I had to agree with Hank, though: If Grace lagged behind now, panting from the altitude even with two days of acclimatizing, how was she going to keep up with us on the trail? The Gamers distracted me from my thoughts. Out of shape or not, Helen was acting pretty spry up ahead of me, nudging Hank playfully. I had to wrestle down my envy, and not just over their flirting; they were snapping pictures with their matching cameras, so state-of-the-art, our new model looked like a toy. I was only too happy to test Hank’s camera when he asked, “Hey, could you take a picture of us?”
I took so long framing the shot that I blocked the flow of traffic on the sidewalk. But honestly, it was a thrill to handle a camera I’d only ever read about.
“Sweetie, this isn’t for the cover of Time,” Helen teased me with an easy smile that turned doting when she blinked up at Hank. “Yet.”
Apologizing—“Sorry, I get kind of carried away”—I returned the camera reluctantly. As we followed Stesha on a whirlwind tour of Cusco, my eyes kept finding the Gamers. Maybe it was a little stalkerish, but I couldn’t help but study how easily Hank draped his arm across Helen’s shoulders. How they walked in unison, stride matching stride. How I was walking behind everyone with an old lady who was cute, but not Dom cute.
Right then, Stesha stopped dramatically in the middle of the plaza. With her arms spread wide, she announced, “You are standing in Huacaypata, the Square of War and Weeping.”
War and weeping. That, I understood. Just the idea of my final conversation with Dom was enough to make me want to war and weep against the memory of it.
“If you believe the Incas, this is the navel of the entire earth.” Stesha jabbed her finger at the ground. “Literally, you can draw a straight line to connect all the sacred spots in the Incan empire to this point right here.”
“All roads lead to you,” Hank crooned to Helen behind me.
Just like that, I realized that the next four days with the Gamers were going to be my own personal purgatory. Their perfect-couple company would only remind me of what I could have had if I were just a couple of years older or Dom a couple of years younger. Doomed by our birthdays; talk about unfair.
With no time to lose, Stesha ushered us toward the cathedral, an imposing and ornate building better suited for medieval Spain than the Incan empire. No photographs were allowed. Even if I had been able to shoot, I don’t think I could have lifted my arms. They felt weighed down and strapped to my sides in the oppressive space, which made it easy to imagine bloodthirsty priests and ruthless conquistadores.
“This entire cathedral is a subversive rebellion fought with art,” Stesha told us, pointing to a painting and telling us that the rumored model for Judas’s face was none other than Francisco Pizarro, the Spanish conquistador who pillaged the city.
“I should do that with our competitors in the next game,” Hank murmured to Helen.
To put more distance between me and the Gamers, I trailed behind everyone, even Grace, down an aisle. Elaborate art was crammed into every square inch, making me feel claustrophobic. Before Stesha stopped in front of a statue in an alcove, my heart began pounding in double time. But why? Why would this supplicating saint make me feel anxious, as if I were late for a final? My family wasn’t Catholic, just part-time Presbyterians who made it to services only on Christmas Eve and Easter morning.
“Meet Saint Anthony,” Stesha said, her eyes on Grace, not me, thankfully. “Women of all ages come here first thing in the morning.”
“Why?” Grace asked.
I knew why.
Once Ginny, whose mom is a devout Catholic, found out that I was going to Cusco, she told me about Saint Anthony, the patron saint of missing people and possessions. In this particular cathedral, the faithful believed that he paid special attention to the lovelorn. So Ginny had begged me to leave a note for her. I knew she meant business when she sent me that note, signed, sealed, and delivered in a FedEx envelope. Obviously, Chef Boy needed a massive prod of the divine intervention kind.
Stesha explained, “To leave prayers for a novio.”
Novio. Boyfriend, soul mate. I knew that word from years of Spanish classes. Still, I wasn’t prepared for Stesha to gaze at me—me!—with so much empathy, I could have been one of the lovelorn making a special pilgrimage to petition Saint Anthony. I took a hasty step back to distance myself from that mistaken identity. Nope, just an innocent messenger. I was of the no-boys-allowed order of girlhood, thank you.
“It’s been ten years, Grace,” Stesha said quietly.
“Some men are irreplaceable,” Grace murmured. Her fingers flew to the man’s wedding ring that rested on a chain above her chest, rubbing it as if it were a rosary.
Stesha may have placed her hand between Grace’s shoulder blades, calming her, but a stern directness replaced the warm glow in her eyes. She told Grace flatly, “You have a second chance at love. You told me that you really cared for Henry. You can’t be afraid to love again.”
That statement tore into me, threatened to reopen the scar tissue from my breakup with Dom. As much as I wanted to join my parents, who were examining another alcove, I was frozen in place.