Lessons in Gravity (Study Abroad #2) by Jessica Peterson Page A

wooden beams. At the end of the galley, there’s another entrance hall, this one huge and ornate, with ceilings covered in angels that soar three, even four stories high. There is so much to look at it’s making me dizzy.
    “Wow,” I breathe. “Just—wow. This place is amazing.”
    Javier grins at me over his shoulder as we climb the stairs. “Wait ’til you see the church. It’s one of the most beautiful places in all of Madrid.”
    His voices echoes off the walls, a deep, masculine rumble. I look up to see him and Carmen taking the steps in time, their movements so in synch, so naturally complimentary to each other, I wonder if the two of them were ever together. First loves, maybe? It wouldn’t surprise me; they make pretty hot pair. I get it. If I was a guy who looked like Javier, I’d want to date a girl who looked like Carmen.
    If, of course, I was into dating. Which I’m not. Definitely, definitely not.
    “When was the last time I saw you?” Carmen turns her head and offers Javier a red-lipped smile. “It has to be almost three years?”
    He digs a hand into his hipster wave, mussing it into a tidy spike. “More than that, I think. Too long. I’m really excited to be back home.”
    “And your band—it is new?”
    “Yes.” Javier nods. “An entirely new project. I’ve missed the classical stuff—the stuff I started with.”
    I’ve missed the classical stuff . That’s interesting. What has he been doing that’s kept him from the music he loves?
    “Going back to your roots,” Carmen says.
    “Exactly. I got a few of the boys together, and we decided we’d give it a go. I don’t have plans for us, not yet. But it could be fun.”
    “Classical stuff?” I ask. “Like Bach and Handel and violins?”
    “Sort of,” he replies. “I was trained as a classical guitarist. Flamenco was always my favorite, so that’s what I wanted to study. Now it’s what I want to play.”
    “I can’t wait to hear you play again,” Carmen says. She glances at me. “Javier is a very talented musician.”
    “So I’ve gathered,” I say. “I’m excited to see him in action.”
    We mount the top step and hang a right. I’m torn between ogling exquisite marble inlays on a nearby arch and listening to Javier and Carmen catch up. I’m more curious than I should be about their relationship. They’re just so— hot. Spanish. Sexy. Things I will never, ever be. It’s like catching the world’s most beautiful celebrities falling in love right in front of you. You can’t not watch.
    I hear the thrum of an acoustic guitar, followed by a few claps and shouts, as we head toward a pair of monumental doors at the end of the gallery, one of which is open.
    Javier stands by the door, gesturing Carmen and I inside first.
    “Thanks,” I say.
    He meets my gaze. My pulse hiccups. Those eyes of his. They are warm and gentle. “You’re welcome, Maddie. I hope you’re inspired by what you see.”
    I step inside the church.
    The breath leaves my lungs as a tingling awareness moves through me.
    I don’t believe in fate. Not like I used to, anyway. And whatever faith I had in a higher power’s “master plan” pretty much went out the window when my dad blind-sided me with his lies.
    But stepping inside this theater—this overwhelmingly beautiful theater—I know in my gut that this place, and this moment, are important. This isn’t just another church, another historic monument I’m not allowed to touch.
    This place means something. I’m not sure what. But I’ve never, ever seen anything like it. I haven’t read about anything like it, either—a palace turned monastery turned theater. A theater where this guy I just met is going to play some flamenco guitar. It’s fresh subject matter in a field where hidden gems are increasingly hard to come by.
    The angles are infinite; I could write about history, the success of restoration work already done, the architecture of acoustics. I just need to be able to come