The Last Sunrise

Chapter Four

I skipped dinner with my mom and Lena to have room service, and it was the best choice, even though my mother took the liberty of deciding what I wanted for dinner. The extravagant rolling cart is full of shrimp, pasta, and thick, crunchy, delightful bread. The silence in my room is comforting after a day full of talking. I snap pictures and videos of the food and nearly every inch of my room since I didn’t earlier, then scroll through the photos from the day. I love capturing every moment that I can. My photo album in my phone has almost one hundred thousand photos of even the most mundane moments in my life. I zoom in on one of the pictures I snuck of my mom at lunch and smile. Her brows are relaxed, her phone away from her ear. Maybe this trip is just what we need to become closer. My nightly alarm goes off, making me drop my phone on my chest in surprise. I swipe to silence it, roll out of the comfy bed, plug my phone in, and head to the bathroom. My nightly routine is always the same: shower, pajamas, brush my hair and teeth, take my meds.

Like a zombie, I go through the motions without emotion or having to think about the next step. Every single night. I open my blue pill organizer and take out a sleeping pill, even though I’m so exhausted already and not entirely sure I need it. The clock says ten thirty, so I check my calendar for tomorrow. Legal meetings, on-location walk-through of the new land SetCorp will build the resort on. It’s endless and starts at seven a.m. As I move to close the thick forest-green curtains, I hear voices from the street below and tighten my grip on the fabric, pulling it back open.

Curiosity has me sitting on the ledge, which is perfect for people watching. In my suburban neighborhood at home, the streets are practically always empty, so this is fascinating. There are people everywhere, and the streetlights are bright, allowing me further into the busy nightlife. Laughter rolls through the air, couples young and old hold hands as they walk, and my heart aches a little seeing a couple dancing on the sidewalk. Not really for myself—that ship would never so much as set sail—but it makes me think of my mom and how lonely her life must be. She’s still so young, not even halfway through her forties, and there’s still so much time for her if she would open herself up to the possibility. I, too, have longed to be loved—at least once—but the universe has other plans. Plans I accepted a while ago.

As far as I know, my mom hasn’t so much as gone on one date since I was born, and my “father” was a man she met at a bar but fell head over heels for—how cliché. My mom says she never gave a shit, but I overheard her talking to Sonia about how much she cared about him and wanted to be a mother, a family, but he bailed. Trying to imagine a version of Isolde Pera who meets a random man at a bar makes me laugh, and I lean my cheek against the cold glass of the window, enjoying the voyeuristic view of the people below. Like a spoiled princess trapped high in a castle tower, I close my eyes and try to imagine what it would be like to be one of them.

I wake up to the sun warming my skin against the window. Panicking, I grab for my phone and check the time. It’s only six forty-five. The street below is already filled with vendors, tourists, and locals alike, starting their day as the sun rises. The reflection of deep orange burns my eyes, but I refuse to look away. I want to be out there; I want to feel the breeze and the buzz of energy from roaming around the full streets.

The desperation to join them pulls at me, and I mentally weigh the potential consequences of ditching my mom’s schedule for the day. Will she even care? Today isn’t like yesterday, there aren’t any plans that include the charity gala, so I’ll just be tagging along, taking up space in the car.

I begin typing a long paragraph of excuses to my mom and pause. What the hell am I so worried about? I’m twenty-three years old and I’m not here for the summer to work for or be shackled to SetCorp. I jump off my bed before I can change my mind and go to my mom’s room, knocking at the door. She opens it, already ready for the day. Her makeup is bold today, maroon eye shadow swept across her eyelids, her high brow bones accented with a shimmery bronzer. Her outfit is more business-centric than yesterday, a deep mauve suit with black pointed-toe shoes peeking from the bottom of the pants.

“Is everything okay?” she asks before I start my plea.

Nodding, I pass her and walk into her living area. Her room smells like jasmine, her favorite note in perfume.

“Yeah, I feel fine,” I respond, knowing that’s what she wants to know, not mentioning that I forgot to take my medication last night. It’s been in my system so long that one night won’t hurt me. “But I really want to go to the beach today. I can see the coastline from my window and it’s driving me crazy that I haven’t seen it yet.”

