The Last Sunrise

Chapter Six

What about sea moss? Or forest harvest?” my mom asks, pointing to a line of nearly identical candleholders in the nearly empty ballroom. Not this again. Not us comparing different tones of colors again.

At least a dozen workers are here, dressed uniformly, standing silently as my mom and the lead planner, who finally got called by her name, Eliza, study each one like they’re examining dinosaur fossils. It takes one glance to know that sea moss is perfect.

“Sea moss?” I offer, just to end everyone’s misery. Mostly mine.

“Hmm, sea moss is pretty, but there will be a lot of lights around, will it make it look dark in here?” My mom taps her chin, deep in thought.

I’m slightly envious of her attention to detail when it comes to the candleholders. Outside of my medical stuff, I can’t remember a time when she put so much thought into me as she is into these decorations, when spreadsheets and Zoom calls are more her thing. I know damn well it’s not because of the children she’s allegedly raising money for. They won’t care about the difference between shades of dark green.

“It’s possible. We could always do black?” Eliza suggests, clicking a pen between her fingers.

“No. I hate black for this. It will make the room too dreary.” My mom instantly shuts the idea down.

“Isn’t the point of this whole thing supposed to be about the arts and marine biology for children? Do we think they will give a crap about the color of the decor?” I roll my eyes. I’m getting irritable and trying not to be rude, but this is just obnoxious.

My mother’s gaze falls on me, annoyance abundantly clear on her face. One of the women behind her is smiling at me, agreeing with my statement out of my mom’s sight. They, like me, probably remember that my mom just told them to follow my lead when it comes to the design for the event. She told them I have impeccable taste and bragged about me redoing SetCorp’s office, but now she’s bickering with me over candle-holders. My head throbs.

“Oriah,” my mom exhales. “The children we are trying to help are not the ones paying for it. The ones with the checkbooks are the ones who will need to be impressed by the chairs, the candleholders, the cutlery. I get the sentiment, but we want bigger checks, right? So, at least pretend to help or you might as well go back to the beach.” Her stare drags across my sun-kissed shoulders down to my slightly red thighs. “And wear more sunscreen this time.”

I remember when I was a teenager, maybe fourteen, and my mom brought me to a “charity” event in Houston. We spent thousands of dollars in one day, getting our hair and makeup done, buying floor-length dresses from the fanciest mall, and I felt like Cinderella arriving at a ball—for about ten minutes, that is. The event was supposed to be for sex-trafficking survivors, and it was at the top of a fancy hotel in the shape of a circle. There were too many people for the small space, which I interpreted as more support, only to realize most of the people attending only came for the open bar.

During a poem read aloud by a young girl who was a survivor, the crowd was rowdy and so consumed by their own conversations that I could barely hear her speaking despite the microphone. Her voice was shaking and quiet. It made me enraged, not only because of what she had experienced, but because no one in the room seemed to care enough to even pretend to listen to her. My mother saw and felt my anger, and ended up being the highest, and one of the only, donors of the night. From that moment on, so-called “charity events” pissed me off. My mom and her company are turning this into a fiasco to show off their money and resources. I should have stayed in Dallas and had the house to myself and let my mom come here and waste these people’s time. Aside from the home nurses coming to check on me, I loved my alone time when my mom was gone.

“You know what? I think I will do that.” I nod to her, turn on my heel to walk out of the room.

“Don’t forget to charge your phone this time!” she calls after me.

Once I’m out of her sight line, I roll my eyes and repeat her words in a sarcastic, mocking, and childish way. I got an earful about safety and backup chargers, and This is why you should have listened to me and taken the driver. In my effort to prove I don’t need her team of assistants and worker bees, it’s backfiring, making it obvious to her and myself that I’m not as capable as I’d like to believe.

I end up walking around the hotel and find the pool area. It’s empty, which, given my mood, is fantastic. I sit down on one of the dark gray lounge chairs and lean it all the way back to lie down. The umbrellas are already up, even though it’s not even nine in the morning, meaning the staff knows today’s sun will be brutal. I get the sunscreen bottle out of my bag and rub it on my legs and arms, then face and neck, and close my eyes. The salty air is so nice, and the gentle breeze helps my temper deflate a bit. I drift off into the most peaceful nap of my life but am woken up by the noise of a man’s voice. He’s on the phone and dressed in a suit, even in this heat. The sun is beaming down onto his bald head. He’s speaking in English, so he must work with or under my mom at SetCorp. I turn away from him before he looks at me and face the infinity pool, where the edge seems to disappear into the ocean.

