Total pages in book: 107
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 409(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
“Lita?”
At the sink, Lita straightens and puts down her cup, tucking away her memories before she looks at me. “Yes, mi niña?”
I’m still looking at the photo when I respond, “I’m going back to Ibiza. To stay.”
She clucks her tongue and walks over to the table so she can bend and kiss the top of my hair. “Of course. Go.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Isabel
I’m anxious to go back to Ibiza from the moment I make up my mind to do it, but it takes me two weeks to return to the White Island. I would have hopped on the first flight available, but I couldn’t leave Lita until the worst of her recovery was behind her and I knew she didn’t need me by her side. I wanted her to feel comfortable with Jean and weaned off all her major pain medications. While I’m still in Marseille, I join her for every doctor visit and hear it from their mouths that Lita is making a speedy recovery.
It’s no wonder Lita nearly pushes me out the door the afternoon of my flight. I keep finding last-minute things to do. I want to be sure she has all her prescriptions up-to-date even though I checked them myself a few hours ago. I scan through the kitchen to see if she has enough snacks to eat, fresh produce, baguette tradition from the local boulangerie, and her favorite Brie from the fromagerie. Jean confirms she’s programmed my number into her phone and has multiple ways to reach me and my parents if there’s ever an emergency.
“Is there anything else?” I ask Lita while she waits for me to get into the car. I know the driver is getting antsy. If I push it much longer, he’s liable to drive away without me.
“No. Isabel, go,” Lita says with an insistent laugh.
I take a hesitant step toward the car while assuring her, “I’ll be back every few weeks, if not more.”
“Good. With Cristiano? And those friends? I loved meeting them.”
I promise her I’ll bring everyone, though I’m not sure that’s the truth. I don’t know how the next few weeks will unfold. I’m too scared to think that far ahead. Cristiano doesn’t know to expect me today. We’ve spoken. I’ve promised him I’m returning to Ibiza, and he told me as soon as I was ready, he would arrange a private flight and driver. Just say the word.
Instead, I fly commercial, jammed in economy, too nervous to eat the in-flight snack or pay attention to the show playing on my phone. I settle for staring out the window and trying to imagine all the best-case scenarios.
By the time we touch down and I retrieve my sturdy duffel from baggage claim, it’s late afternoon. Outside, I swear I can smell the fresh, salty air coming in off the Mediterranean. The sun feels that much brighter. The taxi line outside the airport is crowded with tourists eager to start their summer vacations. Aura is mentioned a few times with reverential awe. I listen to people plotting and strategizing inventive ways to get inside, and I smile, wondering if any of them will actually be successful. I hope they are.
My taxi driver and I talk a lot on the drive to Cristiano’s house. I’m not as shy with my Spanish now even though I know it’s nowhere near perfect. It helps that my driver is eager to chat, and he prods me along if I get stuck on certain words or phrases.
“¿Aquí?” he asks when he pulls up to Cristiano’s private gate. The bougainvillea blooms vining on the metal are even fuller than when I left, so lush and red.
“Sí.”
I get out and key in the gate code, having memorized it from past trips with Cristiano. Then the driver takes me slowly up the drive toward the quiet house.
Panic threatens to burst my chest wide open. I wonder—not for the first time—if it would have been smarter to let Cristiano know I was coming.
“It’s nice,” the driver comments in English.
I’m too nervous to reply, too anxious to see if Cristiano is home or not. I’ve prepared for every eventuality, telling myself I’ll sit on his front stoop for days if it means getting to see him again.
Out front, the driver parks and I quickly pay him, adding a tip. He gets out, but I don’t follow. I smooth my hands down my sundress and take a deep breath. I have to work up the courage before I can turn and touch the door handle.
Just as I do, Cristiano’s front door opens.
He steps out wearing blue jeans and a white linen shirt. Barefoot. Tan. Beautiful even though his expression is confused and a bit guarded. I think with the setting sun shining in the taxi window at an angle, he might not be able to make out that it’s me sitting back here, so I steel myself and open the door, coming to a stand. My gaze lingers on the drive. I blink. Then I swallow and look up.