Chapter Twenty-Four
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
I change into a black tennis skirt and matching tank top, slip my feet into a pair of New Balance tennis shoes, and toss my hair up in a high ponytail. As promised, Will is waiting for me in the hallway, now in a bright yellow Predators T-shirt and a navy baseball cap.
“We could not look more American,” I say.
“We are American.”
“The locals are going to hate us.”
“Josephine Davis.” Will grabs me by the shoulders and points me in the direction of the elevators. I hate how natural it feels to go where he wants, to settle under his grip. “For once in your life, stop worrying what strangers think of you.”
I manage it almost the entire time. When we waltz across the Plaza de Armas, past fountains and manicured trees. When we gaze up at the white stone of the Basilica Cathedral, El Misti visible in the background.
“It’s made of volcanic rock,” Will muses, rubbing a hand thoughtfully over one archway of the old colonial building.
“How do you know that?” I ask.
“I like architecture.” His head tilts up, toward one of the two towers that guard the church. “I was looking forward to seeing this place.”
We meander next through the Monasterio de Santa Catalina. Also made of volcanic rock, according to Will, though these structures are pink instead of white—which prompts a whole explanation on the composition of stone I only halfway pay attention to. I’m more focused on the way Will’s face lights up when he talks about it. What something is made of. When it was built. Who designed it. Why it matters.
Will doesn’t just like architecture. He’s a dork for it.
In an open-air market, I devour arroz con leche and a potato and sweet corn tamale. Will finds some ceviche, and we eat while we stand, marveling at the fabrics and spices and pottery and artwork for sale. I buy seven garments, unable to stop raving about the craftsmanship, and every time I catch Will’s eye, he’s smirking.
We explore more churches. Eat again when we get hungry. This time, it’s spicy stuffed peppers at a restaurant with a bright yellow ceiling and open windows. Our waiter brings out two complimentary rounds of pisco for each of us—the Peruvian national liquor. We drink it all eagerly before practically skipping to an archaeological museum.
Followed by a café for an afternoon espresso to sober us up.
Then we stumble upon a row of stores I get lost in for an hour. Will disappears about halfway through my shopping expedition. I emerge several hundred dollars lighter to find him waiting patiently for me on a street corner. He’s leaning against a brick wall, scrolling on his phone with his baseball cap drawn low over his eyes. The late afternoon sun is painting his skin bronze.
“How long was I out?” I joke.
He glances up at me and smiles, but something about it seems strained. His dimple doesn’t even appear. “I was about ten minutes from sending a search party.”
“Is everything okay?”
Will pockets his phone. “All good. I think the sun might be getting to me. Are you ready to head back to the hotel?”
My lips pinch. “Sure.”
We walk side by side along the warm streets. Will—who’s been pointing little things out to me as we pass them all day long—keeps his head down, his eyes focused on the pavement or the crosswalk.
“We haven’t had much water today,” I note. “Hydrating when we get back will probably make you feel better.”
Will nods and offers a gruff noise of agreement. He stays monotone all the way back to our floor, and when we reach our set of doors, he doesn’t linger by mine like he did this morning before passing it for his own.
“See you tomorrow,” he says, offering me one more pinched smile.
I haven’t even said the words back to him before he disappears.
That night, I dream I’m back on the beach getting the phone call from my mother— Oma passed away. She had a bad fall. Oh, darling, have you been drinking? At least you’re coming home tomorrow. I need you, darling, I need you by my side. There’s a fifth of Smirnoff in my left hand. Zoe’s talking to her crush, Forrest, the firelight decorating each of their faces. Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Will Grant down the beach.
I tumble through space and time until I’m alone with Oma in her house. I’m fourteen years old. My first boyfriend, a senior, dumped me last month because I didn’t want to have sex with him. My fingers hold down the sides of a garment as the machine hums out a line of stitches. Golden Girls is playing in the background, and I laugh a real laugh for the first time in weeks. Oma seems relieved at the sound of it.
The stitches are skipping, I tell her.
She reaches down and pulls the fabric out of the machine and spends thirty minutes removing every stitch. She replaces the needle, replaces the thread. Then she hands the garment back to me and says, Start over, darling. Try again.