Page 17 of The Last Sunrise

“Let’s have a drink to celebrate your welcome. I’ll show you what I’m famous for!” With a wink, he moves like a flash back to the center of the bar.

His hands move remarkably fast. Amara leans her shoulder into mine. “What’s your alcohol tolerance like?” she wonders.

“Like medium?” I shrug my shoulders.

I can handle liquor, but after seeing Fabio’s idea of a drink, I don’t dare to say I have a high tolerance.

“Medium is good. Medium means you’ll survive the night,” she says as Fabio pulls out a torch and lights our shots on fire.

“What on earth?” I ask myself as he slides a bright blue, literally glowing and burning shot into my hand.

“They taste like candy!” Amara promises, clinking her glass to mine. The fire dies down, leaving a tiny blue flame that I assume is edible? Amara dips her tongue into hers to put it out, so I do the same. It’s not hot at all. I don’t understand, but I don’t need to. Now isn’t the time for questioning; now is the time forfun.

“That sounds…” I almost say “dangerous,” but Oriah Pera in Mallorca wouldn’t be afraid of anything. “Yummy,” I say instead, pouring the drink down my throat in one solid swig.

It’s delicious and most definitely dangerous.

“So?” Fabio urges with wiggling eyebrows, knowing he’s good at what he does.

There’s no way anyone on earth wouldn’t love it. It tastes like a Starburst and Skittles without being overly sweet. Not a hint of the burn I’m used to when I take a shot, even as it settles in my stomach.

“Now I know why you’re famous.” I smile, licking the sugar-coated rim of the shot glass.

He claps his hands, his head falling back, hair swaying. “Infamous, honey. Infamous.”

“Another round, please!” Amara requests, and Fabio ignores the growing line at the other end of the bar and makes us four more.

One for now, another for ten minutes later, he advises, as we carry them to a table in the corner. The table is made of old wood, not sanded and polished. It’s beautiful, and the moisture rings from drink after drink being left on it only make it more unique. The chairs are simple low, square-shaped stools. We sit and I look around the cave-like bar. I can almost feel all the memories that have been made here.

It’s not crowded but not empty. Small clusters of people are spread around the space, talking, laughing, a few of them dancing to the music. There are more women than men, that is, until a group of them walk in just as I have the thought. From what I’ve googled, nightlife here doesn’t truly start until much, much later, so this is the calm before the storm.

“By the way, would you mind if I have someone meet me here? I was going to wait to meet her until tomorrow, but she’s messaging me and she’s sooo gorgeous and seems sane enough, and since you’re here, it would be safer,” Amara explains. “I met her on Tinder and she’s only here for two weeks, but if you’re not comfortable, just let me know and I can meet her later.”

I shake my head. “No, of course she can come! I don’t mind at all.”

Amara’s face lights up and she pulls her phone out, tapping and swiping the screen. She holds it up to show me.

“Look at her, my god. And she’s a medical student. Hot and smart. Killll me.” She rolls her eyes back, looking down at the screen with a melty smile, the kind of smile I daydream about someone having for me.

“She’s stunning.” I swipe through a handful of photos of the woman. Deep brown skin; high cheekbones; thick, perfectly shaped brows. I can see why Amara is in a hurry to meet her.

“Her name’s Prisha. She’s from India but is living in Sweden right now while going to medical school. Okay,” she says, typing on her phone, dramatically breathing in and out. “I’m telling her to come.”

“As long as you don’t move to Sweden before I go back to Texas,” I tease her.

She cackles, a high-pitched lovely sound. “I can’t make any promises.”

We cheers to that, taking our now-flameless shots.

Chapter Eight

Prisha shows up quickly and is even more beautiful than her photos. She glows as she walks through the bar, impossible to miss. Her raven hair is so smooth, giving the illusion of glass as she approaches.

“Oh my god, she’s even hotter than I thought. She’s too hot for me; what do I do? Should I run out the back door?” Amara squeezes my arm, and I laugh at the sudden deflation of her confidence as she attempts to hide behind me.

“She’s thinking the same thing about you, I’m sure of it. And no running, you brought me here. Now talk to her.” I gently untangle her death-grip on my arm and push her toward the approaching woman.

“Hi.” Amara smiles, showing a side of herself that I didn’t think existed. A shyness, a nervousness that makes her even more endearing.

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