Never Leave Again

the origin

"I'm scared."

Alexia's Cupra is parked on the pavement adjacent to the building of her uncle's apartment. A few trickle inside the heavy door, glancing at us through the windshield with both curiosity and apprehension, and, once more, I grab the wrist of my captain – cousin – to prevent her from getting out.

"Talia."

"Alexia, I'm scared," I repeat, though that word doesn't seem to do what I am feeling justice. It bubbles on my tongue, fizzing as the meaning dies, and words I can't pronounce burst out of me silently, much like the erratic beating of my heart. "I want to pretend that it is just me. I am from Córdoba. I have a mother, but I have no siblings nor father, and I play football – for which club, I don't yet know, but Jorge Vilda has told me he wants me to start for my country. There are things about myself that I know to be true, and then there is this. I can't do this, Alexia. I can't."

But I don't say that.

Again, I say, "I'm scared."

Again, she sighs, "Talia, come on. It will be alright." I let my fingers stay curled around her wrist for a moment more, before her tendons protrude out of her skin and her arm tenses. "It'll be okay, amor."

Clàudia calls me that. I wish she were here.

I take in a deep, anxiety-filled breath. "Are you sure?" I question, but we are already out of the vehicle and stepping across the road.

"Yes, I am sure." She presses the buzzer on the outside of the door – one with the name M. Segura scribbled onto a white label beside it – and she is frowning by the time I work up the courage to tear my eyes from the pavement. "We are not monsters, petita. We'll not speak Catalan to you, either." I apologise, though I am not sure it is quite my fault. "Talia, if anything, just... They're your family. We're your family. We love you."

When I walk into the apartment of my mother's older brother, I realise that I have never experienced a love so instinctive and overwhelming.

They are, at least, subtle about staring at me. Dozens of pairs of eyes take in my choice of clothes, the way in which I have pulled my hair into a ponytail, and the hand of Alexia that is encasing mine as if to keep me from running away. The conversation becomes a low murmur, and I shift my weight with discomfort at the realisation that I have affected the happiness of what was once a much louder apartment.

"Alexia!" A shrill voice shatters the tension, and I am dragged to the kitchen. There, stands a short woman, with grey curls pinned back in a way she must have mastered over decades. Her hands, freckled and sunkissed, work with ease above a pan of paella, but she drops her tools the minute we are beside her, turning youthfully on her heels.

I've been told that I look like my mother. No one mentioned that my mother looks like her mother.

My grandmother steps forward with confidence, inspecting me without shame. Her eyes roam to my exposed stomach, to the evidence of my profession chiselled into my flesh. She seems to catch the fading red mark there, that I thought no one would see. Her eyebrows are raised when I make eye contact with her, and I can feel the flushing of my cheeks, but she only clears her throat and stares at the woman beside me, somewhat seething.

"So you can bring Tere's daughter – who we didn't know existed – but you can't bring your girlfriend?" Alexia shrinks under the harshness of the words, chosen to be spoken in a language that I understand to presumably embarrass her.

"She's not my girlfriend," replies Alexia, with gritted teeth and a jaw that is clenched so hard it might stay in that position forever. The smell of the food encapsulates us, and I am momentarily distracted by the pan sitting atop the stove, incredibly enticed by the food.