ONE

Karilyn

You can’t unring a bell.

That’s what I think when I turn onto my side and face away from my husband of just three days. You can’t unbake a cake. You can’t unscramble an egg.

You can’t unbreak a heart.

Oh, you can patch it up for a bit, while you revel in that rush of finally being able to hold each other’s hand, to kiss in public — hell, just to be seen in public together. You can even run off to Las Vegas and get married, so that everyone thinks you’re rushing things, moving too fast, but the two of you know you’ve already been in love for a long time. You can tell yourself that finally, you’re free to be together the way you’ve always wanted, and everything is going to be all roses. No thorns.

You can tell yourself whatever you want, but that doesn’t make it true.

Owen sighs from behind me. The bed dips and shakes as he turns onto his side, putting us back to back. I stare at the cracked plaster wall of the lackluster hotel room in Madrid that we booked online without paying much attention to the reviews. I wish we had.

I wish we’d done a lot of things.

It’s far from the worst hotel room we’ve ever shared, but unlike those other times, this is our honeymoon. I expected more than lumpy pillows and lukewarm showers. My brand-new husband groans.

Oh. And food poisoning. Can’t forget that. He’s been miserable, in and out of the bathroom for the past twenty-four hours. In sickness and in health, right? That’s what I signed on for. I guess I just hadn’t expected to deal with the sickness part so soon. Or so…violently.

I’d take care of him if he let me, but as it turns out, Owen’s a really bad patient. He complains but won’t listen to any of my advice about dealing with stomach troubles. I brought along liquid anti-nausea meds because I never travel without them, but he refused to take any because he’d never used “that kind” before.

“Karilyn…”

I sit up and put a hand on his hip. “What do you need?”

“Can you get me some kind of bread? Crackers?” Owen groans again. I’m not used to him without his glasses, and his face looks bare and strange. “Anything like that. And maybe…I hate to even ask you, but…”

“I’m your wife, Owen.” I can’t stop the thrill of saying it. “Just ask me.”

“Could you maybe get me some better medicine?”

“Of course.” I don’t offer what I brought along again. It’s clear he doesn’t want it, and since he’s the one who feels so rough, I guess he should be the one to decide what will make him feel better.

I get out of bed and pull on the cute skinny jeans and blouse I’d imagined wearing to see all the sights. So far, I’ve only seen the airport, the inside of a cab, and this hotel room. “Yes. Sure, of course. Whatever you need, baby.”

Baby. Honey. Those are names I wasn’t permitted to call him before. They feel right, but they taste weird, and in this moment, I have to close my eyes against a sudden surge of uneasiness that’s almost as violent as the urge to be sick.

“Karilyn? Are you okay? You’re not feeling sick, are you?” Owen pushes up on one elbow to look at me, and any irritation I had fades.

How can I be annoyed with him? It’s our honeymoon, and even if it’s not going exactly the way I dreamed it would, the fact we’re having one at all should be enough. Quickly, I bend to kiss his forehead, then press the back of my hand to it.

“No fever. That’s good. And I feel fine. It has to be something you ate.”

Owen groans. “I should’ve known better than to trust an airport burrito.”

“Let me go get you something to help. I’ll try to be quick. Text if you think of anything else you need while I’m out.”

I’m already shrugging into my lightweight jacket and slipping on the walking boots I spent so much money on but have barely walked in. I tuck my phone into the front pocket of my jeans, along with a handful of cash. I have my credit card, but I’m nearing the limits of my balance. We haven’t linked our finances yet, so I can’t use his.

The elevator gives me a bad feeling. Too small. Rickety. Instead, I take the stairs that smell of spilled wine and urine and other, worse things I don’t want to think about. I hold my breath as long as I can, and by the time I hurtle out the metal fire door onto the lobby level, my head’s starting to spin. I take in a few gasping breaths, stifled behind my hand, but then I manage to straighten myself. I take in a few much fresher breaths.

I’m in fucking Spain.

And why are we in Spain? Because once, a little over three years ago, I’d met a man in a bar in New Orleans, and I’d told him that I’d always wanted to visit Madrid.