She takes me in, silently assessing me. “We can go to the beach between lunch and the land walk-through?”

“Mom,” I sigh, knowing she doesn’t mean to control me, but that doesn’t change the fact that she does. “I want to go to the beach alone. And walk around. I really, really want to have one day without SetCorp stuff.”

“It’s only been one day since we arrived, Ry,” she coolly responds, pushing a gold earring through one ear, then the other.

I pace a little around her room, noting that it looks like no one is staying there; not one thing is out of place or on the counters. She’s already made her bed, perfectly tucked corners and arranged pillows. Not a wrinkle or crinkle in sight.

“I know, but I want to make each day count. You told me this was my summer to experience life and Spain, remember? Don’t make me beg. Please.”

I reach out to touch her hands but stop short as she takes a step back from me. Physical affection has never been our thing. Well, her thing. I wouldn’t know if it’s mine or not.

“Okay. Okay.” She sighs through her nose. “I get it. Just make sure you use the driver; I’ll get another one. And don’t take anything from anyone, even if they say it’s free, it’s not. And wear sunscreen and don’t smile at anyone; they’ll target you as a foreigner straightaway.”

I let her go through her list of warnings as if I don’t have any street smarts, nodding along and smiling in agreement. Her phone buzzes, interrupting her, giving me the perfect escape. I wave at her as she snaps at someone on the other end of the line and dip out of her room as fast as I can.

I find myself dancing around my room, my feet gliding across the cool concrete as I turn the shower on, lay out my bathing suit and tote bag. The essentials—a book, sunscreen, sunglasses, my phone, and wallet—get tossed into the tan woven bag, another hotel freebie, biodegradable bags made from recycled straws. As I close my suite door, freedom rings in my ears, a beautiful melody.

Half dancing, half walking through the hall, I rush to the elevator just in case luck isn’t on my side and I end up with my mom. When I get to the lobby, I find Amara behind the desk, looking down at her phone, scrolling with her index finger, looking bored out of her mind.

“Good morning,” I greet her quietly, not wanting to startle her.

Her phone crashes onto something behind the barrier and she jerks up.

“Sorry! I tried not to scare you,” I tell her, my hands in the air.

She bends down to grab her phone and laughs at herself. “It’s okay. I thought you were my boss, and we aren’t supposed to be on our phones…” She looks up toward the ceiling. “Even though there are cameras everywhere, he never watches them.” She winks at me, waving her hand toward the red light on the ceiling.

“Wait… are you actually doing something fun today?” she asks, noticing my bathing suit peeking out of my cover-up.

“I am!” I can’t contain the excitement in my voice. “I’m going to the beach. Which is why I’m here, to ask you where the best one is. I want to go somewhere without my mom’s co-workers swarming around.”

Amara’s fingers tap on the counter, and I can almost see her ideas flying through the air, full of excitement. She must really, really enjoy acting as the local tour guide. Her petite body bounces as she taps her index finger against her temple.

“I know the perfect place. Let me see your phone.” She holds her hand out and I notice a small moon-shaped tattoo just under the cuff of her sleeve. I unlock my phone with face ID and place it in her open palm.

“Thanks.” I look at the directions she put in my phone: only an eighteen-minute walk. Perfect.

“I hope you had fun with your friends last night. Sorry I couldn’t join.”

“Ugh, you didn’t miss out on much. One of my friends—the only local one—he caused a scene and ruined everyone’s night.” She takes a gulp from her own water bottle the hotel provides. Tilting the bottle toward me, she says, “Spoiler, it’s not water. Want some?”

I shake my head, thanking her anyway.

“Is there another exit I can use?” I nudge my head toward the door where my driver is standing, waiting, looking grumpy today and more like a watchdog than a driver.

Amara’s face breaks into a smile, the light above reflecting onto the light freckles dotting her cheeks. They’re fainter than mine and add to her cuteness.

“I really like you!” She smacks her hands together and helps me escape.

The moment I step outside one of the EMPLOYEES ONLY exits, the sun dancing across my skin feels like a gentle kiss. I put my sunglasses on and follow the directions on my phone. The June sun is unforgiving, and I reach into my bag to spray sunscreen across the tops of my shoulders and face where I always burn. Each summer, I get at least one sunburn that turns into a tan, but the first is always the worst. Throbbing, peeling skin and all. I rub my hands over the white dots of sunscreen on my skin and keep walking toward the smell of the ocean. Does my mom notice I’m gone without the driver yet? The thought keeps crossing my mind, so I check my phone. No texts. What a relief.

