The Do-Over(72)
Author: Suzanne Park
My heart lifted, knowing this feeling of injustice from my past had resolved to an outcome I could accept. “Take it from me, don’t let mistakes define you. Who you are isn’t your history of mistakes. It’s how you genuinely learn from them rather than making excuses and offering insincere apologies. The goal is to become a better person, right?” I took her other hand and offered her a courteous smile. “I appreciate your support and wish you well, Dean. Thank you.”
She nodded. “You offer wise words that I promise to take to heart. Truly.”
When I got back to my seat, Beth asked, “What was that all about?”
I relished the moment. “Just a normal human making mistakes and finally learning from them.”
Epilogue
One Year Later
Do you think we’ll ever get sick of eating paella?” I asked as we settled the check.
“Honestly, no. Do you think you’ll ever stop taking more than your share of shrimp?”
I narrowed my eyes. “You always take more clams and mussels. So it’s only fair.”
“Touché. So what’s next?” Jake asked as we exited the restaurant. A leisurely lunch after strolling through the Picasso Museum had been on my bucket list for years and we’d finally done it.
Jake didn’t seem to have a strong opinion about our afternoon plans.
“Dessert at Boqueria Market? Then maybe we can go to Barceloneta Beach for an afternoon swim so I can use all those aquatic skills Beth taught me?” I suggested.
He smirked. “You know I’m not going to say no to that.”
On the bus ride to the marketplace, Mia sent us the latest photos from her dog- and cat-sitting adventures: Sasha and Bandit basking lazily in the sunlight streaming through the windows of Jake’s brownstone. It was such a relief to know those two were in such good hands while we were away on a much-needed vacation.
When we arrived at La Boqueria, we were met with vibrantly colored booths and tantalizing aromas of sweet and savory foods. Zigzagging from stall to stall, we were lured by the fragrant and visually stunning fresh-pressed fruit juices, produce, and desserts. Spanish specialties surrounded us, making us want to have a second lunch of jamón ibérico, Manchego cheese, and bacalao. Thank God we arrived with full stomachs, otherwise we would have gone broke from trying a little of everything.
I went with a crema catalana: a custard pudding topped with a coating of burnt caramel, which to me looked like crème brûlée, one of my all-time favorite desserts. Jake opted for a red juice that looked like strawberry but tasted more like mango and pomegranate.
As Jake chatted in Spanish with the vendor, I grinned to myself, thinking about how different my life was just a year ago. And how over a decade ago, I thought I’d never make it to Barcelona, and here I was with Jake, all these years later.
He came to me wearing a sly grin, holding a second juice.
“You got me one too?”
“It was on the house. He remembered me from back in college, can you believe it? He called me Señor Triste back then, because I looked so sad.” He handed me the drink.
I raised the cup and said loudly to the man at the drinks stall, “Gracias, Señor!”
Jake leaned in and kissed me, and all the bustle around us disappeared. He tasted sweet and earnest. I closed my eyes and let the world continue to melt away as his lips pressed against mine a second time. “He said the drink is for you, for making me so happy.”
I took a sip. “You make me happy too.”