I’ve never been happier that my middle school crush on my high school Spanish teacher led me to take four years of the language, which in turn encouraged me to keep it up for college. I’m passably fluent, and without it, I’d have no idea what to look for in the pharmacy. It takes me longer than I thought it would, though, so I send him a quick text to let him know I won’t be back for another fifteen minutes or so.

Phone in hand, I watch to see the “Delivered” turn to “Read.” Almost at once, three little gray dots start bouncing with Owen’s reply. I shouldn’t feel such a sense of relief. I shouldn’t have to worry if he won’t answer me for hours, for days, for months. Owen is my husband now. Those uncertain days are over.

Aren’t they?

Back on the street, I give myself a minute or two to orient myself. I’m the sort who will turn left instead of right, every time. I know the hotel is back in that direction, but I came from this way….

“What a frown on such a pretty face.” The masculine voice, speaking Spanish, turns my head.

The man who just came out of the pharmacy behind me is, no other way to describe it, volcanically hot. Tall. Dark. Beyond handsome. Suave. If he’s not the devil himself, he’s certainly applying for the position.

“It’s my husband,” I say, surprised I can even form words in the face of such mind-blowing hotness. Especially in another language. “He’s sick. I’m texting him to be sure he’s all right.”

“Is he?”

I look at my phone. “He says he’s feeling better, and can I bring him something sweet.”

The sexy stranger tilts his head to look me over.  In English, he says “You’re American.”

“I am. Is my Spanish that bad?”

He shakes his head. “Your Spanish is very good. I like to practice my English. You’re on your honeymoon.”

“I…yes, how did you know?”

“You have that glow about you, of a woman in love.” He grins.

He’s charming and attractive. It’s obvious that he’s well-aware of it, I can’t stop myself from returning the grin. Is that wrong?

“Uh-huh. Riiiiight. That sounds like a pickup line if I’ve ever heard one.”

“Something tells me that you’ve heard many pickup lines.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Matteo.”

“Karilyn.” We shake hands. “Can you tell me where I can find a little grocery? Maybe a café that does takeout?”

“Where are you staying?” Matteo must see the wariness on my face because he laughs and waves a hand as though what he’d said was meant to be ignored. “Well, I’m heading in that direction, there, and I can show you a great little café that can make something delicious but easy on poor hubby’s belly. If you want to walk with me. On the street, out in the daylight. You can even stand on the other side of it, if you want, and follow me from a safe distance.”

I want to laugh because of course it sounds ridiculous, but….

Marco’s expression turns serious. “You’re a woman alone in a foreign country, and I am a handsome stranger. You’re right to be cautious. After all, I was indeed attempting to seduce you.”

“And you’re not, anymore?”

Marco puts a hand over his heart and looks aghast. “You’re a married woman!”

I have to laugh again. He is totally charming, and he totally knows it. “Okay, why don’t you just tell me the name of the place, and I’ll find it myself.”

“Fair enough.” He rattles off the name and direction of this supposed café and watches me walk away.

I feel his stare behind me, but I am in the middle of the crowded sidewalk, in the middle of the day, and when I look back, he doesn’t seem to be following me. I figure out why when I get to the café and see him inside, talking with the woman behind the counter. Matteo gives me another of his broad and flirty grins when I come through the front door.

“Welcome,” he says. “To my café.”

He’s still flirting with me, and I feel the urge to respond rising inside me, like an instinct, or at least like something I could blame on instinct. An automatic response.

But I’m married now. I shouldn’t even want to flirt with drop-dead gorgeous, sexy Spanish men who clearly want to woo me. My husband is sick back in our hotel room. I should be worried about getting back to him. And the thing is, I am. But I am also reminded of how it was only a short time ago that I was free to pursue whoever wanted to chase me — in love with Owen or not.

How many times over the past couple of years have I passed up the chance to flirt with, or go home with, or start something new with a handsome stranger, all because I was in love with Owen? Does it make me vain to admit that it’s been many, many times? Or is it just the truth?

“You’re frowning again,” Matteo says.

