Amon paused. His body froze in a way that anyone who’d seen him dance would have thought impossible. He didn’t answer but instead took my hand and said, “Come, Lily. It is time to go.”
He seemed impatient as he waited for me to retrieve my bag. When we stepped outside, I wanted to take a moment to allow the night air to cool my heated skin, but he tugged me along, not giving me a moment to think. We had barely rounded the corner of the club when Amon suddenly stopped and pulled me roughly against him. Before I could even form a question, he murmured some words in Egyptian and we were sucked into a whirlwind.
We had rematerialized in the bedroom of our hotel room. Amon abruptly said goodnight and left me alone, heading for the living-room couch and shutting the door firmly between us.
I listened at the door, but I couldn’t hear him and I couldn’t seem to muster the courage to open the door and confront him about his brusqueness. Amon hadn’t hurt me physically, but he’d left me feeling vulnerable and rejected. I wondered what I’d said, what I’d done to make him desert me so abruptly, and whether he was feeling like I was feeling or if I’d been misreading him.
Sinking to the floor, I rested my head against the door and felt the hot sting of tears on my cheeks. I’d never cried over a boy before, but my emotions were all over the place since starting this journey. I was unstable, heated, and on edge. Amon had used a lot of energy today, and I was feeling it. Eventually, I crawled into bed, sinking into a fitful sleep, and dreamed that my tears were enough to fill the Nile.
The next morning Amon knocked lightly on my door. When I opened it, attempting to wipe the sleep from my swollen eyes, he was not only dressed and ready for the day but looked as good as the night before. I drew my robe tightly over my new pajamas and tried to smooth my tangled hair.
After a cold, perfunctory glance he asked, “How soon can you be ready?”
I answered, “Fifteen minutes,” and with raised eyebrows he nodded and closed the door behind him.
Ten minutes later, I was wiping the steam from the mirror and brushing the tangles from my heavily conditioned hair. This time seeing the blond streaks didn’t make me feel impulsive or wild; instead I saw them as a symbol of what happens when you put yourself out there and it backfires. My limbs felt heavy and lethargic, which was most likely a combination of lack of sleep and the giant meal I’d scarfed down the day before.
I brushed my hair away from my face with harsh strokes and twisted it into a tight bun at the nape of my neck. As I jabbed some pins I’d found among the new purchases into the bun, I welcomed the little stings, considering them punishment for wandering too far outside my comfort zone. There was a reason that my mother constantly said “moderation in all things.”
Eating too much rich food leads to feeling puffy and bloated. Not enough sleep, and energy wanes. Crushing on the wrong boy? Well, that is a recipe for heartache.
Unfortunately, I would spend the morning suffering a rich-food, sleepless-night, hot-guy-rejection hangover. But I had certainly learned my lesson, and I wouldn’t be dabbling in any of that stuff again. I was getting right back on track to living my practical, boring, perfect life. My walk on the wild side had pretty much ended in disaster, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t hitch a ride back on the familiar wagon of levelheadedness.
Exactly fifteen minutes later, I opened the door. “Will we be returning to the hotel?”
Amon looked me over, focusing his piercing gaze on my hair, and wrinkled his nose as if he found the severe style distasteful. “No. We have no need to return to Cairo,” he replied.
“I see. Give me another minute, then.” Turning my back on him, I stiffly gathered up the clothing I thought would fit me and stuffed extra things from the hotel room—soap, shampoo, a toothbrush and toothpaste, the small sewing kit and, of course, water bottles—into my bag.