Page 16 of The Last Sunrise

“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 meanbestof 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 multilingualemployees, 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.

Chapter Seven

The walk to the place Amara leads me to is as short as promised. I wore plain white sneakers and made sure to put double bandages on yesterday’s blisters and scrapes from the walk from hell. The streets are busier than last night, bustling with lively excitement for a weekday. Amara stops in what seems to be the middle of a small road. If I were walking alone, I would miss the place. There’s no sign, just a hanging lantern burning with a real flame inside. I watch it dance in the slight breeze as a wooden door opens. A man the size of a bear steps out of it with his massive arms crossed in front of him. His burly appearance softens when he sees Amara. He smiles at her, greeting us in Spanish.

He doesn’t ask for an ID from either of us, but then again, the drinking age here is younger than in the States. The two of them talk for a bit and I smile, clueless about what they’re saying but excited to go inside. I’ve only seen European nightlife on television, and I can feel the subtle vibration of the music inside pouring out into the street.

I can’t hear any music blasting, but I canfeelit, which is a relief. I’ve only dabbled in the nightclub life, going to a few with some friends during my freshman year of college. Theywere too loud, too many strobe lights, sticky floors that weren’t fun to dance on, and sweaty bodies bumping and shoving into one another. Overall, not for me and not nearly worth the battle with my mom every single time I was out past eight. At first I did like the validation I felt every time a man spoke to me, but I quickly shut them down, which in most instances caused them to immediately insult something about my appearance or declare they didn’t like me anyway. It’s the ultimate defensive mechanism of fragile men who can’t handle being rejected, no matter how politely.

Aside from nightclubs, I’m acutely aware that I’m nowhere near an expert on dating or meeting men, either, but I know that if I were to end up having a love story this summer, I would rather it not begin with a man whose eyes were bloodshot and whose breath reeked of whiskey.

As we enter, I’m shocked by how big the place is. The walls are thick pieces of stone, making it feel like a cave. Yellow lights dangle from the ceiling in the most random patterns and the music, like I gauged from outside, is loud enough to enjoy without being obnoxious or blowing an eardrum. Amara’s walk turns into a dance of its own; her curvy hips sway as she leads me to the bar, hand in hand.

The man behind the bar is as tall as the high shelf of liquor behind him. He’s free-pouring what seems to be vodka into a purple mixed drink, no measuring glass for the standard two-ounce shot in sight. As if he can feel my stare, he glances over at us, eyes full of life and excitement as he notices Amara and shouts her name. He slides the woman waiting for her purple drink her cocktail, and I hope she has a high tolerance for liquor.

“El meu nadó.” The bartender homes in on Amara, rushing to come greet us. He leans over the bar, kissing Amara on the cheeks, then me. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to being kissed by strangers, and the warmth pooling in my cheeks makes it evident.

“Fabio! Amor meu,” Amara coos, hitting him with her bright, stunning smile.

His dark, long hair is tied away from his face in a low ponytail. The tip of his thick hair lands just above the belt around his waist. His white shirt is tight, unbuttoned at the top to show his build and a patch of dark chest hair. His eyes move to me, catching me taking him in.

“And who is this?” He changes to English, his sultry eyes making my stomach flip as he scans my body.

“Fabio, this is Oriah, my American friend. Oriah, my darling, this is the infamous Fabio. Best and most heavy-handed bartender you’ll ever meet.”

“I noticed the heavy-handedness. You can call me Ry.” I laugh, nodding toward the lady with the purple drink who’s sucking it down like it’s lemonade.

“Hi, Ry. When did you move here?” he asks me.

“Oh, I don’t live here. Just here for the summer.”

He grins. “Never say never. I came for a summer too. A decade ago.”

This place seems to have something magical in the water, in the limestone, something that makes people from all over the world feel at home enough for them to make it their home.

“Where are you from?” Curiosity drips from my voice.

“Milano, but Spain is my home. I hope you’ll feel at home too,” he says, accent thick and seductive.

I get the feeling he’s not hitting on me, even as he reaches for my hand and takes it in his, lifts it to his lips, and kisses the back of it. He doesn’t have an ounce of creepy oozing off him.

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