Chapter 3 - Heather

Chapter 3

Heather

Lima, Peru

By the time she landed in Lima, Heather had seventeen messages from Shawn. That was roughly one every half hour, although the time stamps showed that they had come in flurries. She didn't open them. Because: red flags. As she exited the plane, she rammed her phone down deep in her bag and tried to forget the messages existed, to very little success.

It was her own fault. She'd slipped up again and ended up in bed with him.

She put her fall off the wagon down to a dangerous cocktail of guilt, loneliness, and anxiety about the trip. Last night, when she'd been packing and repacking, feeling the pressure of the coming vacation with her mother, Shawn had come knocking at her door very late, bearing farewell gifts and his usual unadulterated longing. He'd stood there, leaning against the doorframe, his hair flopping over his forehead, looking at her with those soft hazel eyes. He'd brought her a book for the plane (some author he'd been telling her to read for months—an author she had zero interest in reading), and an Aesop "arrival kit," which was full of luxury toiletries to make her arrival in Lima a botanical-scented joy (green flag?). Although she suspected his motive was less about her joy and more about getting her to think about him every time she used the products (red flag).

"I'm going to miss you," he said huskily. "Let me in."

He was like a sexy vampire, looming at the threshold, trying to gain entrance. And once he was over the threshold she was in trouble. She wondered if he practiced that longing stare in the mirror, or if he spent hours watching Edward in the Twilight movies, trying to master the exact wordless hunger that was supposed to make a woman helpless.

It didn't make her helpless exactly, but it did make her stupid enough to sleep with him. And, of course, he'd still been in her bed when she'd thrown her new Aesop toiletries into her suitcase and zipped it shut at the crack of dawn. She had a ridiculous amount of luggage—both a suitcase and a hefty hiking pack. Bon-Bon had paid for extra luggage on the flights and organized storage for their suitcases while they were off trekking, so they didn't have to limit themselves to just hiking pack and sensible clothes.

"I am not wearing hiking clothes the entire trip!" Bon had said scornfully. "Imagine wearing hiking boots to a nice restaurant in Lima. And I'm certainly not lugging heels up the mountains in a backpack."

So, a hiking pack and a suitcase it was. There would be luxury in Lima and roughing it from Cusco on.

"You'll thank me when we get back from Machu Picchu and you can change into some proper clothes again," Bon had said smugly.

But Heather wasn't sure she'd thank her during transit, when she had to lug two bags around. It was hard enough getting it all into the elevator, especially because she didn't want to accept Shawn's help. He'd followed her down to the lobby of their building as she booked an Uber. He'd been hastily redressed in last night's clothes, all rumpled from bed, and mournful because she was leaving. The streetscape outside only added to his drama; it looked like something out of an old movie, with unseasonable fog rolling in off the lake, billowing slowly through the buildings and along the street, making everything misty and romantic, like they'd stepped out into Casablanca.

Shawn's hand migrated to the nape of her neck as they waited in the suppressed morning light, his thumb caressing the bare skin under her collar. She shook him off. She hated when he did that. It made her feel like she was a dog being brought to heel.

"Shawn," she blurted, as they waited for her ride to arrive, "last night was a mistake."

He shook his head. "You always say that. Once is a mistake, Heather, twice might be a problem, but this many times? Face it, babe, this is destiny."

Or a pathology.

And she hated being called babe.

Why was she so weak? She didn't want him, but when he was there, handing out fancy geranium- and citrus-scented body wash (or flowers, like last time; or a bottle of pinot noir, like the time before), smoldering at her like a vampire in a teen movie, she couldn't seem to say no. Or rather she said no, but then he'd touch her, or kiss her, or tell her she was beautiful, and she was useless.

Peru was exactly what she needed. For a few weeks there'd be no Shawn knocking at her door. She'd go cold turkey on him and by the time she returned she'd be reformed.

"You should date other people," she told him firmly.

"There's no point. I know what I want."

Oh God. Where was her ride?

"Besides, dating other people hasn't worked for you," he observed. "It doesn't matter how many times you say you like this new guy, you still end up with me."

Yeah, well, that was only because the new guy didn't really exist. If he existed, it would be a whole different story.

Maybe what she needed was a real guy. A substitute, like the way people chewed nicotine gum to quit cigarettes. Maybe she could find the man version of nicotine gum in Lima? She could have a lusty fling with a gorgeous Peruvian. That might be all she needed to break Sean's spell/curse.

"I'm not with you," she corrected Shawn testily.