It’s so beautiful, even with the man’s voice interrupting my peaceful pool time.

“We are working on it. Isolde has it under control. You know this is her specialty. She’s got them under her thumb; it will be any day now. The guy is stubborn as hell, but she’s a bulldozer. You know that,” I hear him say.

Taking notice of my mom’s name, I try to listen to the rest of his call, but it ends abruptly, and he walks back inside without even glancing at the beautiful view in front of him. He’s either too consumed with work or too spoiled to really revel in the scenery. Getting antsy but not wanting to be around my mom, I gather my stuff and head to the lobby to find the colorful woman with the colorful name, Amara, who works behind the front desk. The hotel isn’t massive like the Hyatt and Gaylord outside Dallas, but it’s so beautiful and a bit hard to get around because of the floor plan, which makes me love it even more. Sunbeams fall through the floor-to-ceiling windows as I walk down a wide hallway, dust dancing through the air around me like glitter. I might be lost.

I pass through an area that looks like the back end of a kitchen. It’s less sparkly than the rest of the hotel. I peek in and see a group of people dressed in chef’s uniforms. They’re smiling and chatting, their hands busy peeling shrimp, dicing tomatoes, chopping onions. I don’t realize I’m staring until one of them makes eye contact, raising their brow in curiosity. I bow my head, quietly whispering an apology and rushing out of the kitchen, finally finding the lobby after another ten minutes of wandering through the mazelike halls.

“Hey you!” Amara greets me with a wave and massive smile.

“Hey! Nice trick yesterday, sending me to a nude beach.” I lean my elbow on the counter and playfully glare at her.

She bows, lifting and bending one arm in front of her stomach. “You seemed like you needed a bit of fun in your life. You’re welcome.” She beams, winking at me.

I roll my eyes, and she giggles. “It was fun, though, right?”

I nod. “And beautiful… just a bit surprising at first. Which I’m sure made your day imagining me there.”

“It sure did,” she proudly agrees. “Most of the best things in life are.”

She has a point.

“The only shitty part was my phone died and I met this rude local who sort of helped me get back here but was clearly very against tourists and didn’t seem to like Americans.” I groan.

“Honey, no one likes Americans. Not even the Americans.”

“True. But he was so rude about it. He… he was obnoxiously cocky and annoying.”

“Ohhhh, do tell me more. Was he hot?”

I sigh. “Does that matter?”

She nods enthusiastically. “That always matters.”

“I mean, I guess he was. But he was so arrogant and obnoxious.”

“You already said that.” Her smile grows as she narrows her emerald eyes.

I would typically stop there, but for some reason I feel free to vent around Amara, though I barely know her.

“Right. He was also charming in that asshole kind of way. And he spoke English so well and had a crossword puzzle book, which was weird but makes me think he’s smart and—”

“A crossword puzzle book?” Amara’s voice changes.

I nod.

“Built like a god… dark, kinda curly hair?”

I nod again. Oh no.

“Big brown eyes and thick, feminine, envy-inducing eyelashes?”

My head might roll off my neck if I keep nodding. “You know him?”

It sure sounds like she knows him. Oh god, what if he’s her boyfriend?

Amara dramatically slides her elbows and head on the counter. “Yeah, Julián Garcia.”

“Is that a good thing or bad thing?” My interest is officially piqued. If she’s not dating him, that is.

She hesitates, chewing on the side of her cheeks. “Both? He’s great. So fun, but it depends on what you’re looking for. He’s my friend, so he’s a good guy deep down. I’m not friends with assholes, but I wouldn’t recommend someone like you to hang out with him if you’re looking for emotional connection.”

I take her words as a slight blow. “Someone like me? What does that mean?”

She lifts her arm up and places her hand on my shoulder.

“Not what you’re thinking it does. I’m not labeling you, but I don’t get the feeling you’re someone who’s down to hook up and never speak again. Unless I have you totally wrong and that’s exactly what you’re looking for?” She raises her brows suggestively and I loosen up, my defensiveness slipping into a smile.

“No, I’m not really looking for anything, actually. Is that what he’s known for around here?”