The neighborhood my hotel is in is clearly designed for tourists. I have to keep myself from stopping at all the little tents full of jewelry, pottery, notebooks—all the things I want to buy while here, but not today. Today is my beach, and beach only, day.

The closer I get to the water, the breeze picks up. I cross the street and finally see sand. My heart swells. I don’t know why, but I’ve always felt so at ease, so touched and welcomed by water and its surroundings. I’ve only been to the ocean once, on a trip with my old neighbor and her family to Galveston when I was in grade school. It was gray the entire time, but I couldn’t stay out of the water. Pools, lakes, rivers. So much so that my mom bought us a boat and promised to take me to the lake every weekend.

As time passed and she got promoted and promoted again, and again, we gradually went less and less, and the boat just sat there for months at a time, full of cobwebs and promises that never came to life. The last few memories I have from going on the boat with her are full of phone calls, her frustration over the bad cell service, and her snapping at me when I accidently got her laptop wet when I climbed back onto the boat from the water. During my formative years, she morphed from a hardworking woman to the typical stereotype of a “Boss Babe” whose life doesn’t exist outside her job, forgetting to teach me anything but how to put her career before herself and her daughter.

By the time I was sixteen, my mom sold the barely used boat, saying that the lake was too crowded now that tourists had found it, and the drive “wasn’t worth it.” Even though the highlight for me was stopping at Buc-ee’s, a Texas staple that’s essentially a gas station as big as a supermarket and has everything you could ever need, from snacks and coolers to clothes, as well as everything you absolutely don’t need, like a beaver-shaped yard sign. I loved getting to choose all the snacks I wanted, from fresh beef jerky to brisket sandwiches, drinking so much soda that my stomach hurt, and listening to old songs in Spanish that reminded my mother of her childhood. All of that was worth the drive to me, anyway.

What she really meant when she said it wasn’t worth it, was that she valued her time for work more than taking me to the lake or spending time with me. The boat sold in one day, and I still remember the taste of the salty tears that fell down my cheeks as I watched from my window as it got hitched to a big red Ford and disappeared down the street.

My mother hasn’t mentioned it since. There’s a framed photo sitting on the fireplace mantel of us on the boat from when I was about ten, I guess to remind her that we once had done something together. I’ve always loved that picture, though it caused me pain, because it permanently stamped one of my favorite memories. My mom had less worry etched into her face, more emotion in her eyes. I was tanned and happy, unaware of how much would change as the years went on. Ignorance truly is bliss.

A motorbike honks and makes me jump, startling me from the memory. Coming to, I look around, ignoring the stares of locals as they make sure I wasn’t hit by the bike. I gather myself, or attempt to, even though my hands are still shaking as I step onto the sidewalk and the shore comes into view. The beach isn’t as crowded as I’d assumed it would be as I make my way down the white, soft, warm sand. The cove is lined with rocky cliffs, and I watch as a handful of people jump off them and into the bright blue water. I feel the tiny flakes mold around my feet, step after step. Umbrellas and blankets are sprinkled along the small coastline. Bodies sprawling out in the scorching sun, soaking up the rays, enjoying their day. It takes my brain a few seconds to realize that most of the women are topless. Well, okay… I look down at my white swimsuit, a one-piece that goes all the way up to my collarbone. Of course Amara would send me to the nude beach. She’s probably cracking up right now imagining me here. Embarrassment warms me from the inside out.

Texas obviously doesn’t have nude beaches, but we sure have a ton of laws against women’s bodies. I shake the frustration of that away and spend a few seconds considering what it must feel like to have the sun touch my bare skin. The idea grows on me, and who knows? Maybe a few weeks in Spain will have me topless on the beach, my scars out in the open and all. The thought makes me laugh to myself, and I try not to look too long at the naked bodies and make my way closer to the water to find an empty spot. No way am I leaving this gorgeous place.

