Page 8 of The Last Sunrise

“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 samenavy-blue faded from sea saltshorts. His sandals are worn, and his hair is still messy, his eyes soft despite the annoyed turn of his jaw.

“I didn’tfindyou. 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.

---