The Last Sunrise Free Preview

Prologue

I close my eyes as I float, light as a feather, becoming one with the waves. I let the warm, salty water wash away my fear and my fate, take control of my sadness, and my pain. My body has become my enemy, perhaps it always has been, but now I’ve accepted it. The scale of fairness has tipped for me, and I can barely stand it, the injustice, the resentment. The only place where I’m just another particle of the earth is here in the water. The ocean doesn’t care about sickness or health, life or death, love or hate. It’s balanced, ever changing, never longing for more or less than it has, never lingering or stagnant. It keeps roaring, keeps us floating.

If I wasn’t such a cynic I would be inspired by its forgiveness, but I’ve become bitter and find it hard to appreciate something so graceful, so fair. Naïve and easily taken advantage of. There is nothing lavish or luxurious about water, and even though our survival depends on it, we mistreat it, drain it, pollute it, but even still, it comes back to us, always, to nourish and keep us alive while we go out of our way to destroy it. If I were the sea, I would wash away every inch of this world, no regret.

Chapter 1

The airplane seat belt signal dings me into consciousness. My eyes slowly blink open, welcoming the sunlight bursting through the small airplane window. The flight attendant approaches with a warm smile, her heels clicking as she leans over to speak to me. She smells like coconut and sunshine, though we’ve been on an airplane for over twelve hours.

“Do you need anything else before we land, Miss Oriah?” she asks.

I shake my head, quietly thanking her.

Her accent is beautiful, Italian, maybe? I slept most of the flight, so I had little to no interaction with her during our trip across the North Atlantic Sea. I hope that made her day easier and that my mother didn’t hassle her too much during our private flight. When my mom told me we were flying, which I’ve only done once and barely remember the trip, I was excited for the hustle and bustle of the crowded airport, eavesdropping on strangers’ conversations, and people watching. Even the lines and the stressed-out flyers who left their houses too late, huffing and puffing as they make their way through security. The chaos seemed exciting, but my mom’s company, SetCorp, graciously afforded us one of their many private company jets to Spain, which I would never complain about to anyone but my mom, but it felt a bit excessive and wasteful. The trip was seamless, quiet and luxurious, the way my mom loves her business trips to be.

Looking over at my mom seated across from me, neatly applying a layer of deep burgundy lipstick, I’m not remotely surprised. She packed her carry-on full of beauty products for her to make sure she didn’t miss her ritualistic skincare routine. I respect the discipline and it’s absolutely paying off, but a few steps in the morning is enough for me, I don’t have the energy. I do love watching other people on the internet do their fancy nighttime routines, but for my life, it’s not realistic.

I lean over and grab the handle of my mom’s Dior tote, embroidered with her name, another gift from her boss, and drag it toward me. Grabbing the pack of makeup wipes to clean my face with, I rip one out of the pack and swipe it across my bare face. The smell of cucumber fills my senses, making me sneeze, causing my mom to panic mildly momentarily. My sensitive sense of smell should be the least of her worries, yet even a sneeze makes her body react.

“I saw a video that wipes are harmful to our skin barrier and oil cleansing is the new thing,” my mom says, her dark eyes move from the wipes to me. She keeps up on every single beauty trend, religiously following them. I’m more of a love to watch cat videos and people falling off things kind of woman, but to each their own.

I smile, ripping one out of the little crinkly holder. “I don’t have an oil cleanser on hand, but I’ll keep that in mind for the future.”

She smiles, gently rolling her eyes at my sarcasm. We’re two sides of different coins, always have been, always will be. We quietly exist in each other’s worlds but aren’t quite connected. A hopeful bubble floats across my chest that being in the town she was born in will change that. That a little bit of her walls will come down.

“Did you take your medicine?” Her voice is a bit more tired than usual, from working the entire flight. She’s always on a call, a Zoom, or making voice memos, I’ve learned to completely drown her voice out 99 percent of the time.

I nod, gulping down the slight guilt. Her eyes move to the flight attendant, and she nods, joining me in my deceit. I smile at her.

“Did you even sleep at all?” I ask my mom.

