Page 74 of My Spanish Love Affair

But he continues to follow, his footsteps quickening behind mine.

“Are you going to be moving in with him?” he presses, his voice rising. “People are eager to know what kind of woman Santiago Ortiz is dating. It’s got to be serious if he’s bringing you to matches.”

I clench my fists as I attempt to up my pace.

My whole body feels hot, like every inch of me is under scrutiny.

“Please leave me alone,” I say through gritted teeth, forcing myself not to look back at him.

But his persistence is relentless.

“Come on, Olivia,” he says, sounding more frustrated. “Just one comment, one photo. Help me out here!”

I turn sharply at the corner, and thankfully, the man doesn’t follow this time. His voice fades into the background, but the damage is already done.

My hands tremble as I clutch tightly to my work bag.

I glance around nervously as I walk, suddenly hyper-aware of every person on the street.

Are they looking at me? Do they know who I am?

Will someone else try to stop me?

Thankfully, I finally reach the school only a few minutes later, though my mind is racing as I step through the gates.

He knew where I lived.

He wasn’t asking questions out of curiosity, either. He was digging, looking for something -anything- so that he could twist my life into a story.

The whispers, the stares, the questions… it’s all too much.

Something has got to give.

∞∞∞

After a long day of trying to push my encounter with the pushy prick of a photographer out of my mind, I sit on my couch, my phone open and waiting.

I’ve been debating whether to call Santi for most of the day, unsure if I want to burden him with how overwhelmed I feel.

But as the anxiety creeps back in, I give in and dial his number.

“Olivia,” he says, answering quickly. “I’ve been waiting. Did you not see my texts? Are you okay?”

I let out a shaky breath.

“Not really,” I admit. “I... well. I mean, I did see your texts, yes, I just haven’t had much chance to reply. Work was so busy, and…”

I inhale through my nose, pushing through my natural instinct to pretend that everything is absolutely fine all of the time.

“I had a run-in with someone this morning. A photographer. He was waiting outside my building.”

“What?” His voice sharpens instantly. “Outside your apartment? I - wait. Did he say anything to you?”

“Yeah,” I say, swallowing hard. “He asked a lot of questions about us, about you - aboutme. He wouldn’t stop, even when I told him I had nothing to say. Several times.”

Santi curses under his breath in Spanish. “Did he follow you?”

“I - yes, kind of,” I reply, my voice trembling. “He didn’t follow me to work or anything, but he walked after me for a little bit. But… he knows where I live, Santi. How on earth does he know that?! It feels so bloody intrusive.”

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