48
Bianca wanders through the winding streets of Cadaqués on autopilot, unmoved by the bright sprays of bougainvillea spilling over the quaint passageways, the tourists posing for selfies against the stunning backdrops.
She pauses to look at sun hats and sarongs, inspects earrings and bracelets made of shells, stones, and strings.
From the outside, she appears to be any other tourist shopping for clothing and mementos. But inside, she’s seething.
Damian has betrayed her, lured her here under false pretenses.
She knew their objectives were different, but she’d thought they were aligned.
Now Damian has revealed that they’re not.
When had her partner become so self-serving?
Is his infatuation with Sydney playing into his selfishness?
All he cares about is getting enough money to get out of Indiana, to spend his life posing as a sophisticated expat.
He’ll accept whatever cash he can get so he can build a new European life.
He doesn’t care if Curtis Lowe suffers at all.
His indifference isn’t entirely surprising.
Damian knows what Bianca told him, but he wasn’t there.
He didn’t see Lyric’s visceral reaction, didn’t see her terror and pain.
Bianca was the only eyewitness to the moment when her sister recognized her tormentor.
And unlike Damian, that scene is seared in her memory.
On their last day in New York, Bianca had collected the remnants of Lyric’s big-city life and shoved them into two backpacks.
The roommates were upset to be losing a third of their rent, so Bianca Venmoed them eight hundred bucks and told them to find a replacement for her sister.
It wasn’t enough, but it was all she could afford.
The Chicago roommate looked about to complain but then thought better of it. Bianca knew she could be intimidating.
She put a backpack on her back, balanced the second one on top of her rolling suitcase.
Lyric was feeling better, but she still seemed brittle, fragile, and so small.
Lyric carried her sister’s purse, held on to her arm as they walked through the bustling streets to the subway.
They’d take the train uptown to the Port Authority, catch the express bus to the airport.
And then they could put this disturbing chapter behind them.
They were about a block from the station when Lyric abruptly stopped walking. Bianca turned, the heavy backpack swaying, making her stagger.
“What?” Bianca asked, but her sister was mute. The girl’s face drained of color, became a mask of anguish, even fear. Lyric bent double and vomited on the sidewalk.
“Jesus!” Bianca cried, resting a comforting hand on her sister’s back. “What’s wrong? Are you still sick?”
Lyric righted herself, her eyes fixed on a building just ahead of them. She pointed with a shaking hand, breathed a single word: “Him.”
Bianca followed her sister’s gaze to a large sign in the window of a vacant building: FOR LEASE. In the bottom corner was a man’s smiling face, technically attractive but too slick, too greasy. Beneath his smarmy face were the words:
Call Curtis Lowe today!
“Who is he?” Bianca demanded.
“He was there,” Lyric whispered. “I… I remember his hands on me.” She scrunched her face, shook her head against the memory. “His breath.”
“We’re going home. He can’t hurt you anymore.”
They continued down the street, but Bianca glanced over her shoulder at that sign. She took in the face and the name, branded them on her brain. This was the man responsible for her sister’s pain. She would never forget him.
The sky is darkening, clouds covering the narrow strip of sky above her.
Rain is imminent, so Bianca pops into a shop, buys herself a bracelet.
It’s a cheap bauble to commemorate her first trip to Spain.
Despite the ugliness of her mission, she likes it here: the scenery, the people, the way afternoon naps are a part of their culture.
But she’ll be gone soon, one way or another.
Outside, fat raindrops have begun to fall, and she hears a crack of thunder.
She could head to the car, hope Damian is already there, but she’s not ready to go back to the hillside house, to return to playing the sweet, stupid Aussie.
Continuing down the sloping passageway, she walks by a small bar.
It’s just a hole-in-the-wall, dark and dank in contrast to the bright open restaurants.
This is a bar for people like her, whose inner turmoil is at odds with the brilliant scenery.
It’s also shelter from the coming storm.
She’s already had two glasses of wine; one more and she’ll be officially drunk, but still she backtracks and enters.
There are two round tables occupied by older Spanish men drinking vermut, snacking on olives.
She sees four empty stools at the bar, so she perches on one.
The bartender approaches, a young Spaniard with dark eyes, a slight frame.
She orders a glass of white wine in English, and he nods, heads to the fridge.
Bianca plays with the bracelet on her wrist as she waits, listens to the Spanish music playing, the men behind her bickering and laughing.
She likes it in here. It feels good. She might stay all day, let Damian go back without her.
The bartender returns, balancing a glass almost full to the rim. She laughs, makes a comment on the heavy pour.
“You look like you need it,” he says in heavily accented English.
“Do I?” She’s flirting. It comes so naturally. This young man is into her; it’s obvious in his gaze, his body language, not to mention the enormous drink he’s offering her.
She already knows what comes next. It’s probably ill-advised, but she will do it. Because sex with this random bartender will allow her to stop feeling. For those eight to twelve minutes, it will make the pain and rage go away, expunge her disappointment and disillusionment.
The bartender leans on the bar, his face close to hers. His eyes are deep and sexy, and Bianca focuses on them, choosing to ignore his rather tiny hands and how he needs to trim his nails.
“Where are you from?” he asks.
“Canada.”
“My name is Carlos.”
“Melissa,” she lies. Because Melissa the Canadian doesn’t have a dead sister.
And she didn’t come to Spain to seek revenge for her murder.
Melissa is just a girl on vacation, day-drinking in a dingy bar, about to have fast, rough sex in a bathroom or a storage closet.
Melissa doesn’t have to feel bad about what she’s about to do.
She doesn’t have to feel anything at all.