She presses the lid of her lipstick back on the tube and makes a popping sound with her lips. “I’ll sleep tonight after our meetings. I didn’t want to mess up my cycle.”

What cycle? She never sleeps, I know that for a fact. I roll my eyes and look directly at her so she knows I’m not buying it. She’s completely unbothered and moves to putting mascara on her long lashes. She drags the wand up and down, dotting the corners with the jet-black liquid. I put in my contacts methodically, wanting to avoid the constant comments about my eyes, even across the globe.

I sit back and sigh, looking out the window of the company jet at the calming and vibrant deep sea below us. We’re about ten minutes from landing and I can’t help the smile pulling at my lips. It’s finally here, my summer of freedom, my great hurrah. My coming-of-age story is beginning at twenty-three, and I’ve never been more ready. Just like the main character of a nineties film, this trip will be life-changing. Finally, I’ll discover who I am, what the purpose of life is . . . maybe even fall in love. I laugh quietly, covering my mouth at such an absurd thought. How pointless that would be.

“Isn’t it just stunning?” the flight attendant softly asks.

I nod, gawking at the view, and we haven’t even touched the ground yet. “It’s my first time in Europe. First time leaving the US, actually,” I tell her.

Her hazelnut eyes widen. “Really?” she asks in disbelief.

“Yeah, I know, it must seem like I travel often, given the whole private jet damaging the ozone and my mom’s in-flight skincare routine, but I’ve only been on a few planes, and never for fun, but honestly, I barely remember them.” I don’t tell her why. The last thing I need is any more pity.

She laughs and we both look at my mom in all her beauty. She’s now putting on a pair of earrings, thick gold hoops. She really is striking, in a frightening, evil queen kind of way, but one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever laid my eyes on, and she knows it. One thing that I admire about my mom is her confidence, not only about the way she looks, but her ability to rise from less than nothing to one of the highest-paid women in her industry. Granted, there aren’t many women in luxury hospitality real estate development and investment, but it’s still a massive accomplishment.

“You’re going to love it here,” the attendant tells me, pulling my attention back to her.

I smile from ear to ear. “I really hope so. I’m so excited,” I admit. “You must have a passport full of stamps. Have you been a flight attendant long?”

She pulls out a dark red passport and I read the words Italiana. I was right, she’s from Italy. She flips through page after page full of stamps and hands it to me.

“I promised my twin sister I would travel the world for both of us,” she tells me with a small smile, proud of herself.

I run my finger over the Paris passport stamp on one of the pages. “It’s a shame they don’t stamp them much anymore, but you should buy the stamps and do it yourself. I do that now,” she tells me.

“She must be so happy, you’ve been everywhere.” Russia, Brazil, Mexico, the stamps and visas go on and her passport has double the pages of mine.

“She’s . . . she passed away last year.”

Shit.

“I’m so sorry. I—”

She shakes her head, her dark hair moving off her shoulder.

“Don’t worry, I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. People always get that look on their face when I talk about her, but she was at peace and death is sometimes a relief. I had wonderful times with her, life-altering memories that I’ll cherish forever. I’m grateful to have them and to have had her in my life for the time I did. She was a gift to me, and not all gifts last forever.”

I soak her words in for a moment. What a healthy way to look at and appreciate something with the most intense stigma around it. Death is always dreaded, but her take on it was refreshing to me.

“You’re right. We tend to have such fear and judgment when it comes to losing someone, but you’re doing it right. This is amazing, you’re amazing,” I tell her, full of honesty, wishing I had taken that approach when I lost the person, outside my mother, who was closest to me.

“Thank you.” Her deep olive cheeks turn slightly pink, and she gently cups my hands while taking her passport back. “You’ll fill yours soon. This is just the beginning.” I don’t say anything. There is nothing to say, so I return her smile and sit back, enjoying the view as we get closer to the ground.

“Just the beginning.” I repeat her words as the jet’s wheels touch the ground.

