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“Come on,” Oriana blurted. “Who told you? How did you find out?” After all, as far as Oriana knew, only one person in the world knew what had happened in 1998— and that person’s name was Brea. But Oriana hadn’t seen Brea since the year 2000. She imagined she never would again.
But the man staggered away from her, raising his hands. “Listen, lady. I don’t know who you are. I was at a party, sure. But I don’t remember you being there.”
Oriana flared her nostrils. “Just tell me what you want. Please, I can’t stand being followed. I can’t stand all the games.”
But the man continued to back out of the bodega. “I don’t want anything from you! I’m staying at a hotel down the road, and I just came in to get a snack. I swear.” He continued to shake his head, then removed his wallet from his back pocket and handed her his ID. “I don’t even live here. I’m from Minnesota. A friend from high school used to date Monica, and he invited me to the party.”
Oriana gaped at the ID, which showed a younger version of the man before her, wearing glasses and a salmon polo shirt. The address was Minneapolis, Minnesota.
Oriana wasn’t sure what to believe. She felt herself going insane. Slowly, she passed back the ID, wanting to threaten him, to tell him that if she saw him again, she would call the police.But what proof did she have?
Abandoning her snacks, Oriana walked back into the night and hurried to Meghan’s suite, where she knocked on the door until a sleepy Meghan answered and asked if everything was okay.
“Can I sleep in your bed tonight?” Oriana asked, hating how pathetic she sounded. This was exactly what Meghan had done to Oriana as a kid when Oriana’s three years on Meghan had seemed like forever.
“Of course,” Meghan said, stepping back. “Is everything all right?”
“Yes,” Oriana breathed. “It’s just that, you know, the suite is too big for one person. I felt alone.”
Meghan shrugged, too tired to ask additional questions, then clambered back into bed. Oriana donned one of Meghan’s oversized sleep shirts and slipped in beside her, staring through the darkness as Meghan’s breathing calmed and deepened. Oriana wasn’t sure if she would ever sleep well again.
Something terrible was about to happen. She felt her world was about to crumble, and she had no control over it.
ChapterThree
The Island of Ko Tao, Thailand
Brea settled into a downward dog position, her hands flat on the mat as she breathed in, breathed out. Around her, women in tight shorts and tank tops did the same, their arms and legs glistening from sweat. The heat on the island was nearly ninety degrees, despite the earliness of the morning, but Brea had been in Thailand for many years now. Her skin was almost used to it.
The woman who ran the yoga studio was also American, but she’d lived in Thailand for thirty years and therefore spoke perfect Thai. She said goodbye to women as they left, easily switching between Thai and English, as though she hardly noticed the change.
“Brea, good to see you again!” The teacher smiled eagerly and placed her hands on her hips.
Brea stalled at the door, clutching her yoga mat. This wasn’t the first time the yoga teacher had tried to get chummy with her. Brea was the only other American woman who lived alone on Ko Tao— at least, she was the only one she knew of. It stood to reason that she and the yoga instructor should become friends. The only problem was that Brea had no idea how to make friends anymore. She’d lost all her socializing skills.
“Yeah! Great class,” Brea said hurriedly. “Um. Thank you. See you next time.”
Before the yoga teacher could answer, Brea fled the yoga studio and jumped on her motorbike, which sputtered as it took her downtown, where a food market sold fresh fruits, vegetables, and various dishes all day long. There, Brea bought mangoes, fresh fish, and a little snack made of red bean paste, which was strangely sweet. Back on Martha’s Vineyard, where she’d grown up, a snack like this would have been deemed “bizarre.” Brea had come to love it.
Ko Tao was surrounded by pristine, turquoise water that was oddly warm, especially when compared to the ocean of her youth. At the beach, she stripped to her swimsuit and swam out, floating on her back as she studied the gorgeous sky above. Thailand weather was almost continually beautiful, which made it difficult for her to comprehend the changing seasons. Sometimes, she had to remind herself that she was fifty years old— that she’d lived a large part of her life. Sometimes, that brought her to tears, especially when she considered that she couldn’t return to Martha’s Vineyard, perhaps ever again.
Brea dried off after her swim, jumped back on the motorbike, and sped back to her little house, which had a living room, kitchen, bedroom, and not much more. Over the years, she’d learned to make her life simple. She had an e-reader, which allowed her to purchase books online and not bother with three-dimensional books. She also had a laptop to watch movies and TV shows. With so many books and films to discover, she could almost convince herself that she didn’t need the rest of the world.
Around noon, Brea’s neighbor, a Thai woman named Chailai, knocked on her door and delivered her a fresh plate of Pad Thai— one of Brea’s favorite dishes.
“Thank you,” Brea said in Thai, overwhelmed with the constant generosity of her neighbor. Chailai clearly felt bad for her and thought Brea being alone at her age was inappropriate and just plain sad. All she could do was throw food at her, perhaps as a way to comfort her.
“Would you like to come over?” Chailai asked, her eyebrows high.
“Oh. Um. I don’t think so. Thank you,” Brea stammered in Thai, always embarrassed to speak another language.
Chailai shrugged, at a loss, then waved and turned back as Brea said, “I’ll bring back the plate later!” It was their consistent dance.
Back in the air conditioning, Brea sat at the kitchen table, put on a podcast, and twirled her Pad Thai around and around her fork, eating slowly to savor every bite. Oh, she loved this food! Growing up, she hadn’t known such Asian flavors existed. Her life had been a constant rotation of fresh fish, mashed potatoes, and clam chowder. Her mother had been a wonderful cook and had tried her darndest to pass on that knowledge to Brea, but Brea had been driven in other directions and never bothered to get half as good.
As Brea cleaned the rest of her plate, her phone dinged. It was an email. Normally, Brea’s emails were from websites, advertising sales, or spam.
But this time, the email was very different. It nearly knocked the wind out of her chest.
