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“You’ve got her going,” Finn heard one of her teammates yell over the sound of the wildly cheering crowd. “Push her in!”

Finn pushed harder, but, just as Amy began to fall, she felt her own board start to tip. She pitched forward and held her breath as she hurtled toward the water. Amy went under first, sealing the victory for the ’69ers.

“Aren’t you glad you played?” Jill asked after Finn and her teammates exchanged high fives.

Finn felt not only victorious. She felt empowered. She hadn’t experienced this kind of competitive rush since one of the
Bon Voyage
staff photographers dared her to race against him in a 5K and she’d beaten him by half a mile.

“Same time tomorrow?”

❖

Luisa grew increasingly anxious the closer the time came for her to report to her new post. Would her colleagues ostracize her or welcome her with open arms? She had heard good things about her new commanding officer, but her former one had called her a snitch—and worse—after her efforts to expose his corruption had failed and she had gone over his head to get transferred out of his unit. She had been lucky to latch on to her new job so quickly. But if her tainted reputation had preceded her, she might not last long.

She ironed her uniform pants until the creases were sharp enough to slice through flesh. Then she draped them and her uniform shirt across the back of the couch so they wouldn’t wrinkle overnight. She was a decorated soldier and an officer of the Federal Police. When she reported for duty at seven the following morning, she wanted to look the part.

She looked at the clock. Just past seven p.m. Less than twelve hours to go. That was twelve hours too many.

She tried doing push-ups to burn off her nervous energy, but the exercise didn’t help. Only one thing could take the edge off: sex. The feel of a woman’s body, the heat of her kiss, the warmth of her touch soothed her every time she felt this out of sorts. Since she wasn’t seeing anyone, she doubted she would find relief anytime soon. She could have prowled the clubs in the Pink Zone to find companionship for the night, but she didn’t want to have sex with just any woman. She wanted to have it with one: Finn.

Luisa picked up the Porky Pig figurine and allowed reminiscences of Finn to wash over her. What was it about Finn that affected her so? Was it the urgency with which they had come together or the ease with which they had drifted apart? With no regrets and no promises for the future, but blessed with a wealth of memories engendered by an encounter Luisa wouldn’t soon forget.

Her phone rang as she watched the lights on the Monument to the Revolution begin to twinkle to life. Unlike last night, this time she paused to check the display. And smiled when she saw the incoming call was from Finn.

“How was your day?” she asked.

“Emotional. I think I’ve cried three times already.”

Luisa turned away from the window, her burst of happiness replaced by dread. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing. Beauty makes me cry. And I’ve seen several beautiful things today.”

“Such as?”

“This morning, I watched a wheelchair-bound woman swim in the Caribbean Sea. This afternoon, I had lunch with a couple who have been together for fifty years but consider themselves newlyweds because they’ve been legally married for only six months. And now I’m cruising on a yacht, watching the most gorgeous sunset I’ve ever seen. I wish you were here.”

“As beautiful as you make it sound, so do I.” Luisa sat on the couch and hugged a throw pillow to her chest. “You seem surprised you’re having a good time. Why?”

“When I hear ‘tour group,’ I automatically picture a bored guide leading a bunch of camera-wielding tourists around at breakneck speed. When they’re done, they can say they visited some great places and checked off all the boxes on their to-do lists, but they aren’t able to say they had some amazing experiences. This isn’t like that.”

Luisa was intrigued. “Did you become a travel writer in order to have amazing experiences or to share them with everyone else?”

Finn was silent for a moment. “Both, I guess. No one has ever asked me that before. I suppose they think I do it for the frequent flyer miles.”

Luisa had spent the afternoon reading some of Finn’s columns online. Articles written in cities large and small, industrial and rural, gentrified and untamed. Even without the accompanying photographs, Luisa had been able to picture where Finn had visited simply by reading her words. Now Finn was here, visiting the country she called home. What words would Finn use to describe her time here? Whatever they were, Luisa couldn’t wait to read them.

“Of all the places you’ve been, which one’s your favorite?” she asked.

