There’s something wistful in her voice. A breeze trails a whisp of hair across her shoulder.
“You sound like you get that,” I say.
She glances at me, startled. “What?”
“Building something bigger than yourself.”
She frowns for a split second, her lips parting, considering, and then, “What about you?” She changes the subject. “What was your childhood like?”
All right, mystery girl. Keep your secrets.
“I spent a lot of time alone,” I say, careful with my answer. “My mom worked a lot. My dad wasn’t always around.”Or ever.I pause.
We start walking again, circling the cathedral. The streets around it are busy with tourists and vendors, but somehow itdoesn’t feel crowded. It could be just the two of us out here, for all I care.
“If you could do anything, what would it be?” I ask after a while.
“You mean besides planning other people’s weddings?”
“Yeah.”
She’s quiet, and I can see something churning in her expression. Her gaze travels the ancient lines of the cathedral walls. “I don’t know. Travel, maybe? I’ve never really been anywhere…well, except here. So…maybe not a great omen for my future travels.” She drags her gaze away, turning it toward me. “How about you? What’s your dream?”
The question catches me off guard.
“I don’t have one,” I hear myself say.
She stops walking. “Everyone has a dream.”
“Not me.”
“I don’t believe that.”
“Believe it.”
“There has to besomething. Something you want that you don’t have.”
The honest answer? I want to stop feeling like I’m drowning. I want my father to get his life together. I want to be more than just the image everyone expects.
But I can’t say any of that.
“Maybe I just haven’t found it yet,” I say finally.
She studies my face, then nods slowly. “Okay. But when you do find it, I hope it’s something good.”
I paste on a smile. “Yeah. Me too.” But I look away, because suddenly I’m in too deep, and the way she’s looking at me, all full of hope, as though she expects that dream to come to me any minute now—it’s too much. I run a hand over the back of my neck, adjust my hat. “Hey. You hungry?”
“Are you kidding? I just missed the boat to my never-ending shrimp buffet. I was saving up an appetite for that.”
I can’t help but chuckle as I grab her hand on instinct, redirecting our path. “Come on.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re at La Boqueria market, and Chloe is practically vibrating with excitement.
The market is an assault on the senses. Stalls overflow with fruit so bright it looks painted, like Hollywood props—strawberries the size of small apples, mangoes glowing orange-gold. Legs of jamón ibérico dangle from hooks. Fresh seafood sits on beds of ice, still smelling like the ocean. The air is thick with competing scents: spices, fresh bread, roasting nuts, sweet fruit.
Chloe stops at every stall, taking photos, exclaiming over everything.
“Look at these tomatoes!”