The ride to the hotel is about a half an hour, and my mom spends it on the phone. I stare out the window trying to capture every flicker of beauty I can. I can’t believe I’m here in Europe, in Spain, on the beautiful island of Mallorca. It’s surreal. It’s so different from what I’m used to in Texas, and nothing like what I imagined it to be. All of the Google Maps Street View searching, Instagram reels, and TikToks didn’t prepare me for the real thing. The air inside the car is cool, and yet I can smell the sea. When we arrive at the hotel, it’s also more beautiful than the internet prepared me for. It looks like a castle, completely made of stone, and rests on the edge of the sea, and the crashing waves can be heard from the valet circle. Luxurious cars are lined around the curve of the cobblestone driveway, and the valets are so quick to open our doors, grab our bags and haul them onto a rolling cart, escorting us to the lobby before I can catch a breath. Once inside the lobby, a handsome man dressed in a white shirt and khaki linen pants offers us a welcome drink. It’s dark red with a lot of ice and a giant orange slice on the edge.

“Calimandria for you; it’s our delicious and refreshing specialty here. Welcome to Mallorca.” His smile is so welcoming and warm as I reach for the drink.

My mother’s hand gently pushes at my wrist, pulling the drink toward her.

“You shouldn’t—” she begins.

I yank the glass back rebelliously. “It’s also my summer, remember? And it’s one drink.” I pretend to plea, but either way I’m having this damn drink.

With a heavy sigh she grabs the other one and raises her glass to clink it to mine. I realize, with a bit of sadness weighing on my chest, we’ve never cheersed before, and this would likely be the last time. Stop being so ominous, I tell myself, plastering on a smile.

“Cheers to your summer, our summer, in my favorite place on earth. I do hope you make lasting lifetime memories. Let’s enjoy our time here together?”

I nod, smiling and taking a sip of the ice-cold cocktail. It’s slightly bitter but in an addicting way. It tastes so fresh and exotic. I’m already beginning to feel like I’m morphing into a different woman here on this island, and we just arrived. I’m easily influenced by the small things in life, which I hope will make every moment here even more life changing.

“This way Señora Pera.” The man who gave us our drinks waves the hand that isn’t holding the empty tray.

I follow his eyeline to the reception desk as my mom corrects him to say “Miss.” There’s no one behind it as we approach. My mom’s phone rings in her bag, and she digs in it while we wait, downing the rest of her drink. I try to keep up and decide to just chug it. It’s refreshing and warms my stomach. I hand the glass back to the man and my mom does the same. Leaning my elbow and forearm onto the empty counter, I try to ignore my growling stomach as the cocktail slowly kicks in.

I jump in surprise when a young woman with bright red curly hair pops up from behind the counter.

“Sorry.” She lets out a loud laugh.

The sound is so unique that I instantly smile.

Her eyes are bright green, so light that I wonder if they’re contacts. One of her eyes has a half-finished black line across the lid and she’s holding an eyeliner pen in one hand. There’s a shiny piece of tape stuck to her eyelid.

“I saw this tutorial on TikTok where you use tape to get the perfect cat eye!” Her voice is as full of energy as her laugh. “But I haven’t mastered it yet . . . obviously.” She shrugs, beaming from ear to ear.

My mom groans and taps her credit card against the counter. I read the girl’s name tag. Amara. What a pretty name. It matches her perfectly.

“Sorry . . . Sorry, Mrs.—” she begins, but my mom cuts her off.

“It’s Miss Pera. Not Missus.”

“Sorry, sorry.” Amara’s eyes drop to the graphite counter her computer is resting on.

“It’s okay. Don’t worry, she’s just crabby because she didn’t sleep on our flight.” I try to make the receptionist feel better. “And calling her “Missus” is a sore spot for her.”

My mom isn’t always rude to strangers, but when she is—it’s incredibly embarrassing. For someone who came from nothing, she sure seems to forget that sometimes. Just like she suddenly isn’t speaking her native language, as if to prove a point that she is far removed from this place and her past.

Amara tries not to laugh, or even smile, but she can’t contain it. I grin along with her, at my mother’s expense.

“We have the suites. Under SetCorp, but my name is Isolde Pera, and both rooms are under my name.” My mom slides the credit card to her.