Finn fell silent again as she pondered the question. Luisa could hear the wind whipping through the phone. She could hear glasses clinking and women laughing in the background. She could hear waves crashing in the distance. She could practically smell the salt air. She wanted to be there, too.

“The best place I’ve ever been,” Finn eventually said, “is in your arms.”

Luisa hoped what Finn had said about their time together was more than a come-on. But even if it was, her life was too unsettled for her to be able to pursue a relationship with anyone at the moment but especially someone like Finn—a beautiful butterfly still testing her wings.

“I’m being paged for a group photo,” Finn said before Luisa had a chance to respond. “I’d better go before they shanghai me. I’ll call you tomorrow, okay?”

“Good night,
mariposa
. I’ll be waiting.”

Finn needed some downtime. She had been “on” for two days now, and the effort she had put into trying to fit in with everyone else instead of setting herself apart from them was exhausting. She placed the Do Not Disturb sign on her door and sat cross-legged on the balcony while she waited for a pot of coffee to brew in the small in-room coffeemaker. The sun was just starting to rise, and the resort was quiet, save a few early risers—runners who wanted to get a few miles in before the temperature got too hot, a bird tweeting its heart out as it tried to attract a mate, and a stingray patrolling the lagoon like a silent sentry.

Finn loved this time of day. When everything was quiet and still. It was one of the few times she came close to feeling the same way.

She took a deep breath and slowly released it as she tried to center herself. Her social anxiety was kicking in again. Her case wasn’t as debilitating as others’ were. She could function normally as long as she controlled her fear. But she could always tell when she needed to take a break from the world and made sure to heed the signs. If she didn’t, she felt like she was being judged and found wanting.

It had started when she was seven. When her childhood stutter had evolved from a cute quirk into a full-blown impediment. Middle school had been pure hell. She had gone out of her way to avoid talking to people because she hadn’t known from one encounter to the next if she would be able to get the words out. It had been impossible to remain silent in class, however. When it was her turn to read aloud, her throat would close up, her hands would start to shake, and her body temperature would spike like she was a menopausal woman having a hot flash instead of a sixth-grader trying to plow through a few paragraphs on caste systems in civics class.

She could still hear the snickers of her classmates as she tried to force her faulty mouth, tongue, and throat to work. She remembered her so-called peers’ taunts in the hallway and their singsong chants of the nickname she hated. They called her Woody Woodpecker because her staccato efforts to speak reminded them of the cartoon character’s distinctive laugh. That laugh had shadowed her for years. Haunted her dreams.

Because speaking was such an issue, she had turned to writing in order to express herself. Diary entries at first, then poems, and eventually, short stories. Writing had allowed her to be anyone she wanted. A rock star. A superhero. Someone famous. Or, more often than not, simply someone normal. In other words, everything she wasn’t.

She had longed to go somewhere else. To be someone else. She had dreamed of moving away and becoming a writer one day. To make a living doing what she loved most. But she had never thought her dream would come to pass. Her teachers had praised her fledgling creative efforts and encouraged her to continue to hone her skills. Their positive input had eventually given her the confidence boost she needed to leave her small hometown behind and forge a new path. The path she was still treading today.

Her stutter had gradually disappeared over time as years of speech therapy and a continued use of rhythmic control and slow speech helped to eradicate the disorder. By her senior year of high school, her stutter had practically disappeared. Now she stumbled over her words only when she was nervous or extremely tired. But she never forgot all those frustrating years she had spent as the butt of countless cruel jokes.

Each time she met someone new or found herself immersed in a crowd, she feared she would turn into that scared little girl again. The one who had felt broken for so long. Talk therapy and antidepressants were recommended treatments for her phobia, but she didn’t need to pop pills or talk to a shrink to improve her ability to interact with others. She used some of the same techniques she used to control her stutter: relaxation and breathing exercises. When those failed, all she needed to make things right was a ticket to her next destination and a chance to explore it at her own pace.

She rubbed the small tattoo of Woody Woodpecker on the inside of her left ankle. Her attempt to repurpose something that had once been used to put her down and make her feel small. Now the image gave her strength instead of taking it away. Because it reminded her that the life she had now was far better than the one she had left behind.