"Sure." He was unconvinced. And then, to prove his point, he'd given her a guerilla kiss goodbye. His hand plunged into her hair as he hauled her against him, his mouth hot and insistent. He seemed to expect her to melt into him, maybe because of the romance of the Hollywood fog, or maybe because he thought she'd be overcome with regret now that she was really leaving. Or maybe it was just the fact that she often did surrender to him. Something made her go limp around Shawn. A kind of emotional freezing response. Annoyed by his kiss, Heather planted her palm on his chest and pushed him away. Or she tried to, but he was in the throes of passion or something because he barely budged.

Shawn was suffocating the life out of her. So much so that she'd paid the fee to change the flights Bon had booked so she could leave early.

"I know you're afraid of commitment," Shawn said tenderly, when she eventually got herself unstuck from his kiss. "And I know it's probably because of your dad, and all that mess. Which is perfectly understandable. I'll wait. I know you're scared, but I'm brave enough for the both of us."

She couldn't get into the back seat fast enough when her car arrived. Brave enough for the both of us? Blerg. Shawn always devolved into talking like they were in a soap opera. Did he actually mean the garbage he spouted? If he did, something was wrong with him. But then, maybe something was wrong with her, not him. Wasn't she supposed to want a man who was this in love with her? Was she taking something that was good and whole and healthy and turning it into something else, because of her own emotional chaos? The idea terrified her.

Her mother always accused her of being unromantic, but Heather preferred to think she had a low tolerance for drama. Probably because of her mom's idea of romance . . . Shawn's passion often seemed a lot like drama, and with the drama she'd grown up with . . .

The thing was, she didn't trust herself at all.

Shawn told her to trust him—but she didn't want to do that either.

Oh, for the love of God, here she was in Lima, and she was still thinking about him! Damn him for texting her. Now her stomach was churning. He was ruining her vacation from more than three thousand miles away.

Well, she wasn't answering his messages. In fact, first thing tomorrow she was going to get a temporary Peruvian SIM card, and then he wouldn't have her number until she got back.

She was in Peru! This was supposed to be exciting. No more silent moaning. She was on an adventure. This wasn't Everyday Heather here in Lima, this was Adventurous Heather, and she didn't have to please anyone but herself.

"Hola!" A man hopped out of a small black hatchback as Heather reached the front of the cab rank. There was no taxi sign on the car's roof, or company name painted on the side, but that didn't seem abnormal here. The cab rank was a mix of official taxis and unsigned sedans and hatchbacks. There was even a dented lime-green van in the line.

"Hola," Heather said, wishing she'd paid more attention in her high school Spanish class. The cabdriver chattered at her as he took her suitcase and her new hiking pack and threw them into the trunk of his battered old car. He had more of a drawl than her old Spanish teacher and all the words ran together.

"Hablo muy poquito espa?ol," she apologized, pulling out her phone to find a translation app. She should have planned this better and learned some basic phrases, but the whole trip had been kind of hasty. "English? Do you speak English?"

"Miraflores?" he asked, holding the door open for her. "San Isidro?"

Right. This could work. She knew the name of where she wanted to go. "Barranco! Casa Suerte, Barranco," she said as she clipped her seat belt in. She fumbled with her cell phone and showed him the address. Then she checked her bad high school Spanish in the translator; she wanted to know how much the ride cost. "?Cuánto cuesta?"

The cabdriver shrugged, which didn't seem promising. But he was driving off, with her and her bags onboard, so it was too late now....

Heather tried to relax as the cab headed south. She'd never really traveled much on her own; she'd always gone with friends. This was quieter.

She'd best enjoy the quiet while she could, she thought with a snort, because there wouldn't be any quiet once Mom and Bon-Bon arrived. They were both talkers. Which would be fine if they simply chattered and let Heather listen, but they didn't. Talking to Mom and Bon was a contact sport. And Heather didn't always like playing.

But they weren't here now, and neither was Shawn. She was alone, and she didn't owe anyone anything for the next few days.

Heather felt her shoulders loosen as the cab reached the coast. The ocean beyond the cliffs reflected the city lights like smears of oil paint on a dark canvas. The cabdriver was a cheerful, fatherly guy, who gave a running commentary in Spanish. He threw the name of each suburb over his shoulder, and Heather snapped to attention when they reached Miraflores. This was where she needed to be when she met Mom and Bon. It was a shiny, modern district right by the ocean cliffs, and Heather could spot the glow of familiar hotel brands lighting up the night.

"Turistas," the cabdriver said, with a smile in his voice. "Bacán."

"Cool." She nodded and smiled stiffly, feeling keenly her lack of Spanish.

"Sí! Bacán. Cool." He turned to grin at her. "Barranco cool también."

