He’s faster than me.
Passersby stop and stare, some even try to grab the man, but none of them succeed. Eventually, I stop, my breath coming out in raged pants. My hands press against my thighs, and whatever bubble of hope I had left bursts.
My money is gone.
I feel sick.
When I get back to the hostel and tell the receptionist what happened, she’s sympathetic.
“Do you want to file a police report?” she asks.
“Do you think it will help?”
She winces apologetically. “Honestly? No. In my five years of working here, I’ve seen about a dozen guests get robbed, and only one managed to get her purse back. Empty.”
I sigh and lean against the counter. Of course, I can’t go to the police. I can’t show them my passport, which I still have because I moved it into my backpack. Why the hell didn’t I do that with the cash?
I’m left with a few crumpled bills inside my bra. What will I do when it runs out?
Everything is going wrong.
I’m close to tears when the door that leads to the women’s dorm room opens and two young women walk out. They’re dressed in short shorts and graphic T-shirts. One of them, a tall pretty blonde with big blue eyes, gives me a pitying look.
“We overheard what happened,” she says. “That’s so shitty.”
Her friend nods in agreement. “I got robbed last year in Barcelona. They got my ID, my phone, everything. It was the worst.” She tucks a strand of dark, curly hair behind her ear. She’s shorter than the blonde, and her green T-shirt says You can be whatever you want.
“I should have been more careful,” I say. “I dropped my guard.”
“How about we get you a drink?” the blonde asks. “We were just about to go to a bar down this street.”
Alcohol. Yes, that sounds far better than the other thing I’m considering-jumping under the wheels of a truck.
I give them a tired smile. “Sure, that’ll be nice.”
They introduce themselves while we walk. The blonde is Astrid, and the brunette is Vilde.
“What’s your name?” Vilde asks.
Crap. The receptionist knows my real name, so I can’t give them something totally random in case they use it in front of her, but the less people know my real name the better. “It’s Ale,” I say. Good enough. In theory, it could be an unusual nickname for Valentina. “Where are you from?”
“Sweden.” Astrid pulls open a door to what appears to be a bar. Above the door is a sign that reads Caballo Blanco. “What about you? Are you here on vacation?”
I really should have prepared my answers ahead of time instead of giving them off the cuff. “I’m from Canada. Just travelling around for a few months. What about you?”
“We’re seasonal workers,” Vilde says as we take our seats at a free table. “We just got hired last week.”
“What kind of work do you do?” I ask after a server takes our order for a pitcher of sangria.
“I’m a dancer,” Astrid says. “And Vilde is a bartender.” A wide grin spreads across her face. “It’s been a dream of ours for a while to spend a season working in Ibiza.”
“It’s work, but it’s also a lot of fun,” Vilde says.
My mood improves a tiny bit when the sangria arrives. I didn’t drink much before getting married to Lazaro, but during our marriage, I worked my way up to a bottle of wine a day. I throw the entire glass back in two gulps and pray the alcohol kicks in quickly. I need something to take the edge off.
“Do you think I could get a job here?” I ask as Astrid refills my glass. “I’m not picky. That guy took most of my money, and if I don’t figure out how to get more, I don’t know what I’ll do. I need to save up a bit before I can go anywhere else.”
Astrid groans and shakes her head. “What a nightmare. Can’t believe that asshole ruined your trip. But listen, there’s always work for pretty girls in Ibiza.”
My spine straightens. “You think so?
“The clubs hire a ton of people for high season, and it’s just getting started.”
“I can’t dance, and the only drink I know how to make is a martini,” I say.
“Please, you’ll find a job.” Astrid pats my shoulder. “One look at you, and the club managers are going to be eating out of your hand.”
“She’s right,” Vilde says. “They go through people like crazy, because a lot of the workers party too much and just stop showing up. They’re always hiring. Come to our club tonight. We work at Revolvr. We’d put in a good word, but since we’re so new, it won’t count for much. You should just try talking to one of the managers.”
What do I have to lose? I don’t have much to offer, but I’m willing to learn.
There’s another problem though. “I don’t know if I’m legally allowed to work here.”
Astrid tsks. “You’ll find a way around it.”
“I had a friend from Argentina who worked here three summers in a row under the table,” Vilde says. “It’s not uncommon here.”
Working illegally in Ibiza-wow, life sure does take sharp turns. But if I can get a job without documents, I’ll be practically untraceable.
“It’s worth a try,” I say.
Astrid gives me an encouraging grin. “Get there around one,” she says before laughing at my puzzled expression. “The party goes all night and all morning here.”
Sounds like I’m about to become a creature of the night. It could be a good thing.
After all, in the dark there are more places to hide.
VALENTINA
There are times in life when one becomes untethered. The things we take for granted are ripped away from us. Conditions we assume to be permanent reveal themselves to be as temporary as a beautiful sunset. The familiar disappears, and we are forced to confront the unknown.
When I open my eyes, I don’t recognize anything around me. The walls are yellow, while I’m used to them being blue. The spring bed is lumpy and makes squeaking sounds every time I move. The bathroom smells like lemons.
“You’re in Spain,” I mumble quietly. “You got away.”
It doesn’t feel real. Maybe if I keep talking to myself, it will eventually click.
It’s dark outside. The cheap clock hanging on the wall says it’s twelve am, which means I need to start getting ready for Revolvr.