Page 49 of The Fake Date Deal

Marco’s smile turned sheepish. “The devil,” he said. “You throw the salt back to blind him, salt in his eye.”

I bit my lip hard to keep from laughing again. “So, what does that have to do with rain in Barcelona?”

“My first race was here, my first real event. My first one with real money up for grabs. It was like an audition, to see how I’d do. If I placed, I’d get sponsorships. An agency contract. I’d launch my career. If I lost, I wouldn’t, so this place feels… fateful. Especially when it rains like this, when I’m just stuck here. I usually, uh…” He looked away.

“What?”

“You know, recreate it. I stay at the hotel I stayed at back then, eat at the same places. Do everything the same. That way, it feels like I’ll win the same too.”

A rush of warmth came over me, sudden affection. Marco led with his cocky side, but that wasn’t all of him. I leaned up and kissed him on his rough jaw. “Let’s do it, then. Eat where you ate.”

He shook his head. “No, we can’t.”

“Why not?”

“Because I wasn’t rich then. I ate fast food. I stayed in pokey hotel rooms, not giant suites. I couldn’t put you through that.”

“You think I don’t eat fast food?”

Marco stared at me like he was taking my measure. His expression was one I hadn’t seen before, halfway between amusement and deep regret. I flicked some lint off of his shoulder and straightened his shirt.

“Look, you’re the one racing. You have your routine. If it makes you more confident, you need to do that. I can always come back here if I hate your hotel. Eat somewhere else if I hate your fast food. But I want to see it. Decide for myself.”

Marco stood for a moment, still undecided, then threw up his hands. “You know what? Let’s do it.”

He cadged an umbrella from the front desk, and we stepped out together into the rain. I thought he’d take us to some chain you’d find anywhere, somewhere reliably cheap. Instead, he walked us through narrow side streets, the kind where the paving was ancient and cracked, full of deep puddles which he handed me over.

“There was a Greek place right here,” he said, pointing where a café was. “They had gyros this big, two for two euros.” He held his hands eight inches apart. “They closed down last year, though, so now it’s croissants. The ham ones are filling, two-fifty each.”

I had my doubts, but I’d come this far. I strutted inside. The café was cleaner than it looked from outside, smelling warmly of lunch meat and freshly baked bread. Marco peered at the menu and his mouth drew down.

“They went up to three euros for the croissants.”

“Inflation,” I said. “I’ll pay if you want.”

Marco shook his head. “It’s not that I can’t pay. It’s… it’s not the same.” He scanned down the menu, then beckoned the server. “I’ll get a Coke, and the salami roll.”

I saw the salami roll was priced at two-fifty. I ordered one too, and a lemon tea. Marco found us a table up front, by the window. He unwrapped his sandwich, bit into it, and sighed. I tried mine more gingerly and found it dry and greasy, but no worse than any hangover food.

“Not bad,” said Marco. “But I miss those gyros. I made two stretch four days, my first time here.”

I almost choked on my sandwich. “Two for four days?”

Marco groaned. “Yeah.”

“Not just those, though, right?”

He laughed bleakly. “Just those.”

“What about your hotel? They didn’t serve breakfast?”

His laughter rose louder. I flapped at him.

“What?”

“Eve, I was poor. I came up from nothing. My first sponsor was my aunt, who ran a garage, and it took all she had to just get me started. I got here that first time with two hundred euros, and that was to last me three days, till my race. Then it got pushed back and pushed back again, and by the time the rain stopped, I was hungry. The guy at the hotel let me stay three days on credit, betting I’d win and come back and tip big. But if I hadn’t…” He wiped crumbs off his shirt. I stared at him dumbstruck, uncomprehending.

“I don’t get it,” I said. “You have a huge family. Your uncle in fashion, the one who’s a baker. Surely, they?—”

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