He was quiet for a moment. “Okay. Tomorrow. Did you eat?”
My stomach grumbled at the mention of it. “I’m fine.”
“You should eat.”
I smelled it then—kimchi stew. I took another sniff. And an omelet. “Maybe later.”
“I’m not going to leave you a tray of food. No one died.”
I almost laughed. “Whatever.”
“I’ll leave it on the stove for later so you don’t have to look at my monstrous face.” I heard him go downstairs shortly after that.
Later that night, when my dad was asleep, I crept downstairs and saw the stove light left on for me. The rice cooker was full and warm, and there was a small stone pot filled with kimchi stew, sitting next to a chunk of omelet wrapped in plastic.
I ate my food in silence, and in the dark.
***
The closest airport to Tulum was Cancún, and there had been no direct flights left that were affordable. So, after getting up long before the crack of dawn for a seven a.m. flight and taking an airport shuttle to LAX, many, many hours later I finally landed in Mexico at eight p.m. My phone was dead, so I could avoid hearing any voice mails or seeing any texts from my dad for now. He would have found the note I left on the counter for him hours ago.
I wondered if he would have contacted my mom. Probably. Would she be at the airport to pick me up?
Feeling like a shriveled corpse with greasy hair, I made it out of customs and into the fairly small but busy airport. Although I had met up with my mom plenty of times in various cities, this was my first time traveling to another country alone.
There was no sign of my mom. Okay, so maybe she didn’t know I was coming after all.
Luckily, I had saved New Year’s cash from my grandparents, so I had some money on hand for a cab ride. I went to the currency exchange desk and switched out my American dollars for pesos.Next, get a taxi.
Nervous, I walked to an information booth. My Spanish wasn’t the best, but between growing up in LA and speaking some Portuguese, I’d survive. “Perdón,” I said to the man behind the counter in a quiet voice, embarrassed already. “¿Dónde están los taxis?”
With a friendly smile, the young dude with short wavy hair and thick glasses pointed to my right and directed me in accented English. I nodded and said, “Gracias!” As I walked to the taxi stand, I glanced out the bank of windows to my left and stopped in my tracks.
What.
There was a storm raging outside—the palm trees bent, rain pouring in a slant, and everything blanketed in gray mist.
It hadnotbeen raining when we landed. The storm must have just started. Whatwasthis? My summer getaway hurricane?
After I grabbed a receipt at the taxi stand and waited in line outside, a cab was pulled up for me.
I slipped inside and took out a scrap of paper from my pocket. It had the hotel address, which I showed to the driver, an older man wearing a fedora and sporting a soccer jersey. He nodded and gave me a thumbs-up. “Okay!” he said.
“Gracias,” I said in my quiet foreign-language voice, and settled back into the seat, the rhythm of the windshield wipers lulling me.
After a few minutes, the driver held out a phone charger. “¿Necesitas?” he asked.
“Oh, sí. Por favor.” I hooked up my phone. “Gracias.”
After a few seconds, my phone buzzed to life—alight with a flurry of texts from my dad, Rose, and Hamlet. I didn’t open them.
We headed into the storm, and my stomach felt as tumultuous as the weather surrounding us.
CHAPTER 28
We got on the highway and passed through Cancún—full of large, looming resorts that gave off eerily empty vibes during this storm. But after about an hour and a half, we turned onto a road that transported us from the busy, touristy, spring-break vibes of Cancún onto a more remote, low-key thoroughfare. There were people on bikes, even in the rain. Everyone looked less spring break and more yoga retreat. One side of the main road was jungle, and the other, just across the street, was beach. No large resorts here, just tucked-away “eco hotels” with discreet entrances off the main road. We pulled up to the Lotus Hotel—a small but elegant thatched-roof, two-story building with rustic wood columns. Despite the weather,the windows and doors were thrown open, with only gauzy white curtains separating the lobby from the elements. The driver helped me with my bag, and I thanked him.
As I hoisted the duffel onto my shoulder, I saw a figure run out from the entrance with a large white umbrella. It was a young guy wearing a polo shirt and khaki shorts. “Señorita, let me help you,” he said as he took my bag.
