Page 9 of Roaming Holiday

“No one’s getting veal,” I say, covering Maia’s hand with mine. “So that won’t be a problem.”

I don’t look at Dad or Ruby to confirm. Although my sister’s reactions are pretty fiery, I don’t disagree with her.

I spot two men at the table diagonal from us only because the grey-haired man with his back to me is rigid, while the man across from him is the opposite. He relaxes, slumped in a chair he’s too big for. His dark hair and trimmed beard send a spark through my stomach, so I look away. Even with sunglasses on, he’s still fine as hell. But I shouldn’t jump on the first man I see.

After the deliciously expensive dinner, we wander the neighborhood below within the cliffside, which is a leg workout with all the hills and stairs. The uneven street is about four or five people wide, yet motorbikes still honk and rev their way through fast enough to frighten me. Maldanians don’t care. If we’re not perusing the stores, we’re looking over our shoulders for passing bikes.

I fall behind the group to stop at a jewelry stand until the owner lights up a cigarette. The stench drives me away. All too quickly, I step without a glance behind me, and the vibrating engine and beep-beep of a moped sends my heart into my throat. A person walking in my direction lurches and pulls me from the bike’s path, his hands on either of my bare arms.

“Prosítentto,” the man says and continues his walk without another word. I double-take as he strides off, for his soft hair and scruff match that of the man I saw at the restaurant. What are the chances? It’s not until he’s long gone that I realize what he said in Maldanian. Be careful. I shake off the whole incident and rush to catch up with my family.

I roll over in bed, huffing at the time: 7:32 a.m. For once, can my body let me sleep in?

I lay cuddled in the surprisingly soft comforter. The fabric feels expensive; its pristine fibers brush my skin. I drift in and out of sleep for at least another hour, dreaming of peaceful bliss, until Maia sneaks into my room and leaps onto me.

“Good morning!” she yells. Her minty breath and glowing cheeks greet me. She’s a breath of fresh air, cutting into my sleep so brusquely. “How’d you sleep?”

I shut my eyes and push her face away. “No.”

“Hey,” she squawks, swatting my hand. “Oh, come on. These beds are so comfortable, aren’t they?”

I flip sides.

“Dad and Ruby are waiting for us for breakfast.”

I groan, pulling the pillow over my face. “Too many words.”

Maia huffs, yanks the pillow, and crashes into my back. “Get up,” she says, leaning in and singing, “There’s french toast.”

My eyes pop open to find her sly grin. “Really?”

She nods, and I haul ass out of bed.

Maia and I walk downstairs, clad in our robes, to find a woman serving Dad and Ruby in the back garden. Dad introduces us to Theodora—Dora for short—who will be our caterer for our stay.

“Our caterer?” I echo. She’s not much older than I am! It’s uncomfortable to be served by someone I could be friends with. She’s short and curvy with tanned skin and loose brown curls.

Nonetheless, I order french toast while my sister asks for pancakes. When the two of us gather fruit from the buffet, Maia leans in and mutters, “Dora’s got a donk.”

I snort, clamping my hand over my mouth. It’s funnier because I noticed Dora’s big ass, too. Not in a bad way, though. I’m envious, and Maia’s scrawny ass definitely is, too.

After eating breakfast in the back garden illuminated by the abundant flora, Dad lays out the day ahead: a history museum, a vegetarian restaurant he found, and then a private tour of the palace. Maia and I look at each other but don’t say anything. We both know that Dad isn’t a palace type of guy. He’d prefer to bar-hop and explore local neighborhoods. But he and Ruby seem excited, so we go with it, no questions asked.

It’s a hot, cloudless day, so I step into a spaghetti-strap dress that reaches my calves. The sun-yellow fabric hugs my body just enough to keep airflow. I twist my curls into a messy claw clip and slide in daisy stud earrings to match my simplistic gold pendant. James bought me this necklace, and I fight the stinging reminder. He’s already taken my confidence; I won’t let him take my favorite necklace.

The word stunning cannot adequately describe the royal palace.

We pass through decadent ballrooms and abandoned bedrooms of historical kings and queens. The tour guide is so attentive and personable it’s almost unusual; it’s as if he’s hanging out with friends.

“Do people still use this?” Maia asks, her neck tilted to look at the detailed paintings on the ceiling.

“Yes,” our tour guide Andrew says. “This wing of the library is just for the museum.”

“Those are from the thirteenth century,” I tell my sister, looking at the paintings with her. “It took the artist, Sacco Andreas, five years to complete.”

“That’s correct,” Andrew says to me. “You’ve studied our history. I’m impressed.”

I blush. I don’t tell him that my “studying” was a Google search on the drive over.

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