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She hugs me back. “When I moved to Toronto, my parents were so far away that I had to make my own family in the city, and I am so happy that you are a part of it.”

I can feel tears threatening, and Koko must sense it, too, because she breaks away, adjusts the strap of my carry-on, and says, “Go! You’ll miss your flight. Tell Mac, ‘You’re welcome.’ ”

I run.

And I reach the gate just in time to get an annoyed look from the attendant who has to scan my passport. They close the door as soon as I am on board, and I am forced to stick my bag under the seat in front of me since there is no more overhead room.

The plane begins to taxi as I finally fasten my seatbelt and lean my head back with an exhausted sigh.

I close my eyes and slow my still-rampant heart as the captain’s voice comes over the system.

“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. This is Captain Javier Diaz speaking on behalf of your entire crew. I’d like to welcome you aboard this flight from Liverpool’s John Lennon Airport to Castellón–Costa Azahar Airport. Our flight time will be approximately two hours and thirty minutes.”

My eyes fly open. Two hours. There is no way that’s enough time to fly across an entire ocean to Florida.

I scramble for my bag, earning a huff from the elderly woman next to me as I frantically search the pockets for my boarding pass.

I pull it out.

It says my name and the same airport the captain just mentioned.

Koko said Castellón. I remember it distinctly. Pensacola doesn’t have an airport, but Google says it’s super close.

I pull my phone from my pocket, and my seatmate gives me another dirty look.

It takes a moment for it to register the network, and then another for me to open Google Maps and type Castellón in the search bar. The page loads just as the captain concludes his speech.

“Thank you for choosing to fly with us today. Enjoy your stay in Spain.”

33

“What do you mean, you’re all booked?”

I stare at the gate agent as she frowns at the computer screen in front of her.

“I made a mistake. I need to get to Florida. Isn’t there anything you can do?”

She rolls her eyes, because this is not the first time we have discussed this.

“You can go on standby for the flight tomorrow afternoon,” she says, tapping her pen on her monitor. “The odds are low that I will be able to get you on, and you will have to spend the night, but I encourage you to consider finding lodging before you decide. There’s a lot of tourists flying in. Most of the hotels are all booked up.”

My other option is a flight back to Liverpool leaving in an hour.

It’s the logical thing to do.

Except I’m done with logical.

“I’ll take my chances with Florida,” I tell the woman, who gives me a look that tells me I’m picking the wrong option in her opinion.

I don’t care. I will spend the night in one of those uncomfortable orange airport chairs if I have to.

Once I’m on standby, I take my bags and phone and find a vacant orange chair, where I sit to figure out what I’m going to do next.

I slide open my screen and begin to scroll. The gate agent was not exaggerating when she said it would be hard to find a place to stay. My options are either very far away or very much out of my price range—all except for one.

My finger hovers above a Booking.com listing. It’s a single room in a small B&B, forty-five minutes away in Peñíscola, above Restaurante El Peñón.

I stare at the tiny exterior picture, wondering why the name is so familiar.