She took another deep breath, stretched, and got up to pour herself a cup of coffee. As she sipped the strong brew, she wondered how Luisa would react if she knew about her past. Would Luisa be empathetic or would she turn tail and run?

When she told people about her speech disorder, some were overly sympathetic, and most opted to take the inspirational route by giving her a list of famous people in history who had overcome their impediments to do great things. Actor James Earl Jones, Prime Minister Winston Churchill, King George VI, and so on and so on.

Finn had finally stopped mentioning it because she didn’t want to become an object of fascination. She didn’t want to play the waiting game during a conversation. Her listener waiting for her to stumble over her words while she prayed she wouldn’t.

“The fantasy is always better than the reality,” she said under her breath as she watched the sky turn from gray to pale blue.

Except she couldn’t quite manage to convince herself to believe it. Not this time. Because being with Luisa, even for a few hours, had felt like a dream come true. And she didn’t want the dream to end.

❖

Luisa was going to be late for work. A regrettable occurrence on most occasions, but an absolute no-no on her first day. She had left her apartment with plenty of time to spare, but Ines Villalobos, her neighbor across the hall, had cornered her before she could make it to the stairs.

She had seen Mrs. Villalobos peeking at her through the peephole in her reinforced door when she moved in on Saturday, but the elderly woman hadn’t tried to start a conversation then. She had waited until Luisa didn’t have time to talk instead. Now she wouldn’t shut up.

“I saw you moving all those big boxes up the stairs a few days ago,” Mrs. Villalobos said. “You’re stronger than you look. But why didn’t you have your boyfriend or your husband do some of the heavy lifting for you?”

“I’m not married, Mrs. Villalobos.”

The old woman’s thinning gray eyebrows shot up inquisitively. “Are you spending time with anyone?”

“No.” Luisa glanced at her watch. She didn’t have time to apologize for the terseness of her response or to go into more detail. She needed to get to work. Her hopes of making a favorable first impression were fading fast.

“You’d be perfect for my grandson, Javier. Come on. I’ll show you his picture while we share a morning coffee.”

Luisa had picked up her weapons and uniform on Saturday so she wouldn’t have to perform the time-consuming tasks today. Now the only obstacle in her path was a talkative octogenarian trying to play matchmaker.

“Some other time. I really must be going.”

“Nonsense.” Mrs. Villalobos latched ont o Luisa’s arm with surprising strength and pulled her inside the apartment. “There’s always time for coffee. Have a seat while I pour you a cup.”

Luisa sighed in defeat as Mrs. Villalobos ambled toward the kitchen. The woman reminded her of her paternal grandmother, may she rest in peace. Small in stature but endowed with an indomitable will. A silver-haired spitfire whose deeply lined face belied an impish sense of humor.

While Mrs. Villalobos puttered in the kitchen, Luisa looked around the living room.

The furniture was clean and relatively new. The overstuffed cushion on the armchair in front of the TV had already molded itself to match the shape of its diminutive owner. The chair in front of the window was similarly branded. Luisa suspected the perches allowed Mrs. Villalobos the perfect vantage points to keep track of what was happening both in the world at large and closer to home.

Potted plants lined the windowsill, their trailing vines curling toward the floor like a floral waterfall. Nearby, several candles, trinkets, and amulets arranged on a semicircular table formed a shrine to Our Lady of Guadalupe, the patron saint of Mexico.

Luisa reflexively crossed herself, then turned her attention to the dozens of photographs lining the walls. The oldest had turned sepia with age. In the photos, Mrs. Villalobos aged from a fresh-faced bride to the wizened woman she was today. Her children, grandchildren, and great-grandchildren populated the other pictures.

“That’s Javier.” Mrs. Villalobos set a cup and saucer on the side table next to the broken-in armchair and pointed a gnarled finger at a photograph of a smiling young man with a bowl haircut, delicate features, and gentle eyes framed by long, curling eyelashes. “He’s a good boy. Smart, trustworthy, and good with his hands. He owns and operates a souvenir stand near Chichén Itzá. All the items he sells are hand-carved and only one dollar. Practically free.”