Saudade | ✓

hiraeth

Malaia International Airport
Islamorada City
Northern Aslyr
1964.

IT WAS DOWNPOUR when I arrived.The raindrops thunderously hit the tin roof. The glass doors of the taxi, fogging against my breath, was coated with raindrops that blurred the sight of what was once my city. My lips turn up at the sides at the irony. The weather, it would seem, was a testament to the churning chaos of my heart, the deep hollow pit on my stomach. And the shaky hands that lifted the cup of Espresso between my red-stained lips.

"Where to, miss?"

I blinked, my eyes drifting to the taxi driver whose eyebrows were pulled together in impatience, as though he'd repeated the sentence quite a few times now.

"Marahuyo Apartments in Cortez Street, please, just across Islamorada Public Library," I said smoothly, my voice a slow sultry tone, talking to him like I would impatient passengers who demanded me to be at their beck and call during their flight.

He sighed, but the mar between his brows relaxed. "Dios, finally she speaks. Thought you were just going to sit there all night long."

That would've been a preferable choice, I thought. I smiled in response, though it did not reach my eyes.

I leaned back on my seat, biting my lip. Did I make the right choice to come back now after two years? I could've been in Venice right now—walking its cobblestone streets as I ate a Strawberry Gelato, a hat pulled low over my head charming Italian men on a cup of coffee. Or I could've been in Rio de Janeiro, soaking up the Brazilian sun, making my olive skin a deeper luscious shade. Andrew would've buried himself in the sand, pulling me along with him and I would've laughed loud like I wasn't broken.

Andrew Gomez. My chest clenched in guilt as I thought of him. The charming Casanova businessman that I had met during the worst day of my life in Egypt. He had seen me when my world had fallen apart. Though we hadn't met each other until that fateful day, he hadn't left my side during the course of my hospitalization. When I got discharged, he had dropped me off at a hotel.

Later, I found out he owned the hotel I was staying at. No wonder I was upgraded into a Presidential Suite. I had gotten a note a week later, asking me out to dinner. I had been appalled and disgusted at the offer at first—was that why he had upgraded my room and helped me out? In exchange for something? I just had my heart broken and what did he think of me, an escort?

But later after two weeks of persistence I found out that that was the only way he knew how to get what he wanted, growing up dirt poor. So I had caved and said yes. We spent dinner together on the city as he toured me to the best places to go. I laughed the entire night for the first time in nearly a month, my cheeks hot from the wine.

From then on, we had been friends, occasional bed mates—something I regretted at first when I realized he had feelings for me. Then a year later, after countless times of meeting up around the world when my flights matched his business meetings which resulted in afternoons in cafés, eating Strawberry Cheescake, we made it official.

It was wonderful at first. I was excited by how the experience we had together was always new, something to look forward to, but as the months blended together, I felt a hollowness between the pit of my stomach, as if something was not quite right. And it was soon enough when his little quirks irritated me that I realized we weren't supposed to be together because someone else already had carved his way into my heart, and until I get him out of it, I couldn't be with Andrew. He deserved so much more than I could offer.

When I told him I was going back to Islamorada, he told me it was high time and that he was happy for me. I had seen the sadness in his eyes though.