“Ohhh, SetCorp people in the flesh, You’re technically my boss then. Fancy,” Amara responds with humor and sarcasm.

God, I love this woman’s energy and fire and I’ve only been in her presence for a few minutes. She’s bold, even working in hospitality at a luxurious hotel, she doesn’t seem to water herself down for all the obnoxious wealthy people she must have to deal with daily. I love meeting authentic people, which is sadly rare in my small world, but I can already feel myself being inspired by her and her carefree sense of self.

“Here are your room keys.” Amara hands us small, circular pieces of wood.

“What is this?” My mom turns it in her hand, studying it.

“We’re eco-friendly now, so our keys are made from recycled wood particles. We don’t use any plastic bottles, and we even compost the food that people don’t finish. We’re one of the first hotels on the island to have such extreme eco vibes,” she explains to my mom.

My mom, who tries to keep up with everything new, nods, looking a little confused, but I know for sure that the moment she’s in her room, she will be looking up the environmentally friendly wave coming across Europe. It’s not so big in Dallas, but hopefully will be someday, and knowing my mother, she will certainly find a way to help SetCorp capitalize off of it for their future properties.

As we follow the doorman across the lobby, I try to take it all in. There’s just so much to look at. I can’t believe this place will be my home for the summer. The lobby walls are all made of gray stones from floor to high ceiling. Ottomans and couches are arranged throughout the massive space, huge mirrors and chandeliers wrapped in what looks like moss dangle from above. There are plants everywhere, it’s modern and earthy and perfect. I don’t want to think about how much money SetCorp is losing for us to be here this long, since half the hotel is being occupied by this team, but I know the reason we came will make their money back tenfold, that’s Isolde Pera’s specialty. Plus, since they own this hotel, it’s probably a tax write-off anyway. Another example of the way the rich always get richer.

I wave goodbye to the lively woman behind the desk, and she tells me to come find her if I get bored, as the elevator doors close. We ride to the tenth and highest floor, and the doors open slowly. I follow quietly, reading the lit-up room numbers on the floor in front of the doors. There seem to only be a couple rooms on this floor, but of course my mom’s and mine are right next to each other.

“You can have whichever you like more.” She waves her hand toward the doors.

“1011 has the best view of the water and the garden, and 1012 has the best view of the street and the coast,” the doorman explains.

Our home in Dallas has a beautiful, quiet garden. I want to see people, hear them, and feel like I’m a part of the city.

“I’ll do 1012, please?” I’m positive both rooms are spectacular, but since my mom gave me a choice, I’m going to take it.

“If it gets too noisy, we can switch,” she tells me.

The doorman opens the door with his own wooden chip and rolls my suitcase inside. The first thing I notice are how high the ceilings are and how light and bright the room is. The thick forest-green curtains are pulled back, allowing the sun to cast onto the hardwood floors. There’s a sitting room with a couch and two chairs, a coffee table, and a television hanging on the wall. I can’t imagine that I’ll use it while here, but maybe I’ll just turn it on for the hell of it, so as not to waste it. The color pallet of the room—green, beige, cream, and brown—is calming and comforting, washing away the awkwardness of staying in such an expensive room for such a long time. I already feel at home in a way, excitement buzzing under my skin.

“Wow. This is . . . the room is so beautiful,” I say to my mom, turning around to thank her, but I find my room empty.

No surprise. I shrug, relieved to be alone and able to take in every single detail uninterrupted. I touch nearly every inch of the living room before making it to the bedroom area. The bed has more pillows on it than I can count and looks as soft as a cloud. When I plop onto it, confirming its cloudlike texture, my body melts into the mattress. I spread my arms and legs out and wave them, like I’m making snow angels. Staring up at the ceiling, my chest feels like it may explode with excitement. Have I ever felt this alive, this awake in my life?

I roll over and look out the massive window at the people on the street. “Nope. Absolutely not,” I audibly reply to myself, my voice echoing through the empty rafters, filling the room.

