“English tests. Due in, like, an hour, and you know how slowly I type.”
That’s true enough. He’s a two-finger hunter-and-pecker. But I’m not dumb enough to believe he suddenly remembered a deadline. Concern for my best friend settles in my belly with unease, but we can talk about Drew tomorrow when I’m back home.
“All right, have fun. I need to puff for a bit then grab something to eat.”
“You haven’t eaten?”
“Not yet. Two hours behind, remember?”
“That’s right. Hey, we should go out tomorrow.”
“It’s a date. See you.”
We hang up.
I toss the phone back into my purse, get up and change into a T-shirt and jeans. Despite being October, it’s surprisingly cool in Chiang Mai…actually much cooler than Osaka. The frequent showers lower the temperature and keep the air comfortably moist but not crazy humid. Mr. Liu told me the hottest months are April and May, when the temperature can hit forty-plus degrees Celsius, which is something like a hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Ugh. I shudder. Might as well sit in a steamer.
After shoving my feet into a pair of comfy flip-flops, I take the key from the slot by the door and leave. The lights go off automatically behind me.
My phone pings, and I fish it out. A Google alert notification pops up over my smiling baby wallpaper. I take a moment to gaze at the baby’s face—Mia’s face—then bring up the message. The subject is Faye Belbin. Some pictures of her in Spain.
I check them out, my fingers shaky. A skintight black dress is wrapped around her, almost startling against her milky skin. Despite her paleness, she’s a vibrant, arresting woman. Her glossy jet-black hair, wide amber eyes and full, rosy lips make me think of Snow White—the stunning fairy-tale princess with skin the color of fresh snow and hair like onyx.
My mouth dries as I look for a boyfriend in the pictures. Thankfully she isn’t draped all over Lucas, unlike the alert I got two weeks ago.
Why do I torture myself like this? It’s been two years. It’s obvious to everyone, especially me, that she is exactly what a man like Lucas wants on his arm. I was just a girl he fucked in secret because I was willing and he was horny and slumming.
I should unsubscribe from the alerts. I really should. But somehow my finger always hovers over the unsubscribe link without actually tapping it.
Damn it.
My lips tight, I shove the phone into my purse. Tomorrow. I swear I’ll do it.
It’s the exact same thing I’ve told myself for the last two years.
I exit the hotel lobby and cross the fantastically crowded street toward the Night Bazaar. No matter how preoccupied you are, it’s impossible not to absorb the atmosphere. Tuk-tuks blare their horns at straggling pedestrians still on the road after the lights turn red. All of them have bright advertisements for malls and Tiger Kingdom and elephant trekking tours. I haven’t had time to do any of that, and now that I’m about to return to Japan, I regret it. Should’ve figured out a way to do some sightseeing.
Still, I file everything away in my head, so that when I get a chance to sit down and finally write my Great American Novel I’ll have something to draw on. I don’t know if I’ll ever set one in Asia, but it’s got to be good for my writing to be exposed to different cultures and localities.
I wend my way along the sidewalks. The already narrow strips of concrete are now barely wide enough for a person to pass, with street vendors setting up shop and hawking cheap clothes and merchandise. Naked bulbs light the souvenirs—softball-sized elephants carved out of some kind of black composite, T-shirts with filthy slogans, varicolored dresses. A few women stand in front of massage parlors and call out, “Madam, foot massage?”
It’s tempting. My feet are killing me after a day spent in pumps, and the prices are ridiculously low. Only about ten bucks for an hour of massage.
“Maybe after dinner,” I say with a smile as I pass by.
Carts selling fresh fruit smoothies are already out. Each clear plastic cup contains overripe mangoes, watermelon chunks, bananas and other tropical fruit I don’t recognize. The ladies call out prices, again incredibly inexpensive for something so fresh and scrumptious. Maybe I’ll get one of those after dinner, too…if I can still eat. The scent of grilled seafood and meat and curry permeates the air, and my stomach growls.
“Madam, hamburger?” a man says in front of a western-style bar and grill.
“No thanks.” This is my last night in Chiang Mai, and I want to try something more interesting and authentic. I can get a burger in Osaka anytime.
Around a corner is a modest-sized restaurant specializing in curry. It doesn’t look Indian, though, so I stop to check out the menu.
“Would you like to go in, madam?”
I lift my head at the lilting suggestion. A soft-faced man is watching me with a smile.
“Is this place Indian?”