Chapter Twelve
My mom and Lena are mid-breakfast when I approach the table. The server rushes over to pull out the chair for me to sit down. I thank her and she hands me a menu. Politely, I take it, though I’m not hungry anymore. My mom tells her in Spanish that I’ve already eaten, and she apologizes, gently taking the menu away within seconds.
“It’s okay, thank you so much.” I smile warmly, hoping my mom hasn’t been too demanding of her this early in the day.
My mom pats the corners of her mouth with a thick white napkin. “So, who’s this friend you’ve already made? You seem to be making more friends here than back at home.”
Lena looks at me, her body shifting from one hip to another in her seat.
I explain, “Just someone I met through Amara.”
“The hotel clerk,” she retorts as if she’s reminding Lena who we’re talking about, but erasing her name.
Sighing, I take a drink of water from the glass in front of me.
“Amara is her name, and technically yes, that’s her job, but not everyone is defined by their job.” My tone is clipped and defensive, but the way she seems to be looking down on Amara strikes a nerve. A big one.
“I’m choosing to ignore that dig. Are you tired?” She leans over the table a little to get a closer look at me.
“No. I’m fine.”
“You seem… I don’t know, different? Off? Did you sleep well?” She sips her coffee, watching me.
I roll my eyes, leaning my back against the chair. Feeling immature and a bit bratty and not caring to hide it, I glare back at her.
“I’m fine. I’m having a great day. Well, I was until now.”
My thoughts travel back to Julián, how he waited for hours in the lobby. I can still smell the fresh bread he brought, still feel his fingers trickling along my skin.
“Is it a man or a woman that you met here?” My mom’s thick brows rise in question.
“Why are you asking?”
“Why wouldn’t I ask? It must be a man.” She smiles, placing her lipstick-stained coffee mug down on the table in front of her.
“It’s a man, yes. But I barely know him, so I haven’t had the time to do a background check.”
Lena pops up.
“Should I?” she offers, unfortunately not catching on to my sarcasm.
I wave my hand in front of me.
“No, no way. I’m not a teenager anymore, and he’s just a guy. Let’s stop talking about it now. Please.”
“Be careful in every way, okay?” My mother’s eyes soften and there’s a hint of something else there, but it disappears before I can take it in.
I agree and work on distracting her by asking about her day, the colors of the balloons, and if yellow lights will work better than the white for the ballroom. I wish it wasn’t this way between us, but the most we’ve ever bonded was when I feigned interest in her work. There’ve been times when stuck in a hospital room for five-day-long EEGs that we’ve shared a laugh or two, but ever since I can remember, even during those stays she still took calls nonstop, stepping out of the room constantly to manage some crisis for SetCorp. I spent a lot of the time with the nurses and Child Life specialists who brought me puzzles and played card games with me until I got an iPad, then a cell phone, and eventually pushed my mom to just drop me off for my hospital stays because I enjoyed the quiet of the hospital over her nonstop working.
I try not to resent her. I really do. I know she dedicates her life to her career and that can be admirable, but for me and my heart, I would give anything for her to put me, not just my medical stuff, but me, a person , first. Even if only for a short time.
As she drones on about how many tourists and how much money the resort will bring in, I clock out mentally. I nod along as she talks, and Lena takes notes on her iPad. Their empty plates are carried away and my mom orders a second round of espressos for her and Lena.
“I’d love one, too, please,” I request.
“Ry, with your medication—” my mom begins.
“I can have espresso. I drink coffee. I’m fine and want an espresso.”
Lena’s face reddens, caught between the two of us Peras. Not a great place to be.
“Point taken. Ah, hang on. Sorry.” Mom picks up her vibrating cell phone and brings it to her ear.
“What do you mean he’s refusing? That fucking—” She cuts herself off when her eyes meet mine.
Covering the microphone of her phone with her hand, she mouths I’ll be right back and walks away from the table, out to the patio of the restaurant. Her body language tells me she’s furious. She paces, her hands flying through the air.
“She’s a bit uptight today because the seller is attempting to back out of the deal for not only his company, but the land and port it’s on, and if that happens…” Lena leans in to whisper to me, and her overwhelming Mojave Ghost perfume makes my nose itch.
“Don’t tell her I told you… but if it falls through, we’re all in deep shit. That’s the whole reason we came here. So it won’t be good. Really, really not good.” Lena wipes the literal sweat from her thin brow, and her face crinkles into a terrified, forced smile.
“Aren’t you exhausted?” I ask her. “Always having to deal with her moods and take on her stress?”
We’ve known each other half my life, so it’s a fair question, because I can’t imagine the pressure she’s constantly under to keep my mom at bay, make sure she’s fed, never late, crosses her t ’s and dots her i ’s. I would have quit or had a heart attack after six months of working under my mom. I could barely handle getting scolded by my dance academy instructor for missing cues and getting blood on the stage during a performance when I had a seizure mid-routine.
“I love my job,” Lena robotically responds.
“You’re a liar. And a bad one.” I laugh, plopping one of the brown sugar cubes into my frothy espresso.
“I value my life, so I know what to say.” Lena winks, nodding toward my mom outside. “And she pays me well. Besides, you should cut her some slack. She’s not a bad person. When my niece was sick, she gave me a whole month off with full pay and covered all my travel expenses. Even sent my family food. I’ll never forget that.”
I’ve never heard that story or expected my mom to do anything like that for someone, even Lena, who’s the closest person to her. I wonder if they talk about personal topics often, or if it was a one-off situation where Lena didn’t have a choice. I bet Lena knows much more about my mom’s life and personality than I do.
“She’s not all stone and curse words,” Lena tells me, sipping from her small porcelain espresso cup. It clinks as she puts it back onto the matching saucer.