“Mostly. But also, his family’s business is our biggest local fishing producer. Most of the local restaurants and even our hotel get their seafood directly from them. He works all the damn time, so he doesn’t hang out as much in the summer as he does in the offseason, but when he’s not hiding out on his boat, he’s the life of the party. Julián Garcia is pretty much a tourist destination himself.”

The pit of my stomach aches. He almost, almost, almost got me. I was so easily charmed by his confidence and energy. I can totally see why many women want to hook up with him. Not me, though. I will absolutely not let my name be added to his list. I don’t have the time or energy to get distracted.

My tries at dating in the past have been massive failures. Turns out, teenage and college-age boys can’t and don’t want to handle being with a woman with complications. At first, my mom’s money and status had boys flocking to me, but after my first public seizure, they practically ran the other way. In college I managed to keep a boyfriend for a few months, but he was an athlete and constantly restrained by my lack of ability to join him in his adventures. To his credit, he did try to adjust, but after meeting his parents, his mom pulled me aside and kindly begged me to end things with him.

His grades are slipping , she said. His future is bright . As if mine wasn’t. I agreed because in a way she was right, so I broke up with him the next day and we never spoke again. If someone who I’d spent a few months with couldn’t handle the possibility of a life with me, there’s no way some random guy who lives on the other side of the world can see me as more than just a liability. Maybe picking out chairs and curtains with my mom is the best use of my time here after all. Though I had planned to enjoy the island and find out more about myself and my mother.

“Anyway, just don’t hang out with him if you aren’t into that. Sorry, hang on,” she says, pulling her cell phone out of the pocket of her slacks.

Her phone case is bright green and covered in rhinestones. So cute. She speaks Spanish into the phone, looks at me, nods, and hangs up.

Her eyes blink slowly. Something is up.

“What?” I ask, tilting my chin to her.

“Let’s have some fun tonight.”

“Don’t you have to work?” I ask her, looking around the nearly empty lobby.

She points to the clock on the wall behind her. “I’m off at nine.”

“Nine? Isn’t that late to go out?”

She looks at me like I have three heads and twenty eyes.

“That’s early here. So try to stay awake.” She smiles.

“Ha. Ha.” I roll my eyes at her, knowing good and well I’m usually in bed by then.

By the time eight comes around, I’m getting sleepy. I scroll and scroll on my phone, growing bored to death. My mom has some dinner with Lena that I declined so I can go out, without her knowing. I end up pacing around my room, jumping up and down a few times, splashing cold water on my face, anything and everything to keep my energy up. I open the minibar and wonder how my body would react to a Red Bull, but decide against it. At eight forty-five, I’m restless and go down to the lobby early. Amara’s on her phone, scrolling, looking bored out of her mind, just like I was in my suite.

“You’re awake!” She claps her hands.

“I am.” I lean against the cool stone counter between us.

“I’ll just leave early. No one will care and Marian just got here, so I’ll sweet-talk her to clock in a few minutes early.” She winks at me, noticing my hesitation.

Why do I care? It’s her choice and her job. I need to lighten up, live a little, and do what I promised I’d do this summer, which is step out of my comfort zone as much as I can.

“Come on. Let’s get you changed, and I’ll introduce you to some of my friends here and show you why I found it impossible to leave this island since I came here on holiday.”

I look down at my gray tank top and jean shorts, wondering what she expects me to change into. “Not Julián, though, right?”

She shakes her head. “No. He never comes out on a weekday,” she assures me.

He did last night , I want to say, but I just nod, and we head up to my room.

“What’s it like to stay in here?” she asks, looking out the window. “I’ve only helped guests bring their luggage in and bring them ice and stuff. It must be so different sleeping here, especially for the entire summer. I think the Obamas are the only ones who have ever stayed that long, them or one of the Kardashians.”

“They stayed here?” I ask, pulling out a couple shirts from my closet.

“Yeah, tons of famous people have, but a lot of them were rude and entitled, except the Obamas, and ironically whichever Kardashian it was. I think it was Khloe. Anyway, it must be so nice to have this view every day. My flat here is the size of your bathroom. Oh, to be rich!” She twirls around, into the bathroom and back out, smiling.

“It’s really incredible, honestly. Staying here, I mean. Not being rich. I’m not rich, my mom is.” I stare out the window at my view of the expansive sea.

