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I’m out like a light, and thankfully, I dream of nothing at all.
—
My plan to avoid David works for about half a day.
Claire, Jean, and I grab breakfast at the resort buffet in the morning—there’s a station specifically for made-to-order omelets. I get mine with smoked salmon and cream cheese, a luxury I’d never be allowed at home, before sliding into one of the leather-backed booths. Brad is nowhere to be seen, and I don’t ask. After a good night’s sleep, I’ve decided that he, at least, isn’t going to be one of the notches on my Ibiza bedpost. It feels like it’s for the best if we don’t talk about it.
Jean, of course, brings it up. “Did you stop by to see if Brad was alright?” he asks neutrally, spearing a bite of sausage, and I see Claire wince.
“I figured he probably wouldn’t want to see me.” I try to keep my tone casual, but I can already feel myself getting defensive.Men act like all they want is something casual, but god forbid you flirt for a couple of days and then change your mind.
“I don’t know about that. Maybe he needs to be nursed back to health.” Jean chuckles, and Claire elbows him.
“Stop it,” she whispers. “Amalie isn’t interested.”
Jean smirks. “Could have fooled me last night, before that other guy showed up. Claire said something night before last about you coming in late. That who you were with?”
I almost don’t want to answer the question—something about Jean’s assumption that I’d tell him rubs me the wrong way—but I just nod. “I guess he took it all a little too seriously. I might give the flirting a rest for a bit. Maybe one man is enough for my Ibiza experience.”
It’s clear from the look on Claire’s face that she disagrees with me, but she doesn’t argue. And I keep that resolve—all the way until we’re in a poolside cabana later that afternoon, three piña coladas deep for me, and I see David with a petite blonde a few cabanas over.
She’s sitting on his lap, and I immediately feel a flash of irritation. He’s doing the same fucking thing that he flipped out on Brad for last night, butI’mnot getting up, storming over there and dragging her off of him—because I have no right to.
The thought stops me.Because I don’twantto, or just because I don’t think I have therightto?Those are two very different things.
My resolve that maybe I’ve had enough of men for this trip frays, just in time for a tall, deeply tanned man with dark hair to walk over and sink onto the lounge chair next to mine. He introduces himself as Franc, and I catch one glimpse of David’s head turning in my direction before I give Franc my full attention, introducing myself and accepting his offer of a drink.
The rest of the day—and the next—goes exactly like that. Claire and her friends are insistent on hitting up all of the best spots, and either David is doing the same, or he’s following me. I don’tthinkit’s the latter, because every time I see him, he’s with a different woman, but I also catch him looking at me more often than not. I make a point of talking and flirting with all of the handsome men who approach me, wanting to make sure David has no reason to think I’m mooning over him, but every time one of them tries to take things a little further, I find a reason to turn them down. At night, I go out dancing with Claire and Jean and their friends, and I let men buy me drinks and grind on them on the dance floor, but nothing seems to come anywhere close to the way David made me feel. No one makes me feel that electric jolt in my veins, no one makes my heart pound faster. No one makes me feel as if, just for a moment, I can’t breathe.
It feels like David’s ruined me for anyone else, and that pisses me off more than anything.
We’ll be going home in a few more days, and I know what’s waiting for me there. I wanted to enjoy my trip to the fullest before I’m trapped at home again, and it feels like that one night has set a standard that no one else can match. That would have been fine—if only he hadn’t been such an asshole about it afterward.
I get up the next morning feeling slightly hungover and as tired as if I’m jet-lagged all over again. Claire is already awake and in the bathroom getting ready, and she pokes her head out when she hears me getting up, her straightener held in one hand.
“We’re going for brunch. There’s a place with bottomless mimosas that come in ten different flavors, and apparently, they have anexquisitebreakfast buffet. You’re coming too, right?”
I have half a mind to crawl back into bed, pull the covers over my head, and go back to sleep. The pace of our vacation was fun at first, but I’m starting to crave a day of solitude and silence, and I look wistfully out at the private pool just beyond our room. We haven’t used it at all—Claire wants to party, not lay out in the quiet—and I wonder if I could manage to get an afternoon alone there with a drink and a book.
From the expression on Claire’s face, I don’t think I have a chance at that.
“Sure.” I flash her a smile, getting up and walking over to the closet where some of my clothes are hanging. “Just give me twenty minutes or so to get ready?”
She goes to get Jean while I finish freshening up, slipping into a silk-patterned maxi dress. I braid my hair along the sides of my head and loop the ends of it underneath the base of my neck, adding long, dangly earrings, and quickly glance at my reflection. I look tired, and I once more consider the possibility of more sleep before grabbing my clutch and sandals and heading out to meet Claire.
Brunch is, as Claire promised, amazing. “We’re going to run back to the room to grab some more sunscreen,” she tells me as I finish my last strawberry mimosa. “Just grab an Uber and meet us at the pool we went to yesterday?”
“Sure.” I wave for the waiter, considering if I want to order one more mimosa as Claire and Jean get up to leave. I have a feeling there’s a reason they’re going back that has nothing to do with sunscreen, and I think I probably have time for another drink before they meet me at the pool.
The waiter brings me the bill as I finish that last drink, and I slip my credit card inside of it, not bothering to look at the total. There’s no limit on my credit card, even if itisonly supposed to be for emergencies. So far, my mother doesn’t seem to have noticed that it’s being used in a very different place than where I’d told her I would be.
I’m supposed to be at home while she’s in Boston, discussing some sort of potential marriage prospects for me—something my father would be handling instead, if he were still here. He’d be the one sorting through the sons of mafia consiglieres and underbosses, angling for the best match to improve our family’s standing. He tried to achieve just that with a marriage between my brother and the orphaned daughter of Giacomo Mancini—and he failed.
Now he’s gone, with my mother the only one left standing to try to salvage what’s left., This particular situation gave me the chance to escape. A chance to be free and on my own, just for once.
A chance that comes abruptly to a halt when the waiter returns to my table with a frown on his face.
“I’m very sorry, ma’am. Your card was declined. Do you have another I can run?”
