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Last night, when I showed him pictures of the colorful steps of Escadaria Selarón, Nico insisted we should go together. The plan was for me to spend some time exploring Santa Teresa, and he would meet me at the bottom of the stairs after his lesson.
Except his surf class ended two hours ago.
“This time, I really am going to suffocate him with his own fucking pillow,” I mutter.
“Um?” a soft voice comes from behind me.
I peer back at a middle-aged woman standing in a large group of tourists, all staring blankly at me.
Fuck. I didn’t realize my voice was loud enough to snag the attention of strangers.
“Men.” I throw up my arms and plaster on the best smile I can. “Am I right?”
My manic laughter does little to mask my anger. I scurry away. The last thing I need is someone to think I’m attempting a murder when I’m simplyhighlyconsidering it.
“Zoe, wait up,” a deep voice yells.
My heart somersaults into my stomach, and I whip around.
What on earth? No way someone recognized me as Zoe Mona. How would that even be possible? I’ve been so careful to not reveal my face online.
“Zoe!” the voice screams again, and I catch the source, a man chasing his scampering toddler.
Thank fuck. I don’t need another crisis on my hands. Secret identity safe.
Ugh.
What was I thinking?
I should’ve continued my afternoon walk around the beautiful streets of Santa Teresaalone. It would have been a much better use of my time than being stood up.
I’ve let the man finger me for a week, and I’m suddenly delusional about the kind of person myfriendcan be.
My gut feels like a jumbled mess of tangled cords.
“Screw this.”
Just because Nico ditched me, it doesn’t mean I have to waste the rest of my day. I know better than to rely on him or anyone else, for that matter.
I storm into a nearby cafe, practically tearing the slings off my flip-flops, and order a chamomile tea—it’s supposed to help you relax, right?—then make my way back to Escadaria Selarón.
The steps are a beautiful collection of mosaic tiles, pieced together with bright colors of Brazil: deep greens, blues, and yellows. Clusters of red line the stairs. The sight is breathtaking, even through my flustered feelings.
I weave through bodies and small masterpieces, spotting hidden artwork tucked beneath the weight of clay.
The thorny concerns persist.
Is he okay?
Did Nico’s class run over?
Maybe he was eaten by a shark?
Alarm billows through me. I pull out my phone to check the messages again.Perhaps this was all a big misunderstanding.
Our text thread sits empty without a response.Or not.
My fingers navigate to Avery’s contact and type furiously.