Who cares if everyone except me is naked? Bodies are bodies and this is a new experience, which is all I want for this summer. The white sand sticks to the crevices in my sandals, so I shake them off, knock them together, and toss them into my bag as I walk closer to the water. The shoreline is incredible; it’s more like a pocket beach, hidden in the middle of a long coastline. The waves gently brushing against the shore. The skyline isn’t blocked with huge sprawling hotels. The sound of the waves caressing the sand and the voices around me is alluring, lullaby-like. I wish I could bottle it up and take it back home with me. Listening to ocean waves on Spotify to fall asleep just isn’t the same.

Finally, I find the perfect spot between two couples, giving them enough space to not feel bothered by me. I dump my bag out onto my towel and sit down on it. After lathering more sunscreen across my skin, I open my book. I’ve been so mentally distracted by the overwhelming pressure about my future that I’ve barely been able to read or dance, two of my favorite things in the world. I turn to my dog-eared page and try to transport myself to a world full of dragons and magical romance. The sun is so bright that even my sunglasses aren’t helping much, so I try to squint while reading the pages. I’m so distracted by the lively voices around me, mostly in Spanish and full of laughter, lightness, and vibrance, that I find myself rereading the same paragraph over and over before shutting the book and putting it down.

Keeping my eyes off strangers’ bodies, I look up at my surroundings. Everything feels so vivid, so colorful and alive. From the orange umbrellas to the rainbow of beach towels, fruit carts, bathing suits, and skin. The couple closest to me are captivating. The woman has long black hair and dark skin touched by the gods. She’s glowing as she props herself up on her elbow to look at her lover. He’s beaming back at her like she is the sun. My heart aches. He laughs, wrapping his arms around her back, pulling her to his chest, and she says something that the wind erases before I can hear it. They are so intensely enthralled with each other; I can physically feel the passion between them from twenty feet away. The two of them are in their own world, and I find myself a little envious. What must that feel like? To be someone’s sun?

I tear my eyes away from them and look to the British couple on my right. They couldn’t be more different, beers in their hands and sand sprinkled across their skin. They’re loud, arguing over the song playing from their portable speaker. She swears it’s a classic, he swears that it’s shit. Their voices are louder than the music they’re debating, speaking in English, and finally the man agrees that the woman is right, and I look away just as she begins a little dance on the blanket they’re standing on. I feel incredibly lonely as I stare out over the water. It’s not as simple as wanting to be with someone at the beach, kissing them or arguing in the sand, it’s more that the choice and possibility of having an epic, brain-chemistry-altering, lifelong love story have been taken away from me.

I’ve been working really damn hard to grow comfortable with the idea that I will never have the thing that people want the most and being okay with it. I’m mostly there, resigned and accepting my fate, but I’m only human and have my moments. There are many types of love anyway, and I’m going to start with myself. According to the TikTok and Instagram Reels I’ve been consuming, that’s the most important anyway. I get myself situated and open my book, trying to become lost in the pages. After a couple of chapters, I get to a confession of love from the main male character, one that makes my heart race and ache, one that I’ll never experience. I slam the book closed and roll onto my back.

Ending my pity party, I stand up and look around again. Tons of left belongings are sitting on towels, cell phones and laptops are left abandoned under umbrellas, so I decide to ignore my mom’s voice in my head telling me to never leave my stuff unattended. I look back one time, just out of habit, and let the ocean call to me, drawing me in. The water is bath-water warm as it touches my toes. I take another step.

The waves are predictable, and I love them for it. Each one touches me differently, then disappears, but always comes back. I walk out farther, until my body begins to float under me. I try to relax my mind, shutting out all the noise, and focus only on the sound of the water rushing around me. I lift my legs up and push my body out. The salty water tastes like a candy I’ve missed since childhood, and I lick my lips again before going completely under. When I rise, I let the water carry me and turn on my back to look at the bright sky as I float. There are only a few clouds above me, one in the shape of a rabbit and one that reminds me of a teacup. Silly, juvenile thoughts of rabbits drinking tea and sharing with me fill my head and I don’t resist them. Instead I revel in them, smiling and imagining things that are whimsical and allow myself to explore them. I’m Alice in Wonderland, without the potions and shrooms.

