to you in any world language, but you’re going to hear your mother tongue anyway.]
“I’ll kill him, Sese,” James almost cries out as he enters the room. “I’ll kill him and then spend the rest of my life in prison, only not to hear that freaking language no more!”
“Most of the normal people consider French as romantic, sexy, and all,” the girl’s only laughing in reply, pulling him into a hug immediately.
“I hate it! I can’t understand more than half of what he’s saying, he goes mad ‘cause of that, and as a result we both end the date annoyed and depressed,” James’ voice’s slightly trembling.
“Haven't you two discussed that?” Sese puts his head on her knees, starting to stroke his fluffy golden hair gently and comfortingly. “He’s a great guy, James, and he adores you. I’m sure he’s going to understand it.”
“He can’t understand it as he hadn’t got me here speaking the language of one of his passed away parents. The reality is we can’t spend at least an hour together without a quarrel and I’m exhausted of that.”
Sese doesn’t reply this time, going on brushing boy’s hair with her fingers.
“What if that soulmate stuff is simply overrated?”
She breathes out loud and kisses his forehead, accurately moving his head from her knees to the closest pillow.
“You should take a nap and relax, darling. You’ll be alright, I promise.”
***
They of course are alright. Sese’s now listening for at least a couple of hours to James’ complaints on Ben having a strange Belgian dialect, so even French lessons three times a week do not help sometimes. She chuckles at him and asks to free her for an important meeting finally and James advises her not to fool in front of all of those ‘hot Spaniards’. Sese snorts and blows him a kiss. Madrid’s an extremely gorgeous and welcoming city, and she’s sure that even a boring business meeting isn’t able to ruin her great mood.
It appears it is. She’s just about to die from listening to another lecturer (an especially tiresome one), with elbows on the table and face leaning on her palms. Sese understands it’s rude, but can’t really help it. Every time she makes another attempt to join the discussion, it ends in failure. Forty minutes after, she stops trying at all.
“¿Cómo es que un hombre puede ser todas esas cosas?” she turns to the sound and faces an attractive man with soft brown eyes, well-groomed beard and short reddish hair. Sese finds herself staring a bit; the man’s entirely of her type. “¿Es un poco molesto, la verdad?”
She needs a few long minutes to realize he speaks to her in Spanish. They’re in Madrid so it’s pretty obvious, even despite the meeting being hosted in English. Sese smiles awkwardly and tries to remember some basics from her secondary school for a couple of extra moments.
“I’m so sorry, could you repeat, please?”
“Olvídalo, no fue nada. ¿Puedo preguntar tu nombre?”
“It’s Sese”, she answers before even thinking twice. “I mean, it’s Cecilia actually, but I don’t quite like it. And… yours?”
“Jan,” he watches her with an unreadable yet peaceful expression followed by a soft smile on his lips. “No eres croata, ¿la verdad?”
“What, no,” she has never been more confused in her life. “Gosh, I’m Sheffield. Why?”
“Sí, definitivamente. Pero te escucho en croata, así que…” Sese starts to doubt if this man’s even real. “No estaba seguro, pero decidí intentarlo y comencé a hablar en mi idioma nativo.”
“And I responded in Croatian,” she whispers in English, finally seeming to understand. “But I hear you speaking Spanish, it’s…”
‘Cecilia’ was a popular name in Uruguay, where Sese’s mother was from, according to the orphanage records. She did never really care ‘bout that, but at least now it makes some sense. Growing in a foster’s house, nobody can be sure what his or her mother tongue’s like. Sese thanks God it’s not French, or something.
“Bueno, soy completamente croata,” Jan chuckles in response, watching her blushing to the tips of her ears. “Y tu croata suena maravilloso.”
‘Maravilloso’, Sese repeats to herself, smiling shyly. She can definitely get used to this.
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