After unpacking my suitcase, hanging up all my clothes, setting out all my toiletries, I take the longest, warmest, most refreshing shower in my life. I check my phone, knowing my mom has added all our appointments for today into my Google calendar. My life back home is always empty, but my mom lives off her Google calendar, and while here, I’m expected to do the same. As foreseen, my calendar for the day is full, yellow for meetings with my mom’s work stuff that she wants me to tag along to, green for meals—guaranteed to include at least one SetCorp employee or lawyer—and red for commute time. Thankfully, most of the meetings are at the hotel with the event planners, so I won’t have to go far today. As much as I’m looking forward to sightseeing, my body is exhausted from traveling, even though I slept most of the time. My mind is wide awake, but my body; as usual lately, isn’t on the same page.

My usually pin-straight hair is waving a little as it air-dries with the sea so close and the humidity of the Mediterranean mixing, I stare at myself in the mirror. Putting on a little sunscreen, I brush my unruly, thick brows, another gift from my mother’s Spanish genetics. I put in eye drops to freshen up my contacts and a dot a little blush on my cheeks. I didn’t bring many clothes with me, assuming my mom will force me to shop with her at least three times, so I pull a comfy, oversized pin-striped button-down and white shorts from the closet. I stare at the little blue container on the counter, debating what to do. I had made my mind up before getting on the plane, so now that I’m here, I want to stick to my choice. I won’t spend the rest of my life in a fog, I’m taking control of the time I have left. So, I walk away, leaving it be, and find the mini bar for some water. Amara’s reminder of how environmentally focused the hotel is becomes more obvious as I open the fridge. There are some sparkling waters, sodas, juices, and more alcohol than any one person needs.

Where on earth is the still water? I look around and find a refillable cup with a little tag on it.

“Please reuse me during your stay. Join us in conserving plastic waste, one bottle at a time.” It says on a little attached tag.

Next to it, there’s a built-in waterspout coming from the wall. As a self-proclaimed water connoisseur, I’m amazed by it. I fill the bottle and drink half of it at once. I refill it. It doesn’t take much to make me happy here, I realize with a smile. Maybe my cynicism and harshness has been a product of my environment back in Texas? Unavoidable personality traits caused by loneliness and lack of human interaction. I’m not sure yet, but one thing is clear, Oriah Pera is going to thrive and make final memories in Mallorca.

I don’t have to open it to know what the manila folder on the entry table contains. My mother is thorough with her planning, so I leave her printed-out schedule sitting untouched and head to meet her in the lobby. Amara greets me again, and this time, both of her eyes have liner.

“Seems like you figured it out.” I point to her makeup. “Looks great.”

“Thanks! It took fucking forever, but it does look good, right?” She holds her phone up, using the camera as a mirror even though the entire wall behind her is a mirror.

“You’re American, right?” I ask her. Since she barely has an accent and uses such casual English slang, she must be.

She laughs, that unique sound filling my ears.

“Actually, no. I’m German; a bit of a nomad, really. But I’ve been learning English since I was a kid and watch tons of American shows. I tried to live there once, in New York, but it was not my vibe.” She shudders, speaking a million words a minute. “Have you been there? I bet you’re from LA; you have that West Coast vibe.”

I try to count how many times she’s said the word “vibe,” but laugh instead.

“I’m from Texas, actually. I’ve been to New York once when I was a kid,” I tell her, not wanting to go into detail of why my trip there was anything but a vacation. I spent it hooked up to wires for six days and got to see the Brooklyn Bridge only in our drive back to the airport.

“Texas? I wouldn’t have guessed. But I haven’t met anyone from Texas before. You seem so sweet compared to the news.”

“Everyone seems sweet compared to the news, no matter where they’re from,” I tell her, wondering what the rest of the world is saying about Texas, but it’s easy to guess. The news is the news no matter where you live or what you believe. Hysteria caused by negativity boosts ratings, which in turn boosts money for the mouthpieces in front of the camera.

“True, true. Anyway, I know every inch of this island if you get bored with corporate life.”

“I’m already bored with it,” I admit, looking toward the lobby door and immediately spotting the driver my mom has designated to mildly babysit me this summer. He tips his hat to me, and I politely smile back.

