Page 145 of Fifty First Times (Sharing You 0.40)
“Were you afraid that they were going to hit you with their tails?”
“Were you afraid that Jewels was going to die?”
When the conversation finally starts to fizzle out, Jewels grabs my hand under the table and squeezes it. With the freezing ocean waters still freshly engraved in my mind, having our hands entangled and feeling that warmth is such a stark contrast. A few months ago I would have been elated, this would have been everything I wanted, but since I’ve gotten here, I’ve been intoxicated by this place. I know without a doubt that this isn’t the hand I want to hold. I release her hand and whisper that I need to use the restroom. Walking to the front of the restaurant, I see a pay phone and decide my dad is my best advisor on this situation.
I grab some loose pesos and dial my parents’ number.
Click . . . click . . . click . . . ring . . . ring. . .
“Hello? This is a strange number.”
“Dad, it’s Luke. I’m calling from a phone booth in Argentina.”
“Lukey boy how are you, champ? We miss you around here. How are you getting along?”
Secretly, my dad being ever cheerful always puts me in a good mood. I can hear my mom screaming in the background.
“Is Luke on the phone? I need to speak to him, Hank. Luke, how are you? Are they feeding you? Are you sleeping okay? Do you need anything? Have you adapted to the culture? Are there gauchos on hors—”
“Mom, take a breath.”
After a quick debriefing on my current health, happiness, whereabouts, and several more interruptions from Mom about them feeding me, I finally got to the point of the phone call. “Listen, Dad, the reason I called . . . there’s this girl . . .”
“Ahhh well, there’s always a girl. What’s her name? Is it Sarah’s friend?”
“Well, that’s the thing, Dad—”
Knock . . . knock . . . knock. Someone’s rapping on the glass booth. I turn around and there she is.
The mystery girl.
My mystery girl.
The phone hangs limply in my hand while I stare at the beautiful pair of hazel eyes. My name echoes through the receiver, jolting me back to reality. “Dad, let me call you back. Um . . . someone else needs to use the phone. I guess it’s an emergency or something . . .”
“Luke, be safe, okay, bud?” I hear as I hang up the phone.
I can’t believe she’s here now. I was just about to spend several pesos’ worth of time in a deep gossip session about her with my dad. It’s like she knew.
She looks radiant. Even better than I remembered. Her black hair flows down her tanned cheeks tonight instead of being piled on top of her head like last night
“I’m Luke—I mean, Hola, me llamo Luke.”
She giggles and responds, “Hola, my name is Sibylla.”
See-BEE-lah, SeeBEElah, Sibylla. I love that name. “Um, I didn’t see you at the restaurant . . . were you off today?”
“¿Que?”
I really wish they gave real-world Spanish experience in the classroom. How am I supposed to be prepared for this?
I point to the restaurant behind us. “Shit . . . el restaurant no working?”
My gaze finally drifts downward to the object resting in her palm, when her eyes lower and she thrusts her hand in my direction. “Ah no trabajo hoy. Pero yo tengo un regalo para ti.”
With a confused look on my face, I grab a necklace from her outstretched hand.
“Aquí es un cazador de sueños que hice para los noches a fuera, no bad dreams,” she says.