Barranco was the bohemian artists' district, and it had leapt out at her when she was trawling the web for places to stay in Lima. It was just as touristy as Miraflores, but in a different way. One hundred years ago Barranco had been a fancy little resort town, but these days the old mansions had been converted to casonas for the tourists. Heather loved the eclectic look of the neighborhood in the photos and the way the old-fashioned charm had neon-bright modern edges. Barranco was a vision of cobbled promenades lit by branches of globed streetlights; there were terraced gardens, and, best of all, the ocean lapped at its feet. Street art splashed the buildings, and there were pop-up galleries and bars and live music. It was young and colorful and alive, and Heather couldn't wait to dive in.

She'd booked a room in a gracious old casa that was like a luxe version of a hostel; it had a warren of both single and shared bunk rooms, a rooftop terrace with a casual bar, and there was a common breakfast room and lounge. She could imagine herself in those rooms, a newer and improved version of herself. Barranco Heather. In her mind's eye she was wearing flowing peasant skirts and chiming stacks of silver bangles, and she was thinner and prettier, bohemian, and radiant. This was the kind of casa where she could finally be the person she was meant to be. Or a version of her. Her Chicago fantasy was of being a sleekly successful career woman; her Barranco fantasy was of being a loose-limbed, glowing traveler, at ease with the world, wanting nothing but the present moment.

Neither of them was Heather as she usually was, which was short, plump, and overthinking everything . . .

After half an hour of wending along the coast, the cabdriver turned into Barranco, and Heather felt her mood soar. It was everything she'd hoped for. Bright graffiti murals were splashed across the sides of buildings, carnival lights glimmered in the alleyways, and an ocean breeze stirred the leaves of the spreading trees in the parks. She couldn't wait to get out into it.

"Casa Suerte," the cabdriver announced kindly as he pulled up in front of a slightly shabby yellow building, which was three stories high and overgrown with climbing bougainvillea. The flowers were dark purple in the orange streetlight, and between their thickets the windows were thrown open to the night. Casa Suerte was romantic in the extreme. It had a fading glamor that made Heather tingle. Up on the rooftop she could see a net of multicolored party lights strung between outdoor umbrellas, and she could hear the unmistakable pulse of reggaeton.

It was perfect.

"Ciento diez," the cabdriver called as he threw open his door. "Soles, not dollar."

Right. Heather dragged herself away from goggling at the casa and found her currency converter. She was relieved to see it was a cheap ride. She dug out the soles she'd stashed away and counted the cash, including a tip, because she wasn't sure if you tipped in Peru or not. The driver had been nice, and he certainly deserved a tip for putting up with her insufficient Spanish.

Heather's cell phone vibrated in her hand as she waited for the driver to pull her luggage out of the trunk. Of course it was Shawn calling. Annoyed, Heather punched decline. Honestly. She hadn't even been gone a full day.

Did you get in safe?The message popped up on her screen.

Seriously?

She'd get that SIM first thing in the morning, she swore, as the cabdriver left her to the sunshine-yellow casa. She carried her bags into the foyer, which was eye-poppingly colorful. She was here, she reminded herself, and Shawn wasn't. Ignore him and be here. Like the purple Post-it said, Don't look back, you're not going that way.

The floor was a mosaic of orange and green tiles, and the ceiling was painted bright green, with a huge smoked orange glass pendant light suspended beneath it.

Heather loved the place, chipped paint on the walls and all.

Above, she heard the pattering of feet on the stairs and a woman appeared on the landing. She was wire thin, with a thick purple knitted headband wrapped around an impressive tower of dreadlocks. She brought the musky smell of incense with her as she descended. "Well, hi," she said, her accent thick but her English fluent. "You must be Heather—you're the last one due in today."

"That's me," Heather agreed.

"I'm Cristina." She swung around the newel post of the banister and reached for Heather's hiking pack. "No need to sign in or anything—we've got all your details online. Come on, I'll show you to your room."

Oh. Okay. Heather hefted her suitcase and followed. She struggled to keep up. Cristina was fit—she was halfway up to the second floor before Heather had reached the first landing.

Cristina grinned down at Heather. She was carrying the pack like it weighed nothing at all. "You're a hiker?" she asked. "Come to Peru for Machu Picchu?"

"Is it that obvious?"

Cristina laughed. "Nine out of ten people come for Machu Picchu. I'm guessing by the pack that you're trekking and not taking the train?"

"I didn't know the train was an option," Heather said dryly. Bon sure didn't mention any train.

