Think of Spain

Think of Spain

By Gisela Echevarria

Today is the day that will set my future in stone. I will finally be able to move forward—one way or another. The choice for my future is completely out of my hands.

I open my laptop and sign in to see my submission. The writing contest is finally announcing the winner. Not just any contest the Best International Writing Contest.

This is my chance at freedom. To go to Spain. To live among like-minded creative minds. To be free of this monotony.

My hands tremble as I type in my password. I will either continue in this boring job... or I will travel to Spain for summer classes. My nerves are at an all-time high. My legs tremble. I feel dizzy.

“I made it.”

This is unbelievable. Little old me has won. The excitement is electric, I can feel it in my bones. I’m turning in my two-week notice. I’ll pack my bags and leave with my head held high, especially for the doubters in the office. My submission will be published.

Then the title hits me.

And my blood runs cold.

How can this be happening? How can a mistake this colossal happen now? I sign out. Sign back in. My breathing is shallow. It still says the same thing.

With trembling fingers, I slam the computer shut and reopen it.

Still the same.

My life is over. I can’t breathe. I’m going to die right here in this spot. How can I face work on Monday?

This cannot be happening. My happiest moment has turned into a nightmare.

How could they publish my “diary” my most personal thoughts? How can my most private words be out in the world for everyone to read?

This isn’t right. I submitted a story, didn’t I? The one about the soulless companies and the underdog that saves the day. That’s what I meant to send. I remember selecting it. I remember making the submission.

This can’t be happening.

How could they have released my diary?

The thought of going to work terrifies me. But I can’t just quit. I need that money for my plane ticket. The contest only covers the classes and boarding, it doesn’t include travel.

Skipping the next two weeks of work isn’t an option.

But the thought of facing him...

It petrifies me.

Still, I have to put on my big girl pants and show up Monday. I have to be an adult. There’s no other way. Hopefully, they’ve already forgotten about the contest at the office.

I take a deep breath. I need to confirm my attendance for the class.

Then I see it—in big, bold letters across the screen:

“WINNERS MUST SUBMIT PROOF OF FLIGHT PURCHASE FOR SPOT TO BE HELD.”

What? No. No, no. I check my bank account.

$50.

That’s all I have.

I just had to replace my car’s tires after that flat. That ate up the money I had saved for the flight. And I already paid rent and bills. How can one small problem spiral into such a mess?

Why is being a responsible adult so difficult?

This is insane. My mind spins with panic. How can I make this happen? This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. I can’t let it slip away.

I’m a person who thinks on their feet. I can do this.

I CAN do this.

I WILL do this.

Then it hits me again.

MY DIARY.

My diary has been my safe place—where I’ve poured my most intimate thoughts. Where I wrote about how boring my job as a paralegal is, about my coworkers. About HIM.

They’re going to read everything.

Every musing. Every judgment. Every daydream.

Especially the one secret I’ve never spoken aloud.

The feelings I’ve kept hidden for so long... are now public. I wrote about my daydreams of being with my boss. About how I imagined a life outside of the office, just him and me.

In the office, I’m just the quiet, diligent woman in the corner. The only reason they even know about the contest is because Ramona saw me on my phone at lunch and read over my shoulder. She told everyone. Loudly. She said there was no way I’d even be considered.

She’s hated me ever since I got praised for helping the firm win that big case. She’s going to revel in my misery.

My mind keeps spinning as I think back to all those beautiful, vulnerable words I wrote on those sacred pages.

How will he react?

Will he fire me on the spot? Will he see me as unprofessional... unstable?

He is the most beautiful man I have ever set eyes on. The most dazzling blue eyes that remind me of the sea. The most exquisite, luscious lips...

And to think—these very words have been published. They've been out all weekend. For anyone to read.

I try to breathe deeply, but the panic is overwhelming. My limbs feel frozen. My lungs won’t expand. How can I face everyone? How can I face HIM?

I shake my head and try to focus. I can’t spiral. I have to think.

How can I make this work?

Then I remember the emergency credit card tucked in the back of my wallet.

It’s not the easiest decision—anything can happen—but I can’t let this opportunity slip away. I have to make all my incoming suffering WORTH IT.

With shaking fingers, I type in the card information and hit confirm.

It’s done. The flight is booked. My spot in the program is secured.

With the two weeks of pay left and my bonus coming up, I should have more than enough to cover it and rebuild my savings.

There are rare moments I actually love my job... but mostly it’s just dull.

Writing about laws all day, never getting to use my imagination or write the stories I dream about.

But now—now, I’ve taken a step toward the life I want.

I sit back and whisper, “This is happening.”

And then more firmly, “Monday. Here I come.”

Nope. Nope. I CANNOT do this.

I try to make myself get out of the car, but terror has seized me. I’m trembling all over, frozen in place. My heart is thumping so hard it feels like it might burst through my chest.

I can already hear the whispers, the comments.

HIM.

How will I face my boss? Will he think I’m unprofessional? Delusional?

He’s the most stunning man I’ve ever seen. Those ocean-blue eyes. That deep, steady voice. The way he carries himself like he always knows exactly what to say.

And now… he’s read EVERYTHING. My heart races. My stomach turns.

I try to breathe deep, but my lungs won’t cooperate.

I clutch the car door like it’s my lifeline. I can’t let go. I CAN”T face what’s coming.

Then I whisper it, again and again, like a mantra.

“Think of Spain. Think of Spain.”

I picture myself walking through cobbled streets, sipping coffee in the sun, talking writing with people who get it. I breathe that dream in like it’s oxygen.

And somehow, one foot moves. Then the other.

I make it to the elevator—no one in sight. Good. Really good. I skip my morning coffee and head straight to my office, avoiding eye contact, ducking around corners. The break room is probably full of them.

I reach my office and shut the door behind me.

Leaning against it, I try to calm my breathing. “Think of Spain. Think of Spain.” It works. A little.

Then I sit down and wake up my computer.

What awaits me?

My inbox loads.

I nearly faint.

I didn’t have anything on my calendar. But now…

AN EMAIL, From him.

“Meeting in my office at 9 AM. Your presence is required.”

That’s it. No greeting. No subject. No sign of whether he’s angry… amused… disgusted.

Just:

“Meeting in my office at 9 AM. Your presence is required.”

It’s currently 8:53.

My palms are slick with sweat. I wipe them on my skirt and try to look at my reflection in the dark screen. I look pale. Haunted. My hair is doing that awful panic-frizz thing.

I try to steady my breathing.

“Think of Spain,” I whisper.

“Think of Spain.”

I check the mirror again. It doesn’t help.

I grab my notepad—like I’m some composed, prepared adult—and head toward his office.

The hallway feels longer than usual. Every click of my heels on the floor sounds like a gunshot.

As I reach the door, I stop.

I hover. I don’t knock yet.

What will I say?

What WILL HE say?

I raise my hand.

Knock. Knock.

“Come in,” he says.

I take one last shaky breath.

And open the door.