After what only feels like a few minutes but also hours, the sky begins to turn a light shade of orange above me. I keep floating, the waves slowly bring me to the shore, and I make my way back each time. I have no concept of time or rules or schedules. The sun is setting, and I want to watch it from the shore, so I finally decide to get out of the water. My skin is pruned like raisins on my fingertips and toes and my hair is heavy from the salt water as I make my way to my towel. The beach has mostly cleared out; both couples are gone now, no trace of their love or affection left behind. I wring out my hair and rub my burning eyes with my wet hands. When I open them, a man is standing in front of me. My eyeline is at his chest and I trace up to his face. He’s looking at me like he’s concentrating on an essay or trying to figure out how to interpret an abstract painting in a museum. I’m not sure if I should speak to him or not, if it’s safe or not.

“Can I help you?” he says, accent thick but clear.

“No, I—” He looks directly into my eyes as I respond, and my chest tightens. “I… it’s nothing, I was just looking… at him?”

He turns to find a nude, older man, who I was certainly not looking at and is so far from believable that the man laughs, “Is that so?”

“Uhm.” I want to crawl into the sand and never reappear. “I mean I was looking for my stuff.” I scramble.

“Is that not your stuff?” He points at my hotel-branded beach towel that I’m standing directly on.

I feel so flustered, maybe because Amara is the only person here who I’ve spoken to without my mom’s presence?

“Technically, yeah, but… I was just making s-sure,” I stutter, and notice his grumpy expression.

It annoys me, and I flip my tone to sure, sarcastic, and strong. “You were the one standing here in the first place,” I remind him.

He continues to look at me with a blank expression.

“What are you looking at?” I put my hand on my hip, tilting my head dramatically. If he can be rude, so can I.

“You look familiar. Are you sure we haven’t met?”

“Oh, I would remember if we had.” I give him my hardest glare, hoping it’s half as intimidating as I mean for it to be.

The setting sun casts an orange glow across the stranger’s skin. His hair is dark and messy, curling at the ends and touching his forehead and the nape of his neck. His eyes are the color of fresh, frothy espresso. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone who looks like he does, like he was made to stand in the sunset. I look down his chest, down to his faded navy-blue swimming trunks and to the book in his hand. Out of nothing but curiosity, I look for the title, only to find that it’s a crossword puzzle book. The book is in English: the black-and-white boxes are easily detected, no matter the language. Is he American? He doesn’t seem American. The book is worn, the pages curled at the sides, the binding bent many, many times.

What kind of person does crossword puzzles on paper these days? Before I can answer my inner monologue, he smiles at me, and my toes curl in the sand. I smile back at him, instantly abandoning my feisty attitude, watching him as he turns and walks away, disappearing as if he was never there in the first place.

I blink a few times, still in a daze from floating in the water for hours, and the strange encounter with this random man. Feeling a little dizzy, I sit down on the pillowy sand. I gulp down the water in my bottle from the hotel and close my eyes, remembering how free I felt in the sea and how attractive that man was. Weird? Yes. Hot? Also yes. I’ve never been instantly attracted to someone before, but I guess my Season Two Summer is in full effect—that, or being in the water for hours brought me to a new level of exhaustion. But I decide that Season Two Ry would have sauntered over and asked him back to my room. Lost in my own fake it till you make it fantasy that I coined from TikTok, I set my eyes on the lowering sun. Long after he’s gone and the sun sets, I find myself still thinking about his eyes and how a simple gaze made my body react. Maybe it was that he was clearly arrogant, something I wish I could be. I’m confident, sure, but that free feeling of just not giving a shit about other people or their opinions of you—what a dream.

Feeling like I need a bit of reality to bring myself back to solid ground, I reach into my bag and find my phone. The screen is pitch-black, which is strange since I didn’t turn it off, so I press the side buttons and wait for the little apple logo to come on the screen, but nothing happens. I wait a few seconds and try again. Still nothing. Because I fell asleep on the window ledge last night, I didn’t plug my phone in.

Well, shit . I look around at the empty beach and gather my things. I shake the sand from my towel and roll it back up, shoving it into my bag. I try my phone again, hoping for a miracle. I’m out in a new place with no clue how I got to the beach, let alone which way I should go to get back to my hotel. I’m so dependent on my phone and technology that the idea of trying to find my way back to my hotel is embarrassingly terrifying.

