“READY?” ASKED DAMIAN.
“Are you sure it’s safe?” I folded the list of supplies we needed and adjusted my sunglasses.
“It’s a touristy town, busy streets, tons of people. I have a beard. Your hair is different. We don’t look anything like our photos. No one will notice.” Damian slipped on his baseball cap. SD.
So Damnfine
Rafael’s plan had worked. Finding Damian’s discarded phone in Caboras had thrown the search off, but they were running out of leads and the trail was turning cold. It wouldn’t be long before they backtracked, but for now, we were okay.
“Don’t forget this.” Damian handed me the seashell necklace he’d made for me. “Nothing says tourist better than local handicraft.”
I slipped it on and checked my reflection. I was wearing a black tank top and the pants I’d had on when Damian had abducted me. The runway look had been bleached out by the sun and heat and humidity. I didn’t think twice about sitting my butt down on a mossy tree-trunk, or wearing them on grub-hunting trips in the jungle. Of course, I just held the pail while Damian unearthed the worms. It’s one thing to get your hem muddy; but I wasn’t about to touch those wiggly suckers.
Damian removed the camouflage roof of palm leaves he’d tied to the boat. It felt odd being back in the space I’d longed to escape from. I felt a sense of freedom now that I could not have imagined then. Being ripped out of my sparkling, tinsel world had been excruciatingly painful, but I didn’t know if I could ever go back to being that person again. I was no longer mannequin-plastic, pretty and perfect; I was hacked up, inside and out. My hair was a mess, my nails were a mess, my heart was a mess. But my skin was alive and sun-kissed, and my face glowed from ocean breezes and salt spray.
I watched Damian steer and tried not to stare. The wind molded his shirt to his body, accentuating his shoulders and impeccable abs. He hadn’t shaved since we’d been on the island, but his beard wasn’t quite full. It made him look free-spirited and bohemian and uber masculine, like he belonged in the pages of a nautical magazine. His face had healed. His stitches were still there, but they were ready to come out, close to the hairline and hidden under his cap. He had a sharp nose, bronze skin stretched tight over his cheekbones, and black lashes that fringed deep, dark eyes. Damn. He had a fine, proud profile.
It was early afternoon when we anchored in a busy port. Cruise ships and yachts dotted the sparkling harbor. Golden beaches backed into sprawling resorts, shops, and restaurants. We cut through the clutter, dodging the hail of pink cabs, the souvenir stores crammed with tanned bodies, the sushi bars and pushy vendors. Crooked alleys opened up to the main square, where shops and banks faced teeming crowds from under deep, arched porticos.
I followed Damian as he zigzagged past the tall buildings, ignoring the supermarkets and chain stores, to the other side of the plaza. There, stretched out for blocks on either side of the street, was an outdoor market—stall after colorful stall filled with just about anything and everything: rows of watermelons and pineapples and oranges, jalape?os the size of small cucumbers, spices heaped in fragrant pyramids, pirated DVDs and CDs, piles of Gap and Hollister knock-offs, headbands with giant penises sticking out of them, and cactus paddles stacked in pillars at least six feet tall.
Damian was right. This dizzying cacophony of sight and sound and smell was the perfect place to disappear into the crowd. We bought eggs and white beans and tomatoes as big as cauliflowers. I sucked on chili-and-sugar coated tamarind balls that made my mouth buzz and my eyes water. We passed rows of seafood on ice: bass and octopus and angry-looking sharks called cazón. Damian picked up some clams with creamy, brown shells.