Where the Stars Fall

20 | Reason

IF THERE'S A PLACE where you can see and feel the long history of Barcelona, it's the Gothic Quarter. Dotted with Roman architecture and medieval buildings, it's a labyrinth of winding narrow streets that converge into the Cathedral Square, a sort of neuralgic point where you always end up when you can't find your way in this mess of intricate alleys and dead ends.

And that's where I am right now.

Again.

Damn it, what should have been no more than a fifteen-minute walk is turning into a nightmare. I keep getting turned around and finding myself back at this place, unable to leave the crowds of tourists and pilgrims behind and finally find the way to her place.

Maybe it's a sign. Maybe I should head back to the airport and forget this insane idea – I keep telling myself that as I, this time, acknowledge my apparently broken sense of direction and look for a map app to rescue me from this absurd situation.

A few narrow streets intersected by a dozen even narrower streets later, I find it at last. Looking up at the third floor of the old stone building, I pray the adrenaline kicks in quickly.

I dial her number.

No answer.

My throat tightens up as I try again.

No answer.

My fingers begin to sweat and a painful tingling sensation trickles down my spine. Persist or retreat are the only two words racing around and colliding in my head; a horrible headache is about to creep in, I know it already.

"This is ridiculous," I think aloud. I should accept the inevitable – she doesn't want to see me – and give up.

But before what's left of my pride sets in and my courage abandons me for good, I give it another try.

"Hello?"

"Liv?"

There's a long stretch of silence, then, "Brian?" My name comes out in a single breath.

"Do you have a minute? Can we talk?"

A maddening silence falls over the line again.

"Olivia?"

"Can I call you later?" Her tone is low and controlled.

My heart drops. "Sure, but I just wanted to–"

"I can't talk with you right now," she interrupts in the same hushed tone.

With my heart slamming even harder than it was before, I look up to the third floor, to the open window where a flimsy white curtain flows out against a colourful pot.

"It's really important. And it won't take–"

"I'm sorry, but I have to go now." And she hangs up. Just like that.

Damn it, I curse myself for having listened to my sister and embarked on such a crazy idea.

Realising that the opportunity to leave with some dignity has just presented itself, I ponder what to do. Her dismissal is probably my cue to forget about all this.

It is. Leaving is the only reasonable thing to do.

Except I'm a man who doesn't give up on anything that easily, much less when I want it so badly. I don't care anymore if I cock it up completely. Fuck being reasonable!

With some luck, I might not even have to come up with a very elaborate plan to make her listen to me. There's an old lady leaving the building, struggling to get through the front door. I hurry to hold the door open.