“Well, my mother only calls me to borrow money that I don’t even have so she can buy a liter of scotch. Wanna trade?” Amara’s tone is light, not bitter.

I try to imagine her family, how warm her mother must have been, addiction or not, to raise such a sunshine of a daughter.

“My mom’s entire personality is her job, so I might take you up on that,” I tease back, kind of meaning it.

I use the reflection of the window to pop out my contacts and turn around to grab a new pair.

“What the! No shit! Your eyes, oh my god.” Amara’s petite hands wrap around my shoulders as blood pools in my cheeks.

Here we go. There have been times when having heterochromia felt cool and unique, but having people constantly commenting on my appearance, whether it was positive or not, got old quickly, and I eventually just wanted to fit in. That, and I have other medical uniqueness that’s enough for one woman. “I know, they’re—”

Her hand zips up to my mouth, gently covering it. “Don’t you dare say anything except they’re cool, stunning, beautiful, rare… and don’t even think about putting those brown contacts back in.” She eyes me, lowering her hand from covering my mouth. “At least for one night, be you. Don’t cover them, and if people annoy you about them too much, I’ll fuck them up. I love a good bar fight,” she says, making both of us laugh at the idea of her in such chaos.

I don’t know how to react, but man she’s good at convincing me. I look back out the window and she claps her hands, proud that I’m not protesting. If only she knew that I came here to be anything but myself, to live a temporary fantasy life.

A few boats are in view, and for some reason my mind goes back to Julián. What a small world that Amara, the only person I know on this side of the earth, knows him. I can’t seem to get his face out of my mind, but she’s good at distracting me.

“This one.” She holds up a silver shirt, one I brought thinking I probably wouldn’t wear it, but here we are. When the light hits it, it looks black.

“Is the place fancy? Or like a club? I can’t do strobe lights, just to let you know,” I tell her, hoping she won’t ask a ton of questions.

“Not a club. It’s like a lounge-type place. I know the whole staff, so if there are too many lights, I can tell them to turn them off. I’m usually drunk as hell, so I can’t remember if the lights are strobes or not, but we will figure it out. Everyone has their phobias,” she says, handing me the shirt.

Phobias… if only .

I take my tank top off and pull the shirt over my head. It’s tight, and the sleeves are long and bell-shaped. The material isn’t see-through but gives off a shimmery vibe and is super sheer, cutting off just above my belly button.

“Can you take your bra off? No pressure if you’re not comfortable, but it’s going to be hot, and you have the boobs for it. This is Europe. Not only Europe, but summer in Europe.” She smiles.

I reach up my back and unsnap the hooks, feeling immediate freedom. Not wearing a bra is the definition of happiness. I would feel beyond uncomfortable walking around my local Target braless, but when in Mallorca…

“Hot. So hot. You won’t have to pay for a drink all night. Guaranteed.”

Amara is such a girls’ girl and I love that. I’ve always yearned for a friendship like this, where the compliments aren’t filled with comments for me to overthink. Even though I’ve only known her for a little over forty-eight hours, she makes me feel so comfortable and so safe. I had the best friend a woman could ask for, but… I shake the memory out of my head. I knew I couldn’t think about her without breaking down, and this wasn’t the time or place for my heart to break for the thousandth time. Their names being so similar doesn’t help, and the deep ache of loss will never go away. There will always be a hole there, but I’m trying to learn to shut off the endless bleeding tap when I can.

“Jeans or shorts?” I clear my throat as I ask, “And what are you going to wear?”

“Jeans. Sometimes the seats are sticky.” She shrugs, opening the yellow bookbag she brought up to my room, pulling out a burgundy tube top and black pants. The bookbag is sprinkled with little metal pins of animals—a koala, a horselike thing, a yellow animal that looks sort of like a teddy bear. There are seven of them.

She notices me staring at them, trying to figure out what they are. “They’re a K-pop group I love. It will take hours to explain, but if you’re looking for a new obsession, let me know. This is what I’m wearing; what do you think?” She starts to get dressed carelessly and, of course, her outfit is killer.

The burgundy contrasts with her bright hair and the paleness of her skin sprinkled with freckles is so stunning. Her black jeans are loose around her frame, with two wide slits across the knees.

“You look so good. I haven’t seen a tube top in a while. You’re making me want to get one.”

