come to brazil: corbyn besson

𝒏𝒖𝒆𝒗𝒆; 𝒄𝒐𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒃𝒓𝒂𝒛𝒊𝒍.

I called Corbyn.

He picked up after the first ring.

"Hey," Corbyn said, I could sense him grinning. "How was your flight?" He paused, "Or should I say flights?" He added.

"They were ok. On the last one, I met one of my mamá's friends, and I got to know her a bit. But apart from that, I just slept. Oh, and I wrote in that notebook you gave me." I told him, smiling at the sound of his voice. 

"Really? That's great." Corbyn said, "Hey, I just wanted to tell you, I might not be able to call you as much in one and a half months. With the tour and all that." 

"Oh... how long is the tour lasting?" I asked, trying not to sound as disappointed as I felt. 

"Three and a half months." Corbyn sighed. I frowned. 

"Three... and a half months?" I repeated like I hadn't heard him right. 

"Yeah," Corbyn said.

"That's... that's a long time." I stammered.

"I know." Corbyn sighed, "But it's not like all communication will be cut off, just limited."

"How limited?" I asked, gritting my teeth. I know I must've sounded annoying, but I needed to know what to expect.

"Uhm... maybe once every few days?" Corbyn said. 

"Oh..." I muttered, "Ok."

"I'm so sorry, Ronnie." Corbyn apologised.

"No, it's fine. You'll be living your dream." I said, just as my uber pulled up. "I've got to go."

"Ok. Facetime tonight?" Corbyn suggested.

"Yeah." I nodded, "Bye."

"I love you," Corbyn said, quickly. I sighed before forcing a smile, even though he wasn't there.

"I love you too," I mumbled before hanging up. Maybe I was being the petty one, acting like this. I mean, this was Corbyn's job. I knew what I was signing up for when we discussed a long-distance relationship. I just didn't realise our communication would be so restricted. 

"My pequeña mariposa!" It was a nickname she had given me when I was little. Directly translated as, little butterfly. There was no particular reason for the nickname, but it had stuck. Abuela pulled me in for a hug, "Good flight?"

"It was ok." I shrugged, walking into her overheated home and shutting the door behind me.

"How was America?" She asked, her Spanish accent pronouncing it as, Amer-rika. 

"Good." I nodded.

"'Ok', 'Good'." Abuela mimicked, waving her hands about. "You give no explanation." 

"It really was just average," I said. Abuela made a sound that told me she wasn't convinced. 

"How is Bea?" Abuela asked. 

"She got in an accident, but she's fine," I explained. Abuela didn't seem too surprised.

"That little girl. She is not as careful as needed, no?" Abuela turned to me. I shook my head. 

"No." 

"Well, at least she is fine." Abuela shrugged, tottering her way to the kitchen. "And you?"

"I'm..." I started, trying to find a way to describe myself other than saying 'Ok' or 'Good'. I didn't manage to find one. 

"Oh, no. What is wrong, mariposa?" Abuela turned her attention away from the stove to face me.