Our Secret Summer(2)
It’s simple: I lied to my parents and fled the States so I could have a no-holds-barred scandalous summer abroad. If I’m going to pull this off, I can’t take any chances. I have to stay under the radar as much as possible. I probably shouldn’t even be telling people my real name, but it’s not like Isabel is all that conspicuous. I bet there are plenty of us running around this island. I only need to worry if someone asks for my last name, and then I’ll lie. Isabel De Vere doesn’t exist here.
I reach the cross streets where I usually take a left to get back to my hostel. Instead, I continue on into the nicer area of Playa d’en Bossa, toward the fine dining and fancy bars I’ve purposely avoided over the last three days in an effort to keep from overspending.
From what I’ve gathered, most of Ibiza is rustic and quaint. Its simplicity is beautiful. There’s a reason they call this place the White Island. Most of the buildings are whitewashed with lime to reflect heat, much the same way they do on other Mediterranean islands. But while the sea and views are breathtaking, for the most part Ibiza is eclectic and unpretentious. Cobblestone streets house family-run businesses and small cafés. Tourists walk around in flip-flops and bathing suits. There are hostels and open-air markets and tapas bars. The island is quiet and sleepy in the mornings, but at night, it’s loud and vibrant and already jam-packed with people, which is wild considering it’s early May and it’ll only get more crowded as the summer heats up.
Beyond the simple, unassuming neighborhoods, I know there’s another side of Ibiza. I’ve seen glimpses of the expensive homes and yachts, but it’s only now as I walk deeper into Playa d’en Bossa that I realize there’s real money here, the kind I left behind back in California.
I shiver despite the heat and wrap my arms protectively around my waist. It’s strange to be wandering on my own on the sidewalk like any normal person. Three days and my new reality still hasn’t sunk in.
I’m used to traveling with a shadow in the form of Steve, a six-foot-two beefy ex-Marine who’s said maybe three words to me in all his time employed as my family’s bodyguard. And I know how that sounds: sexy, right? A hot dude who knows when to shut up? Yes, please. But Steve is a sweet man with a sweet wife and also my dad’s age. Anyway, he started traveling with my family and me when I was twelve. He isn’t with me all the time, just when my parents think it’s imperative. This situation would definitely call for Steve. Ibiza is halfway around the world from Montecito. I’m all alone here on the island. I know no one and I’m carrying a purse with—oh look at that—euros literally spilling out of it. Dammit. I zip it up and position it safely in front of my chest. To be clear, I stowed most of the cash I brought in a locker back at my hostel, but according to all the research I’ve done (aka reading mystery and thriller books), you’re supposed to divide it up in case something happens to one of your stashes.
Now—even at my very adult age of twenty-six—if my parents knew I was here, if they knew what I was doing right this minute, they’d have me hauled back to California before I could say, “?Una sangría más, por favor!” They were strict before everything happened with my sister; now they’re nearly unbearable. It’s my mom, mainly. The day before I left for this secret trip, I arrived at my parents’ house for dinner only a few minutes late, and my mom still cocked her eyebrow and watched me take my seat like she’d been sitting there waiting for me so long her bones had turned brittle from disuse.
“Where were you? Why were you late? And must you wear that hat to the dinner table?”
The thrifted trucker hat was the only thing keeping my damp hair out of my face. Even still, I took it off and slung it onto the head of the ornate golden goose that has, for some reason, sat in the center of our colossal dinner table since I was a child.
My dad winked at me over the edge of his wineglass. He’s not one to audibly side against my mom. The man has to live with her, after all, but he likes to let me know quietly—off the record—that he’s on my side.
“Never mind all of that. Let’s move on… I hope you wore sunscreen today.”
I tried to ignore my mother, but when she’s in a mood, there’s no stopping her.
“Positively lathered,” I lied while accepting the seared scallops she was trying to pass my way.
I had been out on the water most of the afternoon, and though I took the time to replace my wet suit with a sundress before sitting down at the De Vere dinner table, I’m sure I still smelled like a washed-up sea animal.
“Any good ones come your way?” my dad asked.
I scrunched my nose. “Yeah, a few nice swells. Crowded, though. Some ass—”
“Language, Isabel,” my mom cut in sharply.
“Some guy nearly took me out.”
“I’ll go out with you Saturday,” my dad promised.
My heart lurched in my chest. “My flight leaves early…”
I was referring to the flight that was sanctioned by them, not the flight I secretly took to Ibiza.
He looked crushed. “Right. I forgot.”
“What about tomorrow?” I asked with hopeful arched brows.
His mouth formed a grim flat line. “I’m in meetings all day.”
I chewed on my bottom lip and nodded, trying to play off my disappointment. I love surfing with my dad—it’s our thing—and it was a little heartbreaking to realize it’d be a while before we could take to the water together.