Want You Back

“Sid! No way am I wearing this!”I exclaimed, shoving the dress back at my best friend.

“Yes, C, you are,” she insisted, pushing me into her bathroom with the dress.

Giving up, I reluctantly pulled my comfy jeans and Real Madrid jersey off and pulled on the strapless black mini I had been handed. Sidney, my best friend since the 1st grade, wanted to go clubbing to celebrate my first night back at home, Madrid, and woe betide anyone who tried to stand in the path of her plans.

Sidney Roberts and I had met when we both started the same boarding school in first grade and were designated roommates. And the fact that we were both from Madrid only strengthened our friendship and we had spent all our time together till I had left to go to university in Liverpool. But tonight, she was set on making life miserable for me.

Fingering the short hem of the dress self-consciously, I finally stepped out of the bathroom. Wordlessly, Sidney tossed a pair of dark purple strappy heels and a matching clutch my way. I had just pulled the shoes on when she grabbed my arm and hauled me over to sit on her dresser’s stool.

By the time she was done working her magic, I had transformed from travel-weary frump into a complete bombshell, polished off with perfect, sexy waves, smoky eye makeup and glossy nude lips.
“Let’s get cracking then!” she announced happily, satisfied at the results of her handiwork.

[Carolina's outfit- http://www.polyvore.com/carolinas_clubbing_outfit/set?id=21091383]

*****

I went with every intention of staying put for an acceptable amount of time to let Sidney have her fun, then drag her home to get some decent sleep before my first day of work in Madrid.
But somehow, I managed to down a fair amount of Tequila and Sangria and some poor, unsuspecting soul – knowing me, nobody who knew me would ever let me near music, especially knowing I was drunk. Hmm... Maybe it was Sidney then! – had dragged me onto the dance floor. The second Timbaland’s ‘Bounce’ came on, I was a goner.

I finished up my routine by moving my hips in sync with the pants at the end of the song, like your chest’s up and down movement when you breathe. Hah. Hah. Hah. Up, down. Up, down. Up, down.

Suddenly, I felt a pair of hands on either side of my waist. Before I could say anything, The Gypsy Kings’ ‘Te Quieres Volver’ came on and the stranger pulled me into his arms. In total silence, we danced. There was something eerily familiar about his long, dark hair and deep, dark, soulful eyes but I paid that no heed and instead, allowed myself to be swept away n the heat of the moment.

“So,” he finally spoke up as he spun me out once more before pulling me close again. “You’re a Real Madrid fan?”

“How’d you know?” I asked him suspiciously.

“I saw the crest tattooed on your neck when you spun around,” he admitted, smiling.

I laughed out loud. “Wanna see my other tattoo?” he simply nodded, curious to see what it was.

Turning my back to him, I lowered my dress slightly to show him the number 4 tattooed in old script in the middle of my spine.

“Why four!?” he enquired, perplexed.

“Sergio Ramos,” I confessed sheepishly.

He burst into hysterical laughter for a moment before he caught on to my expression and sobered. Then, murmuring a simple ‘Good.’, he cupped my face and, pulling me close again, pressed his lips hard against mine.

Mine opened of their own accord and he obligingly allowed his tongue to enter. As our tongues fought for dominance, he caught my hair in one hand and pulled my head back, leaning forward into a forceful kiss while his other hand supported my arched back. Mine, in return, tangled in his long hair and pulled him closer and closer still.

Finally breaking for breath, he leaned his forehead against mine and whispered, “Damn, nena. Who knew little Lina (pronounced Line-ah) could kiss like that?”

I started and pulled back. Nobody but my grandparents and their next-door neighbours’ son had ever called me that; to the rest of the world I was Carolina Garcia.

“Sergi?” I ventured hesitantly, referring to the son. He was only a couple of years older than me, I wonder why I was imagining my eight-year old playmate.

“-o Ramos,” he completed for me, smiling. My mouth fell open in shock.

I ended up spending the night at his place.

*****

EPILOGUE- 10 YEARS LATER

“Ma? When did you know Daddy was the one?” the nine year old beside me on the porch steps sleepily inquired.

“I went dancing with Auntie Sidney one night, I told her, running a hand through the straight, dark hair she had inherited from her father.

“And he fell in love with your amazing dance moves!” piped up five year old Rodrigo.

“Yep,” came the answer from somewhere on my right as a pair of strong, muscled arms wrapped around my huge bump.

“Remember the song we danced to?” he asked me, resting his chin on my shoulder.

“Te quieres volver. Want you back,” I replied, smiling fondly at the memory.

“And I got you, too,” he whispered in my ear, before kissing my shoulder and lovingly caressing my bump. I was carrying our third child, due any day now. Life was great.