Page 3 of The Last Sunrise

My mom isn’t always rude to strangers, but when she is—it’s incredibly embarrassing. For someone who came from nothing, she sure seems to forget that sometimes. Just like she suddenly isn’t speaking her native language, as if to prove a point that she is far removed from this place and her past.

Amara tries not to laugh, or even smile, but she can’t contain it. I grin along with her, at my mother’s expense.

“We have the suites. Under SetCorp, but my name is Isolde Pera, and both rooms are under my name.” My mom slides the credit card to her.

“Ohhh, SetCorp people in the flesh. You’re technically my boss then. Fancy,” Amara responds with humor and sarcasm.

God, I love this woman’s energy and fire and I’ve only been in her presence for a few minutes. She’s bold; even working in hospitality at a luxurious hotel, she doesn’t seem to water herself down for all the obnoxious wealthy people she must have to deal with daily. I love meeting authentic people, which is sadly rare in my small world, but I can already feel myself being inspired by her and her carefree sense of self.

“Here are your room keys.” Amara hands us small, circular pieces of wood.

“What is this?” My mom turns it in her hand, studying it.

“We’re eco-friendly now, so our keys are made from recycled wood particles. We don’t use any plastic bottles, and we even compost the food that people don’t finish. We’re one of the first hotels on the island to have such extreme eco vibes,” she explains to my mom.

My mom, who tries to keep up with everything new, nods, looking a little confused, but I know for sure that the moment she’s in her room, she will be looking up the environmentally friendly wave coming across Europe. It’s not so big in Dallas but hopefully will be someday, and knowing my mother, she will certainly find a way to help SetCorp capitalize off of it for their future properties.

As we follow the doorman across the lobby, I try to take it all in. There’s just so much to look at. I can’t believe this place will be my home for the summer. The lobby walls areall made of gray stones from floor to high ceiling. Ottomans and couches are arranged throughout the massive space, and huge mirrors and chandeliers wrapped in what looks like moss dangle from above. There are plants everywhere; it’s modern and earthy and perfect. I don’t want to think about how much money SetCorp is losing for us to be here this long, since half the hotel is being occupied by this team, but I know the reason we came will make their money back tenfold, that’s Isolde Pera’s specialty. Plus, since they own this hotel, it’s probably a tax write-off anyway. Another example of the way the rich always get richer.

I wave goodbye to the lively woman behind the desk, and she tells me to come find her if I get bored, as the elevator doors close. We ride to the tenth and highest floor, and the doors open slowly. I follow quietly, reading the lit-up room numbers on the floor in front of the doors. There seem to only be a couple rooms on this floor, but of course my mom’s and mine are right next to each other.

“You can have whichever you like more.” She waves her hand toward the doors.

“1011 has the best view of the water and the garden, and 1012 has the best view of the street and the coast,” the doorman explains.

Our home in Dallas has a beautiful, quiet garden. I want to see people, hear them, and feel like I’m a part of the city.

“I’ll do 1012, please?” I’m positive both rooms are spectacular, but since my mom gave me a choice, I’m going to take it.

“If it gets too noisy, we can switch,” she tells me.

The doorman opens the door with his own wooden chip and rolls my suitcase inside. The first things I notice are how highthe ceilings are and how light and bright the room is. The thick forest-green curtains are pulled back, allowing the sun to cast onto the hardwood floors. There’s a sitting room with a couch and two chairs, a coffee table, and a television hanging on the wall. I can’t imagine that I’ll use it while here, but maybe I’ll just turn it on for the hell of it, so as not to waste it. The color pallet of the room—green, beige, cream, and brown—is calming and comforting, washing away the awkwardness of staying in such an expensive room for such a long time. I already feel at home in a way, excitement buzzing under my skin.

“Wow. This is… the room is so beautiful,” I say to my mom, turning around to thank her, but I find my room empty.

No surprise. I shrug, relieved to be alone and able to take in every single detail uninterrupted. I touch nearly every inch of the living room before making it to the bedroom area. The bed has more pillows on it than I can count and looks as soft as a cloud. When I plop onto it, confirming its cloudlike texture, my body melts into the mattress. I spread my arms and legs out and wave them, like I’m making snow angels. Staring up at the ceiling, my chest feels like it may explode with excitement. Have I ever felt this alive, this awake in my life?

I roll over and look out the massive window at the people on the street. “Nope. Absolutely not,” I audibly reply to myself, my voice echoing through the empty rafters, filling the room.

Chapter Three

After unpacking my suitcase, hanging up all my clothes, and setting out all my toiletries, I take the longest, warmest, most refreshing shower in my life. I check my phone, knowing my mom has added all our appointments for today into my Google Calendar. My life back home is always empty, but my mom lives off her Google Calendar, and while here, I’m expected to do the same. As foreseen, my calendar for the day is full, yellow for meetings with my mom’s work stuff that she wants me to tag along to, green for meals—guaranteed to include at least one SetCorp employee or lawyer—and red for commute time. Thankfully, most of the meetings are at the hotel with the event planners, so I won’t have to go far today. As much as I’m looking forward to sightseeing, my body is exhausted from traveling, even though I slept most of the time. My mind is wide awake, but my body, as usual lately, isn’t on the same page.

My usually pin-straight hair is waving a little as it air-dries with the sea so close and the humidity of the Mediterranean mixing. I stare at myself in the mirror. Putting on a little sunscreen, I brush my unruly, thick brows, another gift from my mother’s Spanish genetics. I put in eye drops to freshen up my contacts and dot a little blush on my cheeks. I didn’t bringmany clothes with me, assuming my mom will force me to shop with her at least three times, so I pull a comfy, oversized pin-striped button-down and white shorts from the closet. I stare at the little blue container on the counter, debating what to do. I had made my mind up before getting on the plane, so now that I’m here, I want to stick to my choice. I won’t spend the rest of my life in a fog; I’m taking control of the time I have left. So I walk away, leaving it be, and find the minibar for some water. Amara’s reminder of how environmentally focused the hotel is becomes more obvious as I open the fridge. There are some sparkling waters, sodas, juices, and more alcohol than any one person needs.

Where on earth is the still water? I look around and find a refillable cup with a little tag on it.

“Please reuse me during your stay. Join us in conserving plastic waste, one bottle at a time,” it says on a little attached tag.

Next to it, there’s a built-in waterspout coming from the wall. As a self-proclaimed water connoisseur, I’m amazed by it. I fill the bottle and drink half of it at once. I refill it. It doesn’t take much to make me happy here, I realize with a smile. Maybe my cynicism and harshness have been products of my environment back in Texas? Unavoidable personality traits caused by loneliness and lack of human interaction. I’m not sure yet, but one thing is clear: Oriah Pera is going to thrive and make final memories in Mallorca.

I don’t have to open it to know what the manila folder on the entry table contains. My mother is thorough with her planning, so I leave her printed-out schedule sitting untouched and head to meet her in the lobby. Amara greets me again, and this time, both of her eyes have liner.

“Seems like you figured it out.” I point to her makeup. “Looks great.”

“Thanks! It took fucking forever, but it does look good, right?” She holds her phone up, using the camera as a mirror even though the entire wall behind her is a mirror.

“You’re American, right?” I ask her. Since she barely has an accent and uses such casual English slang, she must be.

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