She smiles, admiring her reflection in the mirror. “I love a tube top moment. Do you have a ribbon or something?” she randomly asks as I pull my blue jeans over my legs and shimmy into them.

“A ribbon? No,” I tell her.

“Hmph.” She looks around the room. “Can I pretend to be you for a sec?” she asks.

I nod, having no idea what she’s up to, but excited to find out. She picks up the phone on the nightstand to call down to the concierge and asks them for a pair of black shoelaces.

“They’ll be here in ten minutes,” she says proudly.

“Really? I didn’t know I could make requests like that.”

She laughs. “You’re staying in one of the best suites for the entire summer. If you want a group of flamenco dancers at your doorstep daily, your wish is our command. Trust me, we’ve gotten much crazier requests than a pair of laces.”

Within ten minutes, a man brings the laces to the door, and I can tell he and Amara have a close relationship by the way he laughs when he realizes it’s her. He’s slightly confused as he glances around the room, but when his eyes meet mine and I wave, he lights up and waves back. They speak in Spanish, and he disappears.

She walks over to me, laces in hand.

“If you hate it tell me and I’ll use them for something else.” Her warm fingers brush my skin as she ties them together and wraps them around the bare skin of my torso, tying them again in the back. I stare in the mirror, and I love the way it looks.

“How did you even think of this?”

“I love finding cheap ways to look hot and make my friends look hot.” She shrugs.

“I love it. How random, but cool.”

“Yay.” She beams. “We should go soon. I’m going to touch my makeup up a bit, but it won’t take long. We can walk there; it’s only about ten minutes away.”

“So, how long have you been here?” I ask Amara as she sticks on little heart-shape rhinestones to the highest part of her cheekbone.

“About two years. I came for fun, stayed a little longer for instalove, then moved here for the hell of it.”

“Instalove? Do tell.” I brush my hair back, pulling it tight into a high ponytail so it doesn’t get in my way tonight.

When my hair is pulled back like this, I look more like my mother than ever. High cheekbones, long chin. The necklace dangling across my collarbone looks like any other dainty white-gold piece, but inside the little seashell-shaped locket is my blood type, my diagnosis, and my mother’s phone number. I gently press my fingertips against the cold metal and tug a little, considering taking it off.

Not yet, I decide. One step at a time.

“Her name was Grace. An American who moved here to teach English. I fell haaard,” she emphasizes and sighs, rolling her neck in a half circle. “We had an amazing few weeks. Sensual, emotional awareness, all the green flags. Best sex, and I mean best of my life.” Her eyes widen and her voice draws out to emphasize her point. “I spent my whole holiday with her and decided to extend it. When it was time for her to go back to Barcelona, she started semi-ghosting me, and I did what any rational lovestruck woman would do and found her on Facebook—which she said she didn’t have, by the way—and she was freaking married the whole time. Two kids, big fancy house in Florida. Ken-doll husband. Ugh. So I flew to Barcelona and confronted her…” She pauses to smile, pointing the tweezers in her hand at me. “I was out of my mind, obviously.” She laughs. “She called security on me before I could even get a sentence out. It was so fucked-up! Luckily, I had already made a few friends here—Julián and a few more you’ll meet tonight—so I decided to stay. Hotels are always looking for multilingual employees, and I don’t have much at home in Germany anyway.” She shrugs.

“Just like that? You just moved here?” I ask in wonder at her bravery.

She nods. “Yeah. I moved to Rome for six months just for the artichokes, France because I had the best kiss of my life there with a stranger, almost moved to Greece but it was too expensive… I know it sounds cra—”

“Brave,” I cut her off. “It sounds incredible and freeing. Wow.”

I can’t imagine having the freedom to just pop around from country to country, especially over artichokes, but I’m deeply fascinated by Amara’s ability to adapt and her independent nature.

“Thanks for not judging me.” She leans over and surprises me with a hug.

We just met, yet I feel like I knew her in another life, like maybe she’s the mirror of all the things I wish I could be, and maybe she’s come into my life as a fairy godmother and is here to teach me to let go and live the rest of my life to the fullest? Whatever the reason, I’m happily going along for the ride. As we go to leave, the pill container on my counter catches my eye under the light, but so far, I’m only feeling better not taking them, not worse, so I flip the switch off and close the door behind us, heading out on my second European adventure.