“Maybe not to you,” I sigh as my mom approaches the table, standing over us in her high heels and work suit.
“Lena, we must go to the shipyard ASAP. Ry, sorry, but I can’t do the food tour thing with you today. I had a portable charger delivered to your room.” She downs her espresso in one gulp.
“Let’s go,” she commands Lena, who jumps up and calls for the check to be billed to her room.
“It was a boat tour,” I quietly say into my half-full cup as they disappear through the arched entryway.
Amara’s behind the desk, not making out with Prisha in the hallway, when I step out of the elevator and into the lobby.
“Soooo… Julián?” she calls out the moment she sees me.
I look around the quiet, empty lobby. A couple people are spread out, silently working on laptops. I recognize a few SetCorp faces and gesture for her to lower her voice.
“Are you guys a thing now?”
“No… Yeah… I don’t know? Casual. Stereotypical summer fling.” I struggle to respond. “I know you tried to warn me about him, but I’m fine, really. We’re just hanging out and seeing what happens. I’m not stupid enough to think it will be more. I only have one summer anyway,” I slip, looking down at the floor to brace myself for however she will take that.
I feel her hand on my arm and look up.
“I’m not judging you or questioning you for hanging out with him. Ghosting Master or not, Julián is kind, funny, and a hard worker, and you can handle yourself. I was shocked when he showed up here with food for you, but at a complete loss for words when he waited for hours . He must be really, really into you. And the sex must have been something else if he’s already whipped like this.” She clicks her tongue on the roof of her mouth.
“We didn’t sleep together,” I tell her, swatting at her like an embarrassed kid.
Her mouth falls open. I reach up and close it for her. “Seriously, we didn’t. Yet.”
“The woman was too stunned to speak,” Amara says in a robotic newscaster voice, and we share a laugh. The internet has made memes and viral clicks universally understood around the world, and I absolutely love that.
I give her a quick hug and head out of the hotel, finding my driver patiently waiting for me outside to take me on my boat—yacht tour—alone. Part of me is relieved I don’t have to hear my mom take five hundred work calls during it, but deep down, I had let my imagination create a scenario where we tread the water and she points to different areas along the shore, sharing stories of her upbringing and places she’s been. In this daydream, her shoulders would be relaxed, the breeze blowing through her thick dark hair as we laugh and sip wine, bonding over memories old and new. But instead, I’m climbing into a car with nothing but the vulnerable daydream fading and the taste of the bitter espresso still on my tongue.
The car smells brand-new and the air-conditioning is top-notch, a short relief from the sticky summer air. The driver, who hasn’t spoken since we pulled out of the hotel, gives me a friendly smile through the rearview. He must get tired of talking to people, so I don’t want to bore him or be another obnoxious tourist. I let us both have our peace. He also might not speak English, so I stare out the window at the view: the vast, expansive ocean; the white sand; the wooden fences; and endless paths leading down to the water. A few minutes later we arrive at a dock and I go back to my Google Calendar, read the instructions, and screenshot the name of the company I’m supposed to be looking for.
“Thank you,” I tell the driver as I climb out of the car, my tote bag around my shoulder.
The high sun kisses my shoulders, instantly warming them. Sticking one hand into my bag as I walk, I feel around for the extra sunscreen I brought and spray it on. With ease I find the man holding a sign for my tour, and with unease I board the massive yacht full of families and couples and not one person who’s alone, except me.
Story of my life.
I impatiently make my way through the people leisurely boarding. Their voices in every language possible. I recognize French, English, and of course Spanish. There are anywhere from twenty to thirty people on the boat, fortunately allowing me to find myself a little private corner on the lower deck. Too big of a boat for such a small number of people, which is likely why my mother chose it. A full buffet of food is available; the smoke coming from the fresh paella being cooked makes my mouth water. Fresh appetizers and seafood are being carried around on little platters by servers dressed in crisp white shirts and black bow ties. Champagne flutes, a full bar, you name it, it’s on this yacht. I can’t help but think back to Julián’s distaste for this level of luxury, and I find myself agreeing with him as a woman carrying a Chanel purse tries to avoid the steam from the food touching her bag. The look of disgust on her face makes me feel out of place and out of touch with reality. These people aren’t my type of people, yet technically they are.
With a thank-you, I take a glass of wine and sling it back, earning an eye roll from an older couple whose money I can smell from here. His watch alone costs more than most people’s salary in a year; her Hermès sandals can’t be comfortable enough to justify the thousand-dollar price tag. Instead of doing a price breakdown of the elitists on the yacht, I try to focus on the water, the ever-changing movements, the dips and divots, the smell of the salty air, as we depart from the dock. Music begins to play, a light piano tune, and I close my eyes, letting the wind caress my face as a group of seagulls speak to one another above me.
“Ry!” I snap my eyes open.
I swear I heard someone yell my name, but that can’t be possible. I look around, feeling silly. Who the hell would know my name here? Not a soul. Everyone is doing their own thing: two couples are slow dancing, people are chatting, eating, drinking. Everyone is having a great time, except me.
I reach my hand over the edge, wishing I were ten feet closer to the water and could touch it. Julián was right, of course: I’m too far removed from the water to embrace it.
“Ry!” I hear the voice again, louder this time.
Julián?
My mind must be playing tricks on me, a mirage created by the longing to see him again. I rest my cheek on my arm, sighing and look out into the water. There’s a medium-sized fishing vessel about one hundred feet away, with a man standing in the center, waving his arms. It is him!
“Julián!” I shout, jumping up in excitement.
“Ry!” he yells back, creating whispers and not so casual stares from the snooty crowd.
I wasn’t imagining it after all. Julián is somehow here, in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea, coming to my rescue.