I cross the street where I came from, trying to remember something, even a tiny detail of my surroundings on the way to the beach. I remember the smell of the food cart, the sound of the sizzling meat on skewers, and the crunching of ice being chipped away and rattling as pieces of it hit the concrete, instantly melting. I remember the fish lying on that ice and the friendly look in the vendor’s eyes as I passed by. The sounds of scooter horns, and the way the stone street felt beneath my sandals was as clear as the daylight was, but none of the buildings or streets look familiar as I wander. I turn right, then left, then right again. I’m lost.

I look and listen for English speakers who could possibly help me. I don’t even remember the name of my hotel, so I pull out the key and read it. Hospes Maricel. The streets are becoming more and more empty as I roam, a clear sign that I’m going in the opposite way of my hotel’s busy area, and I become unable to ignore the bubble of panic growing inside me. I pass a pay phone but have no coins, and I only know one phone number by heart and it’s my mother’s, the last person on the earth I can call right now. I’d rather sleep here on the street than call her and tell her I’m lost on our first full day here; she will tighten the reins even more if I do that, and I want my freedom. I need my freedom. A man and a woman stumble out of a restaurant, and I try to get their attention. They wave me off, too busy holding each other and pointing up at the sky. A car honks and I jump out of my skin.

Why am I being so skittish? I wanted adventure, I wanted to explore. I’m a capable adult woman, and I’ve been through way worse shit than being lost on a street, I remind myself as I try to ask another person for help.

“No English,” he politely tells me, an apology clear in his eyes.

I should have listened to my mother and taken more Spanish classes before coming here. Or she should have taught me some since she’s fluent, but honestly, the whole trip didn’t feel real until we landed on the runway, so I spent my time dancing around my bedroom and dreaming of the possibility of having the type of summer I’ve only read about and seen on screens. On top of that, I didn’t think I would have much freedom outside the hotel; now it just feels like I’m the stereotypical entitled American tourist expecting people to speak my language.

“You lost?” a voice calls to me, making me lose my breath.

I turn around to follow where the sound came from, and standing under a streetlamp is the dark-haired, beautiful man from the beach. The one with the espresso eyes and sun-kissed skin and the book of crosswords. The one who immediately made the blood warm beneath my skin. The one with an annoying-ass attitude. Now that I’m frustrated and my feet hurt, I have even less patience for his grumpiness.

I shake my head, lying because I am no damsel in distress.

“I’m just exploring.” I can’t think of a remotely credible lie, and at the same time, I have no idea why I care if this man knows I’m lost. It’s not like I need to impress him and not let him know I’m not capable of finding my way back to my hotel.

“You’re lost,” he says with certainty.

My throat tightens and I give in with a huff, nodding my head slowly. The streetlamp above him flickers, and he steps closer to me. My heart races.

“You.” I point an accusing finger at him. “How did you find me?”

His eyes squint slightly as he approaches me. He’s wearing a shirt now, a beige one without sleeves that has a faded sailboat and words that are beyond recognition on the front, and the same navy-blue faded from sea salt shorts. His sandals are worn, and his hair is still messy, his eyes soft despite the annoyed turn of his jaw.

“I didn’t find you. I was going home and saw you wandering around here, and there.” He points his finger into the air, toward nothing in particular, but in the opposite direction we’re facing.

Hmph. Well, he speaks very good English and seems… a tiny bit friendlier than earlier? I stare at him. I shouldn’t trust a stranger. Especially at night, and a man at that. Double especially in a foreign country with a dead phone. When the smirk on his face grows into a full grin, I shake my head.

“I’m fine, actually,” I say, but internally know that I’m a liar.

Why am I so nervous?

“You sure? You don’t seem fine.”

“Are you stalking me?” I ask, and he laughs, bringing his fist in front of his mouth to hide his smile.

A car passes incredibly close to him, but he doesn’t move or even flinch as it nearly brushes his arm. I’m used to wide Texas roads with plenty of room for the gigantic, lifted trucks; he must be used to these tiny lanes with tiny cars squeezing through.

“Why would I stalk you?”