"It wouldn't be for me," Cristina called back over her shoulder. She was heading up to the third floor. "What's the point in coming all this way, if you're just going to sit on a train? When do you leave for Cusco? Hit me up for some recommendations before you go. I love Cusco."

"I don't know how long I'll be there before we head out on the trek . . ." Heather puffed. There were a lot of stairs in this place.

"You're second to the end here," Cristina told Heather, gesturing to a door the exact same shade of Sunkist orange as Heather's Post-its. Good things are coming. The doors alternated between green and orange all the way down the corridor.

"There aren't any numbers on the doors, so you'll have to remember which one is yours."

The key was hanging out of the lock. No swipe cards around here. Cristina took the key out of the lock and handed it to Heather. It was on a long tassel of yellow and red pom-poms. "So you don't lose it." Cristina laughed and lowered Heather's pack to the floorboards. "I'll leave you here to unpack and freshen up. If you shower, make sure you lock the door, so you don't get any nasty surprises."

Heather frowned. Wait, what did that mean?

Warily, she opened the door to her room, half expecting to be disappointed. Hotel rooms were always disappointing; the photos online were usually taken from weird angles, which made the rooms appear bigger than they actually were. She was expecting a place so small that she could touch every wall from the bed. But she was pleasantly surprised. Her little garret looked just like it had in the pictures online: stripped floorboards, pale-peach walls, a starburst art deco mirror above a narrow bed, which was covered with a hand-woven Peruvian bedspread. And that window. The window took up most of the wall next to the bed, a wide arch with mullioned panes. Through the glass, Heather could see the bougainvillea lapping at the window frame, the leaves nodding in the breezes eddying in from the ocean, the flowers like fat clusters of grapes. The lamplight gave the room an apricot glow, and everything was warm and welcoming. Someone, Cristina probably, had left a thick bunch of Peruvian lilies in a clay vase on the bedside table.

Heather realized that she was holding her breath.

This was exactly what she needed. She could feel a tremble of magic as she stepped over the threshold. This was a place where she could be happy. Heather peered out the window—she was facing the backstreets, which were a tumble of ramshackle buildings, a terra-cotta-roofed wonderland. She was itching to get out and explore. But she was going to wash the travel grime off first.

When she stepped into the bathroom, Heather discovered what Cristina's cryptic comment about locking the door meant. The bathroom was a shared Jack-and-Jill arrangement, a narrow shower room wedged between her room and the room next door. She didn't have her own bathroom—she was sharing with a total stranger. And there were only little hooks to lock the doors, not substantial locks.

Her bathroom-mate had left their door unlatched and slightly open. The room beyond was dark. Heather swiftly closed and latched it. Good Lord. The poor woman certainly didn't want to walk in on Heather showering. And Heather didn't want to walk in on her either.

Heather dropped her toiletry bag on the counter. She stared at the small Aesop box Shawn had given her. As much as she would love to use the luxury products, she couldn't bear to think of Shawn every time she lathered up. The whole point was to get away from him.

Heather grabbed a pen from her bag, tore a scrap from the magazine she'd been reading on the plane and scrawled a note to put on the box. Howdy, neighbor. Please use. I'm allergic, so it's all yours.

She felt guilty and hated herself for it. But it was hers to give away, wasn't it?

You're not allergic to me, you're allergic to commitment.Shawn's voice was clear and kind in her head. Kind-ish. Kind sounding. But actually goddamn annoying. Total red flag of a voice.

You get stressed just thinking about commitment, Shawn-in-her-head said.

She didn't. She got stressed thinking about him—they were two different things. Now that she was away from him, his vampiric charm had lifted completely, and she felt surer of her decision.

I'm not your father, Heather. I won't leave.

Oh, get out of my head, she thought, irritated. Heather left the box of toiletries on her neighbor's side of the sink and turned her back on Shawn's invisible voice.

Despite her vision of her new self, Heather didn't own any peasant skirts or silver bangles, so after her shower she had to settle for jeans and a light sweater. At least it was a nice sweater, a light pastel-pink knit. She blasted her long bob with the hair dryer to try and give it some volume and slicked on some lip gloss. She didn't look anything like a glowing, relaxed boho chick, but she didn't look too bad. Her hair was shiny and swung naturally perfectly straight to her shoulders, and her cheeks had a natural flush. While she looked a lot like her mom, she was glad she'd inherited her dad's southern Italian coloring. She liked her thick dark eyebrows and eyelashes, and the drama of her blunt-cut dark hair. She laced up her kicks, blew herself a kiss in the mirror, and headed up to collect the welcome pisco sour she'd been told about when she booked.