“I really just need to get something to go. I have to get back to my husband.” Saying the words aloud feels right. It is what I want.

Owen is who I want.

If it all feels a little surreal, who would blame me? Four months ago, I was doing my best to keep on putting one foot in front of the other and forget about him. Three months ago, he was back in my life, and now, here we are in Spain together.

Matteo eyes me, like he can sense I’ve got this internal struggle going on. I put on a neutral expression. “He’s waiting for me.”

“Of course, of course. Order whatever you like. My treat. Consider it a wedding gift.”

“I couldn’t —”

Matteo waves me to silence. In Spanish, he says, “I insist. Sofia, this lady’s husband has been ill. Put together something for them that will be easy on his stomach.”

“You really don’t have to,” I tell him.

Matteo turns, and the smooth, charming attitude softens into something more genuine. More sincere. “I know I don’t have to. Consider it my good deed for the day.”

My phone buzzes with a text from Owen, asking me how much longer I’m going to be. I tap out a reply, letting him know I’m picking up some food. When I look up, Matteo is watching me closely. He smiles, but it’s clear to me that this time he’s no longer trying to entice me.

“Will you tell him about how another man flirted with you?”

I toss my hair over my shoulder and give him an arch look. “You’ve barely flirted with me, Matteo, let’s be honest. You’ve got a lot more in you than what you’ve put out there for me.”

“Yes, yes, you are right about that.” He chuckles, but his eyes narrow as he looks me over. “Will you tell him, anyway?”

“No.”

Sofia returns with some paper-wrapped packages of food and puts them on the counter. I’m not sure what’s in them, but it smells amazing. Matteo puts it all into a paper bag hands it to me. Fragrant warmth bathes my face with the scent of fresh bread. Maybe soup, too.

“It would upset him,” I add, although Matteo hasn’t insisted on any further explanation. “It’s our honeymoon. He’s been sick. What kind of wife would I be if I went back and told him about another man’s interest in me?”

“The kind who knows when to keep a secret.”

I don’t like that answer, even though it’s the truth. How long had I kept the secret of me and Owen? A long time.

“Or perhaps,” Matteo puts in before I can say anything, “the sort of wife who doesn’t need to prove to her husband that he’s not the only man who wants her.”

“He already knows that.” I shift the food packages in my hand. “I’d really prefer to pay you for this.”

“I refuse.” Matteo puts his hand over his heart again, that same gesture as earlier, although this time it’s not seductive. “And I apologize. I shouldn’t be teasing you.”

“Seems to me you’re the kind of guy who usually gets away with it,” I tell him.

Matteo’s smile remains sincere, but it gets a little tight. He nods. “I am. As I suspect you are a woman who’s used to being flirted with.”

“I am,” I tell him honestly, “but that doesn’t mean I have to flirt back.”

“I hope your husband recovers quickly so that you both can enjoy the rest of your trip.”

“Thank you.” I hesitate. “Really, Matteo, thank you. For the food. And the perspective.”

He can’t have any idea about what I mean, but I’m being sincere.

“My pleasure, for both,” he says.

I’m only a few blocks from the hotel. The food is still warm when I get there. I’m relieved to find that Owen is up and about, the window shades no longer drawn and the room aired out a bit. He’s got color back in his face, and his eyes light up when he sees me, the way they have always done, no matter what else was going on.

Suddenly, I am no longer resentful or irritated by how he acts when he’s sick. I love this man, and I’ve loved him through worse than this. I hope we never go through anything that bad again, but I will keep loving him through that, too.

A honeymoon is only a trip, I remind myself. It’s the beginning of everything. We have so much more ahead of us.

Owen looks me up and down, his head tilted. “Anything exciting happen to you while you were gone?”

“Nope.” I start opening the packages of food and setting them out.

It’s not about keeping a secret, I think. It’s about the need to prove something, or not. In times past I’d have gleefully, maybe even viciously, made sure Owen knew all about any other man who flirted with me, but that’s all behind us. We have a future together, and it starts here in this room. Together, with nothing and nobody else between us.