I called Corbyn.
He picked up after the first ring.
"Hey," Corbyn said, I could sense him grinning. "How was your flight?" He paused, "Or should I say flights?" He added.
"They were ok. On the last one, I met one of my mamá's friends, and I got to know her a bit. But apart from that, I just slept. Oh, and I wrote in that notebook you gave me." I told him, smiling at the sound of his voice.
"Really? That's great." Corbyn said, "Hey, I just wanted to tell you, I might not be able to call you as much in one and a half months. With the tour and all that."
"Oh... how long is the tour lasting?" I asked, trying not to sound as disappointed as I felt.
"Three and a half months." Corbyn sighed. I frowned.
"Three... and a half months?" I repeated like I hadn't heard him right.
"Yeah," Corbyn said.
"That's... that's a long time." I stammered.
"I know." Corbyn sighed, "But it's not like all communication will be cut off, just limited."
"How limited?" I asked, gritting my teeth. I know I must've sounded annoying, but I needed to know what to expect.
"Uhm... maybe once every few days?" Corbyn said.
"Oh..." I muttered, "Ok."
"I'm so sorry, Ronnie." Corbyn apologised.
"No, it's fine. You'll be living your dream." I said, just as my uber pulled up. "I've got to go."
"Ok. Facetime tonight?" Corbyn suggested.
"Yeah." I nodded, "Bye."
"I love you," Corbyn said, quickly. I sighed before forcing a smile, even though he wasn't there.
"I love you too," I mumbled before hanging up. Maybe I was being the petty one, acting like this. I mean, this was Corbyn's job. I knew what I was signing up for when we discussed a long-distance relationship. I just didn't realise our communication would be so restricted.
"My pequeña mariposa!" It was a nickname she had given me when I was little. Directly translated as, little butterfly. There was no particular reason for the nickname, but it had stuck. Abuela pulled me in for a hug, "Good flight?"
"It was ok." I shrugged, walking into her overheated home and shutting the door behind me.
"How was America?" She asked, her Spanish accent pronouncing it as, Amer-rika.
"Good." I nodded.
"'Ok', 'Good'." Abuela mimicked, waving her hands about. "You give no explanation."
"It really was just average," I said. Abuela made a sound that told me she wasn't convinced.
"How is Bea?" Abuela asked.
"She got in an accident, but she's fine," I explained. Abuela didn't seem too surprised.
"That little girl. She is not as careful as needed, no?" Abuela turned to me. I shook my head.
"No."
"Well, at least she is fine." Abuela shrugged, tottering her way to the kitchen. "And you?"
"I'm..." I started, trying to find a way to describe myself other than saying 'Ok' or 'Good'. I didn't manage to find one.
"Oh, no. What is wrong, mariposa?" Abuela turned her attention away from the stove to face me.
YOU ARE READING
come to brazil: corbyn besson
Teen Fiction𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒚 𝒘𝒂𝒔 𝒃𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒏 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒔𝒂𝒘 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒇𝒐𝒓𝒆𝒊𝒈𝒏 𝒘𝒂𝒍𝒌 𝒕𝒉𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒐𝒓. 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒊 𝒄𝒂𝒏'𝒕 𝒊𝒈𝒏𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒊𝒕, 𝒊 𝒏𝒆𝒆𝒅 𝒔𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆, 𝒚𝒆𝒂𝒉. - "𝒊 𝒋...