The rooftop was really a terrace. It ran along the street side of the building, backing onto an upper-story suite of bunk rooms. Yellow and pink tasseled beach umbrellas were unfurled over the tables, even though it was night, and overhead cobwebs of party lights glowed in bright colors. Potted plants proliferated, making the place feel like a jungle.

Every table was full, and laughter cut across the cheerful pulse of the reggaeton thumping from the speakers. Heather's shyness ramped up. She reminded herself that she'd never see these people again, and it didn't matter what they thought of her. But she was still intimidated. She headed for the makeshift bar at the far end of the rooftop. A pisco sour might calm her nerves. The bar was a plank propped between two ladders and was staffed by a bearded guy in a yellow T-shirt.

"Hey, mamacita," the bartender greeted her, grinning as she wandered up. "You must be our new American." His accent was heavy, but he spoke fluent English. "What shall it be? Pisco or beer?"

"Pisco, please." When in Rome, after all.

"Excellent choice. You always want the pisco when I'm making it, not when Cristina is." He winked at her. "Cristina is many things, but a mixologist is not one of them," he told her jauntily as he mixed her cocktail.

His cheerfulness was infectious.

"I thought I might grab some dinner after this," Heather said as she watched him splash pisco brandy into an old jelly jar, which she assumed was her glass. "Do things stay open late, or should I hurry?"

"Depends. What kind of food do you like? Some of the fancy places close earlier."

"I like whatever's local," she told him, accepting the pale-yellow foamy drink that he slid in front of her.

"Ah well, you can't go wrong with ceviche," he suggested. "You don't get more local than that. You can find lots of casual Cevicherias. There's a great little place just over the Puente de los Suspiros." He scrawled directions on a napkin for her. "The Bridge of Sighs. You'll want to see that anyway. You know if you make a wish and hold your breath as you walk across the bridge—don't let it out before the end, comprender?—then your wish will come true." He handed the napkin over.

"Seriously?"

"Cross my heart." He actually crossed his heart. "Know what you're going to wish for?"

Heather had no idea. It must have shown on her face because he laughed.

"Maybe to find love?" he suggested. "That's always a popular one."

Love. She had flashbacks of Shawn telling her how much he loved her. God, no.

"Or even just to have a bit of casual fun while you're in town," the bartender teased. "After all, nothing is forever."

"I might just wish for a nice dinner." She tucked the napkin into her pocket and toasted him with her drink.

* * *

It felt good to go for a walk after a long day in transit. She wound through the hilly maze of streets, past buildings painted rainbow colors (watermelon pink and spearmint green; burnt orange and sky blue; sherbet yellow and pale lilac), peering in shop fronts and pausing to listen to the live music spilling from the bars. The directions on the napkin led her downhill to a plaza, beneath towering palms, and the spreading branches of ancient Ficus trees. There were strings of golden lights and the sound of salsa and balladeers on their guitars. People flowed around her, ambling happily, soaking up the atmosphere. A series of wide steps led down through a terraced garden; everything was lush and smelled of grass and earth, and there was the occasional waft of woodsmoke and good things cooking. With every step Heather felt she was sinking further into enchantment. The claustrophobia of her apartment seemed like another life. Her skin tingled and she felt alive to the night.

When Heather finally reached the Bridge of Sighs, she was surprised to see how modest it was—just a narrow wooden bridge on a trestle. The name had led her to expect a whimsical stone folly, but this was a simple straight traditional bridge over a narrow ravine. The ravine itself had been cobbled into a promenade and was loud with restaurants and bars. Heather looked it up on her phone. The promenade below was Bajada de los Ba?os, the old fisherman's walk down to the sea. Gardens and bright buildings hugged the hillsides all around her, and the view from the head of the bridge was incredible—the city sprawled in all directions, a charming undulation of historic buildings in various styles (gothic, colonial, art deco, modern). In the distance Heather could see the fat hook of the moon shining on the ocean, and a lighthouse flashing rhythmically from a rocky outcrop; the Costa Verde coast curled away, a darkness against the sea.

She paused at the first plank on the bridge. The bartender had said that if you held your breath as you crossed the bridge and made a wish, your wish would come true.

But what should she wish for? Heather didn't have a clue what she wanted. She had the job she'd always wanted, the apartment she'd always wanted . . . Sure, her love life was a mess, and her parents had ripped her family apart . . . but she didn't want to think about them tonight.

She didn't know what to ask for. Something new. Something to look forward to.

Surprise me, Bridge, she thought abruptly. Send me something completely unexpected and totally wonderful. Then she took a breath, held it, and walked quickly to the other side.