of life. It shows up in something as simple as the food.
Last night, Tavo’s mom placed plate after plate of food on the table under the lights strung outside. Croquettes of potato fried with bread crumbs. A lovely pork with apricot sauce. Fresh green beans with slivered almonds. Local olive oil, localproduce, local wine. My parents don’t have multi-course dinners, even on Thanksgiving. We subsist on my mom’s carefully portioned meals or a “treat” of barbecued chicken and corn.
Here, my God, the bread. I’m going to gain weight here. I’m not used to any of this.
And yet, this is where I’m supposed to be. I knew I was drawn here for a reason. I’m tasting, actually tasting my food.I’m slowing down, finding out what I really like.
I want more.
Not only is this place too damned romantic,Tavois too damn romantic.
I’m so ashamed of how I’ve been acting. I need to call Shane and end this now. I send him a Skype message.
Hey.You there? How’s it going?
He calls. He’s in the car, talking on speakerphone.
“Kim! Hey! Sorry, I’m out withMeals on Wheels with Randy. Early breakfast.” Shane does this once a week—sometimes alone, sometimes with me or Randy.
“Who are you delivering to?”
“Sorry! I can’t hear you. The connection’s breaking up. Wait.” He fumbles with the phone. “Okay. That’s better. Did you ask who I’m delivering to? A few cute little old ladies and a patient with HIV.”
Why can’t he be alone?I forceout, “Oh, that’s so sweet! Hey, Shane, we really have to discuss what happened before I le—”
As I’m talking, his expression sobers up, and he pulls over the car and turns it off. I exhale. Now’s my chance to say it.
There’s ading-ding-dingfrom the car. “Sorry, Kim, we’re at the next delivery. We’ve gotta go. I’ll try you later.”
“Okay,” I say quietly, as he hangs up on me.Angry tears well up. Ineedthis resolved.
The delay makes my guilt weigh even heavier.
I call Maggie. When she answers, she immediately responds to the tear-tension in my voice. “Kim? What’s wrong.”
“I have a problem.”
“Oh no! What?”
My next words come out in a rush. “Mags, I can’t be tied to Shane while I’m here.”
“Tell me.”
“I’ve been thinking.Everyone wants me to be with him, but it’s not what I want. I slept on it, and I’ve decided to break up with him. I called him just now to tell him, but he was out with people, and I’m not going to do it in front of anyone else. The whole point is not to embarrass him. I don’t know how to fix this.”
“You tell him, that’s how you fix it.”
I take some time before I reply, and I measureeach word as I say it. The more I talk, the more I know what I’m doing is right. “I’ll tell him. I don’t want to hurt his feelings, but it’s going to. And I’m scared that I’ll never talk to him again. Just because I don’t want to marry him doesn’t mean that I want him out of my life. The thought of never talking to him again is painful, too.”