I can’t drive myself, but I’m sure I can figure out the public transportation here. According to the social media research I’ve done, nearly every country in the world has better public transportation than the US. In Dallas, everyone I know drives. It’s impossible to get around without a car or a driver.

“If you want a cure for your boredom, I’m having a few friends here tonight if you want to join us. The garden in the back; we hang there and drink and talk. We all love to meet new people and we’re from all over. Only one of us is a local, but he barely comes around anymore anyway. Blah, blah, blah, I’m probably overwhelming you.” Her bright eyes meet mine.

The very garden that my mom’s suite overlooks, I realize with disappointment. “I . . . can’t tonight, but rain check?” I should have taken the other room.

“Rain check . . . like, next time, right?” she clarifies.

“Exactly.”

“Deal. Rain check. Even if you’re not the social type, I know the best food and views, anything you want to do, just ask me. I’m your girl.” She raises her hand to a salute at her forehead and we share a laugh.

“Ry.” My mother’s voice cuts through our cheer.

I spin around to see her with two men in suits and Lena, her robotic executive assistant, at her side. Lena arrived here a week ago to get everything moving, I’ve known her half my life and she’s never missed a beat. Lena hugs me, placing both of her hands on my shoulders and squeezing gently. She smells like bergamot and red wine. She’s less of a machine when it comes to me, but I’m doubtful there’s a warm, flowing human brain in her skull if it were to be cut open.

“Are you settled in? Do you need anything? How’s your room? Did you choose the street view or the garden view?” Lena asks with a comforting smile, trying to remember all the questions she asked.

“Street. I’m totally settled in. Thank you though. What about you? Are you liking it here so far?”

She nods with enthusiasm, an emotion she rarely shows. “It’s so beautiful here. I love it. We have a lot of work to do, but it’s incredible, even the weather.”

I wouldn’t know . . .

“Are you ready for today’s schedule?” she asks me.

“Yep. Am I dressed alright? Or should I change?” I ask Lena, but glance at my mom as well.

“Your outfit is perfect.” My mom is the one to respond. As I take her in, she’s wearing nearly the same outfit I am, a striped blue-and-white shirt, but hers is sleeveless and V-neck, and instead of shorts, she’s wearing white pants. On her feet are strappy low heels, almost identical to my brown sandals.

“Thanks,” I tell her, pulling my shorts down a little.

Not that I’m not used to her compliments about my appearance, but sometimes I wish she would praise something about me that wasn’t surface level, but something is better than nothing.

“Try to have fun while you’re here, okay?” Lena whispers to me just before she leads us to the banquet room. It’s huge. Bigger than I realized this hotel could hold. The high vaulted ceilings, the floor-length windows, like the ballroom itself were carved out of stone from an ancient fairy tale, yet clean and almost modern. Metals and woodwork pieced together to create a sleek but warm space, full of texture. Plants and trees are scattered throughout the room. There’s so much to look at, but I’m entranced by the plants hanging from the corners of the room, the massive tree in the center. Everything’s immaculate and smells real. I study one of the closest hanging leaves and touch it with my thumb and forefinger. It’s silky and is in fact real. Wow.

As I take it all in, my mom starts rambling off work stuff, telling people where to go and what to do, and I wait for her to ask my opinion on something. It finally happens as one of the event planners lines up six white chairs.

“Eggshell, Bone, Vanilla, Seashell, Snow, Ivory.” She lists them as she walks behind them, her hand running along the edge of the fabric draped over them.

As I step closer, I try my damnedest to find a difference in them. I want to be involved in planning the event, not only because the cause—art and children—are obviously great, but I want to feel like I’m doing something to make a difference here. Not just taking up space while a team of planners line up chairs, and my mom, who’s crankier than ever since landing in her hometown, points and scoffs for hours on end. I want to be part of something important, part of something helpful, but choosing between white and white wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

“Um, bone?” I say, noticing it has a tinge of gray.

“Bone it is,” my mom agrees, typing furiously on her phone.

It starts to ring but she swipes, ignoring it. Her apple-red thumbnail is chipped, and I take note of it, betting to myself that she’ll have it fixed by the end of the day. Hell or high water, she’s never not polished in every sense of the word.