The offended tone of his voice makes my skin crawl. With fear? Or excitement? I’m not sure. All my responses feel conceited or paranoid, so I stand with my hands on my hips, running through potential comebacks in my mind. I don’t want this to be one of those conversations where I say the wrong thing and lie awake at night thinking about it months later. I have enough of those to last a lifetime.

“Because you’re a pretty girl from the States?” he begins, stepping even closer when he clocks that I’m struggling to answer.

The night air is warm between us, no breeze from the beach to give me breath. He taps his index finger on his lips.

“Or because you’re alone and lost at night with no phone battery?” His voice is quiet, eerily so.

Ted Bundy pops into my head suddenly, and I remind myself that he was also considered charming and charismatic to women, and he murdered them. Too many true-crime docs, too many enemies-to-lovers novels under my belt, floating around my brain, unsure which type of character this man is, making me delusional and slightly afraid. There’s only about a foot between us as he continues. I’m still silent, and my head feels foggy. I’m pretty sure I could outrun him, even in my state of exhaustion. He’s much bigger than me, and my dancer’s body and yoga classes aren’t going to come in handy, but I can run like hell if I need to.

“I know American people are arrogant, but trust me, I’m not stalking you or following you. You aren’t that important.”

“Wow,” I scoff. “What’s your deal?”

He shakes his head, sighing, as if he doesn’t know the answer.

“My deal? You accused me of stalking you when I’m trying to be a Good Samaritan and help you get back to your hotel.” He groans, clearly debating within himself if he should be helping me or not.

“I wasn’t being arrogant. I’m not used to…” I start to tell him that I’m not used to traveling or strangers being nice for no reason, but I don’t want to sound desperate or vulnerable. Also, it’s none of his business.

Why on earth do I care what he thinks about me? I don’t know him and have never been the type of person to put too much emphasis on other people’s projections of themselves that they force onto me. That’s what most unsolicited opinions are.

“I’m not used to this area.” I continue my lying streak with a half-truth. “Anyway.” I look everywhere and anywhere but his face. “I’ll find my way. Have a good night.” I wave to him and force my feet to move.

That was stupid. I have no idea where I’m going, I know that and I know he knows that, but still I walk away with my head held high. My feet are aching. I should have worn more comfortable sandals but I didn’t realize I would be walking so damn much today.

“You’re going the wrong way!” His voice carries to me through the night wind. Shit.

“How do you know where I’m going?” I whirl around.

What is going on with me? I feel so defensive and embarrassed.

He points to my hand. “Your towel, your bag, your key in your hand? You’re a walking advertisement.”

Obvious answer.

I quickly drop my hand, turn the key over, and he smiles, proud to have embarrassed me.

“And my phone— How did you know it was dead?” I continue to interrogate him even though I know he’s likely to have a logical answer to this as well, but the words are out before I can stop them.

He rolls his eyes. “Because you kept trying to turn it on at the beach, and if it worked, you would be using it to get back to your hotel.” Another obvious answer. This freaking guy…

“Here.” He types something into his phone and extends his arm toward me, a small phone in hand.

I look at the screen and see that it’s on navigation. The screen is cracked like a spiderweb, and everything is in Spanish, including the voice coming out of the speaker, but I can see the blue line and can most definitely find my way with it.

But should I accept his help?

What does he want in return?

People don’t just go out of their way to help strangers. I know better than that.

“What? Is my phone not fancy enough for you?” he presses before I can respond. “Just take it and get back to your hotel. I won’t speak to you while we go, but just go. M’estàs tornant boig.” He shakes his hand, emphasizing the phone in it.

“I don’t know about this…” I voice my hesitation.

“My patience is running out, Miss America.”

“Then why are you offering to help me?” I roll my eyes at the ridiculous and slightly flattering but insulting nickname.

He shakes his head, crosses his arms, and runs his hands over his muscle-defined arms. “I don’t know.” He scratches his head. “But my offer is about to end.”

“What’s your name? Just in case,” I ask him.

Maybe if I know his name, the likelihood of him trying to murder me will decrease? Then again, if I’m dead, I can’t tell anyone his name anyway.

“My name doesn’t matter, Miss America. I already know your hotel, so if I was a danger to you, it would be clear by now. My offer expires in about ten seconds.” He begins to count down from ten in Spanish.

