Page 12 of When She Unravels
The driver takes me to Sant Antoni de Portmani—a town he says is far cheaper than downtown Ibiza. I’m so tired that when I finally get out of the car, I don’t think twice about walking into the first hostel I find.
The tiny lobby smells like incense and wood. Photos of the island cover most of the walls, and there are shelves everywhere with candles and travel books for sale. A jug of water sits on a tiny table with a few stacked cups by its side.
Whenever I’d travel with my family, we’d always stay in five-star hotels. Shiny marble floors, high ceilings, concierges in crisply pressed uniforms, and chocolates on our pillows. I remember getting picky about the stupidest things—the thread count on the sheets and the firmness of the mattress.
Now, I’m so exhausted, I’d be fine sleeping on a wooden palette.
I ask for a private room for two nights. That should be enough for me to figure out what’s next.
The receptionist eyes me curiously while she types some stuff on her computer. I’m worried she’ll ask me questions I can’t answer, but besides asking to see my passport, she holds her tongue. What are the chances the tech geniuses Papà has on his payroll will be able to track me down in the hostel’s system? It’s a long shot, even for them.
“Here you go.” She hands me my receipt and a key attached to a simple metal keychain. Engraved on it is the number five. “You’re all the way at the end of the hall. Last door on the right.”
“Thanks.”
Inside, my room is simple but clean. I collapse on the bed and try to take a nap, but even though I’m deathly tired, sleep won’t come. The anxiety of not knowing what I’m going to do here gnaws at me. My wallet is one hundred euros lighter after paying for my room, and I have no way to replenish my cash.
I sit back up and catch a whiff of myself. Jesus, I stink. I’m definitely not going to find a job if I look like I haven’t showered in two days. Dragging myself into the bathroom, I freshen up the best I can and then head out to buy myself some toiletries and a few changes of clothes.
The town unfurls around me like a colorful tapestry. It’s a bit run down, but the shore and the azure-blue water more than make up for it.
I walk around for a bit, but as the afternoon creeps in, the dial on the sun turns way up. It’s incredibly hot. The humidity makes my skin sticky, and the money I stuffed inside my bra because I didn’t want to leave anything at the hostel is giving me an itch. I take most of it out and move it to my purse.
There’s a small shopping area the receptionist recommended and marked with an X on my tourist map. She said I’d find whatever I needed there, so I make my way over.
I pick up three tops, a pair of shorts, a light dress, a pair of sneakers, some underwear, and a backpack to hold it all. After I pay for everything, I stop by the entrance of the store and do a quick count of the money left in my purse. One thousand eight hundred and thirty-four euros, plus the little bit left in my bra. It’s fine. I’ll make it work.
By now, my family must know that I’m gone. It’s been nearly twenty-four hours. If Lazaro’s dead, the maid must have found him. If he’s alive, he would have told Papà what happened.
As I start walking back to the hostel, images of Lazaro splayed on the floor flash inside my mind. I don’t feel an ounce of pity for him. I don’t really feel anything at all.
A shiver runs through me. That’s wrong, isn’t it? I should havesomefeelings about the fact that I might have murdered my husband. What if something inside of me is permanently damaged? Is this my punishment? Being condemned to live the rest of my life numb? Unable to feel normal human emotions and incapable of empathy or love?
I helped Converse girl. That has to count for something. When I saw her there, so young and terrified, I couldn’t do it. Yet that one act doesn’t make up for the other people I harmed. Not even close. I could have chosen to help any one of them, and I didn’t.
A body collides into me hard enough to push the air out of my lungs.
“What the hell?”
All I see is a whirl of black clothing and a flash of a male face.
“Disculpe!” he says, and then he’s running away from me.
It takes me a grand total of three seconds to catch onto what just happened.
My purse is gone.
I break out into a sprint in my flimsy flats with my new backpack bouncing painfully against my lower back and shout after the thief, but the distance between us only grows.
He’s faster than me.
Passersby stop and stare, some even try to grab the man, but none of them succeed. Eventually, I stop, my breath coming out in raged pants. My hands press against my thighs, and whatever bubble of hope I had left bursts.
My money is gone.
I feel sick.
When I get back to the hostel and tell the receptionist what happened, she’s sympathetic.