“Great! Now to the curtains. We will cover all the plants here,” the woman tells my mom, and I politely interrupt.

“Why would we cover them? They’re beautiful,” I look around to the branches and greenery layered through the ballroom. “They’re the best part.” My cheeks heat, not wanting to be rude or make a bad impression. Lord knows what they already think of me, the spoiled daughter of the rich, bossy, clipped-tone woman with the bright red nails and matching heels.

“Most people want them covered or moved for their weddings. To make the room more elegant,” the woman explains, her eyes soft but nervous.

“Let’s keep them. It’s charming.” My mom agrees with me.

“We can incorporate them into the theme. Like a forest at night?” I say as it comes together in my mind.

My love of interior design and putting things together to create something beautiful is blooming at full force. I haven’t felt this way in so long. My imagination has been dormant for months, so I have been taking stock. Numb and nonexistent. Dance, my number one love, is long gone now, only serving as a distant and painful reminder of what I’m no longer able to do. Pushing that thought aside, I try to focus on what I can do, which is visualize a concept and execute it. My sudden confidence and boost of energy surprises me, so I’m running with it.

“This is exactly why I wanted you here,” my mom tells me.

Turning to the small group of planners, she waves her arm toward me. “My daughter led and decorated the entire remodel of SetCorp’s main office in Dallas when she was barely twenty-one. She has remarkable taste, so just follow her opinions and everything will be fine.”

Despite the smile on her face, her tone is mildly aggressive. Since these women don’t know her, they can’t decode that she’s using her fakest of smiles right now. They don’t know that if she waves her hand, they will lose their jobs and she won’t lose a wink of sleep.

“Great.” one of them responds.

We move on to the linens and curtains, which I gently suggest we drape from the ceiling instead of covering the beautiful windows. The event will be held at night, so I suggest small, soft, twinkling, yellow-toned lights to avoid too much reflection from the glass. I’m high off the feeling of doing something, and the day flies by.

My mom, Lena, and I head out for a late lunch. The waitstaff have brought us a table full of dishes I don’t recognize, but my mom’s eyes light up as each one arrives. Despite her Spanish roots, she’s never introduced me to her native food, or any seafood, with the exception of lobster once or twice at a steakhouse. My pallet is embarrassingly limited, but I plan on working on that while in Mallorca. I take photos of the food, like I always do, and grab a fork.

I’ve never seen my mother eat as much as she is now, her eyes closing as she inhales the meal. It makes me happy, to see her this way. The chipped paint on her fingernail is now fixed—no surprise. I try not to stare at her too long, so that she doesn’t notice and put her guard back up, but I can barely help it. Lena makes eye contact with me from across the table, and a subtle smile lifts the corner of her mouth. She must notice my mom’s sudden appetite too. She scoops some pasta onto my plate, knowing me well enough that she doesn’t give me any of the seafood, just some bowtie-shaped noodles with a white sauce and peas. I take a bite; it’s creamy and delicious, but the smell coming from the steam off the shrimp in front of me is begging me to at least try it. Hesitantly, I grab a piece of shrimp from the plate and pop it into my mouth. The flavor bursts as I chew, my taste buds dancing as the garlicy, buttery flavor fills my senses. Sometimes my sensitive sensory awareness can be such a burden, but the thick smell of garlic and lemon and spices have me grateful for them. I grab another piece, feeling ridiculously proud of myself for such a small thing, and my mom takes notice.

“You like it?” She seems more surprised than I am.

I nod, chewing and smiling. Her lips twitch at the corners and I can tell she’s keeping herself from smiling back, but even so, I can feel her pleasure at me enjoying the food she grew up eating. It might be ignorant to assume the food is the same here as where she grew up, but I wouldn’t be so naïve in my thinking if she was open with me about her life. She doesn’t talk much, if ever, about her childhood and teen years, but the few times she has, there’s a passion within that doesn’t exist in her current life. I’m on a mission to find out more about my mom this summer, whether she agrees or not. I’m determined to get to know her before we run out of time.