“Fine.” I snatch the phone from him just as he says “dos.”

I begin to follow the navigation and walk on the limestone street, trying not to think about him walking behind me. My sundress feels shorter, my steps wobblier, the blister on the bottom of my foot is throbbing, and I unconsciously smooth my hand over my frizzy, sea-salt-filled, air-dried hair. Following the arrow on the screen, I navigate the curve of the small streets from one to another. Thankfully, my hotel is only ten minutes away. The smell of sugar fills the air and my stomach growls.

When was the last time I ate?

I skipped breakfast this morning and picked at my room service last night.

“Hungry?” the not-stalker asks from behind.

When I turn around, he has some sort of bread in his hand. It’s wrapped in a white paper bag. How did he even mange to stop and grab it as we walked?

I shake my head, ignoring the rumble of my empty stomach.

“You sure? Ensa?mada is a local delicacy.” He tears at the spiral-shaped bread with his teeth, and I groan.

“Is that the sugar I smelled?” I ask.

He nods. “It’s similar to a croissant but much better,” he tells me, noticing my skepticism. “Have some. I didn’t poison it.”

“Ha. Ha.” I walk a little closer to him and reach my hand out, hunger getting the best of me. Bread and sugar? Who can pass that up, even from a stranger? Not me.

“Say ‘please,’ Miss America.” He grins, waving the pastry in front of me to taunt me.

I yank it from his hand, and the surprise on his face is more than satisfying.

I take a huge bite and—holy hell!—it melts in my mouth. It tastes like a croissant and a funnel cake had a delicious baby. I eat more and ignore the way he’s staring at me as I devour his food.

“Are you always this ravenous and steal people’s food?” he asks, amusement clear in his voice.

I nod my head. “Especially when I’m starving and in the sun for hours without eating.”

“Well, I’d say help yourself, but it’s gone now.” There’s a gleam in his eye that is way too charming, and I’ve had way too long of a day.

“You offered.” I shrug. “That’s what you get for being nice to an arrogant tourist.” I stick my tongue out, and his eyes narrow in amusement, like he’s studying a species he’s never encountered but is curious nonetheless.

“Are you still hungry?” he asks. “We eat dinner here much later than you’re probably used to. We could—” He stops himself mid-sentence and shakes his head. It seems to be a habit of his.

“Your hotel has room service,” he says coldly, retracting his offer before he even finishes the suggestion.

“Were you about to ask me to eat dinner with you?” I ask boldly.

“No. I was just… no. I wasn’t. Let’s walk.” He points straight ahead.

“Surrrrre.” I turn my back to him, slightly disappointed but aware of how out of character it would be for me to eat a meal with a total stranger. And my mom is probably losing her shit, since I’m not back and my phone is dead and she can’t see my location.

“ Yes, you were ,” I add under my breath, not caring if he can hear me or not.

Am I flirting with him? Do I even know how to flirt? Maybe coming to Mallorca has already begun to change me. Maybe my mother is right and this island holds something magical that even the most skeptical can’t deny the pull of?

His looks aside. He seems like a walking red flag. Physically safe, my gut tells me that, but not the kind of guy I want to be kept up thinking about at night, or ever see again.

“How long have you been in Mallorca?” His voice travels with the breeze from being so close to the shore.

“Not long enough to not get lost.” I keep facing ahead, my back straight and feet absolutely screaming at me for not breaking in my sandals before wearing them out all day. I look down at them, at the blisters forming, and groan.

“Do you want to borrow my shoes?” he asks.

What the?

“You can barely walk,” he simply points out.

I don’t turn around. I’m already having him help me back to my hotel. Putting his sandals on would be too much, wouldn’t it?

I nod to myself, yes. Yes, it would. He’s a random man who I don’t want to owe a favor to.

“You want me to wear your shoes, but you won’t tell me your name?” I call to him as we turn the corner, passing a stunning abandoned church.

“I never said I wanted you to wear my shoes,” he corrects me. “I offered them to you because your feet are bleeding. You haven’t told me yours either, by the way.”

I look down again and shake my head. He doesn’t need to know my name, and I don’t need his stupid, comfortable, padded, not-torturous shoes.