Page 79 of Convenient Vows

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Chapter 24

Xiomara

Running away from someone you love should be made illegal because of how much it hurts. But I have no choice; if I stay, I’ll end up on my knees, begging Zasha to love me, and I know he never will. So, I leave.

The documents and IDs I use are real in the sense that they’re expertly crafted. My father had them made a few years ago, for my mother and me. Just in case a cartel war ever reaches our front gates, my mother and I can flee without any hitch.

How ironic that I’m not fleeing a cartel war but escaping a marriage. A marriage and husband that I cleverly chose and then couldn’t endure.

At the check-in counter, the agent barely glances at my passport. I hold my breath the whole time anyway. When she hands me the boarding pass and says, “Have a safe flight, Miss Moreno,” I almost collapse in relief.

I don’t sit at the gate.

I keep pacing until the final boarding call, and only when I’m finally on the plane, in my cramped economy seat, wedged between a coughing old man and a teenager playing TikToks on full volume, do I allow myself to exhale.

So, this is what economy feels like.

I’ve flown in jets my entire life. Leather seats. Private stewards. Champagne in real glasses. I’ve never had to ask for water or fight for elbow room. Now, I’m clutching the armrest like a lifeline, knees pressed to the seat in front of me, trying not to panic as the plane jerks forward on the runway.

As the plane takes off, the city below shrinks, disappearing into clouds, and I begin to cry silently. The kind of cry that doesn’t make a sound. I cry until I fall asleep, and I sleep through most of the nine-hour flight, or at least I pretend to.

When we land in Madrid, the sun is rising as though to welcome me. I transfer immediately to a smaller regional flight. One more ticket. One more alias. One more layer of distance between the girl I was and the woman I’m trying to become.

A few hours later, I’m in Alicante.

It’s bright and quiet here. Sunlight clings to the buildings like honey. The sea glistens just beyond the town square, and the scent of fresh bread wafts from every corner bakery.

It’s a city that feels soft and slow, the kind of place where people come to have their tattered hearts mended by nature.

After spending a few days in an Airbnb, I rent a small apartment above a bakery in the old town. The landlady, Marta, doesn’t ask too many questions, although her eyes are full of them. She hands me a key and mentions that the sun rises from the balcony and there are “good for sad hearts.”

I think she knows I’m nursing a broken heart.

I unpack the few things I brought and sit on the bed. This should be freedom, but it doesn’t feel like it.

Not yet.

Alicante is warm in a way that feels intentional. Like the sun here has purpose. It creeps through windows, hugs your skin, fills every room like a silent prayer whispered for broken people.

I always sit on the balcony every morning, soaking up its warmth. Because maybe, if I soak in enough light, it’ll burn thegloom out of me. However, two weeks later, the gloom is still there, and I still feel like shit.

But at least, I am beginning to grow to love my new space. The flat is small but clean. Pale yellow walls. A fan that groans when it turns. One balcony with a crooked view of the sea and a bakery below that smells like vanilla and warm yeast at all hours. I sleep on a narrow mattress, eat toast with apricot jam, and drink too much espresso.

I find work through a woman named Celeste. She is an elderly tailor who owns a private alterations studio tucked behind a jewelry shop and a boutique. During my interview, she only asked if I could sew, and I replied that I could. The truth is, I sew better than most.

My hands are steady from stitching torn flesh for as long as I can remember, and when Celeste watches me work for five minutes, she offers me a job on the spot.

“I have wealthy heiresses with thousand-euro gowns that need hemming by Friday,” she states in clear Spanish. “If you’re not intimidated by sequins and fantasy, then you are welcome on board.”

Sequins have nothing on human flesh.I scoff inwardly.At least they don’t bleed.

My job detail is to stitch by hand when the fabric require extra care. I take in busts and rework sleeves and reinforce the invisible seams of chiffon that cost more than the flat I rent.

The women who come here remind me of the life I once had. The type of ladies who wear diamonds to brunch. They speak in whispers, laugh through fillers, and flinch when a pin touches skin. But I don’t flinch, because I learned how to do this on bullet wounds.

My father’s men used to sit shirtless in kitchen chairs while I sutured torn flesh and swabbed dried blood. There were no morphine drips or soft words. Just steady hands and silence.

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