Once I agree to let her watch the dreaded video later, she lays out her plan. Callum told her about a paragliding trip happening this afternoon run by the hostel, which is totally terrifying and totally cool, and she somehow talks me into it. I’m thankful I met Leigh on this trip. Sure, she laughs at me, but she does it openly and honestly. Not behind my back. There’s no pretense between us. We are who we are: two girls trying to own themselves on the other side of the world.
The plan is to tell Sam it’s a girl-bonding mission. It’ll give me time and space to figure out how to tell him we’re over. Time to convince my heart it’s the right thing to do. With the way my body aches remembering the feel of him this morning, the latter may prove difficult. I grab my phone, knowing I need to send another message to Mom. I have to cancel last night’s text written by in-love me, prattling on about Florida and culinary school.
A glance down at the screen shows another missed call from her. Thinking it was Sam, I ignored it, and I’m glad I did. Calling her back means another emotional conversation, something I’d rather avoid. Plus, it’s late back home. I type a rant and hit send. Now I need to deal with the other thing bound to give me a nervous breakdown.
Freaking paragliding.
This has the potential to be catastrophic on a grand scale. Monumental. Pyramids-of-Egypt grand. The idea of jumping off a cliff attached to some random guy while spiraling down mountainsides has me queasy. Combine that with my sudden fatigue, and it’s kind of hard to function. I make it to the kitchen and slather some butter on toast, but my limbs turn languid, my eyelids droop, and I can barely focus.
I’ve experienced this once before. As I got dressed the night of the I’m Not Sure I Lost My Virginity Incident, I was a walking zombie until I chugged my first beer. There’s no doubt Hot Guy is to blame for my current state of neurasthenia—nervous exhaustion. Leigh texted him that we’re doing our own thing today, and, judging by the ten messages lighting up my phone, I’d say he’s looking for me.
His imminent arrival in the kitchen has me nodding off on my feet.
Nineteen
Sam
I swear to God, if Nina or Leigh doesn’t tell me what’s going on, I’m going to punch something. I wear a path on the pavement outside the hostel, the monotony doing nothing to calm me.
This morning everything felt right. Perfect. Sunlight filtered in through the curtains, making Nina’s pale skin glow, and all I could do was stare, overwhelmed, knowing she was coming home with me. That question had been lodged in my throat for weeks, probably since the night I took her virginity—as far as I was concerned, that other dude never happened. Being with her, sinking into her, was more intense than anything I’d ever felt. It shattered me. Broke me apart. Then it put me back together.
I left on this trip wanting good times, a fresh perspective. Carefree travel sex. What I found was hope. With Nina, I feel alive again. Invincible. Desired. I found a partner who understands the shit I’ve been through and the struggles ahead, all while making me crack up with her craziness.
But I held back last night. Disappointment rolled off her in waves when I didn’t slam that shot and prove my love. It almost killed me. I know I love this girl like I know fire burns and hope heals. I know it like I know my dad’s love for my mom has him dying inside. He’s lost without her, suffocating on every memory, the pain breaking his will to live. Yeah, I hurt daily. Knowing Mom will never holler at me again to clean my room or tell me she scored in the kid department is torture. But Dad? I don’t ever want to know the kind of agony he’s going through. Not telling Nina I love her feels like the last string keeping me from falling so deep I’ll never be able to walk away unharmed.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I yank it out, praying Nina’s name will be there. Or Pininfarina. I still don’t get why she lied about her name. The guy who designed the Ferrari? That’s some cool shit. Still, when I pushed her about it this