Foreign Destiny

Chapter One

This city is a fucking nightmare. After spending most of the day on planes, enduring a two-hour layover at Dallas-Fort Worth and dragging myself through immigration and baggage claim, I've now been sitting in traffic for over ninety minutes. Ninety minutes, and according to the navigation screen, we're still twenty-three minutes away from our destination. I've watched that number change at least six times, none of them in the right direction, and I'm beginning to understand why the driver hasn't bothered making conversation.

Every time we stop at a traffic light, people appear between the cars carrying things they apparently expect us to buy. Candy, magazines, flowers, phone chargers, even stuffed animals. One man approaches our SUV with a plastic bottle and a filthy rag, offering to wash the windshield. The driver waves him away, but he sprays the glass anyway, smearing some disgusting-looking liquid across it before moving on to the next car. I watch him disappear between a taxi and a delivery truck, wondering how anyone can stand living in a place where even sitting at a red light involves this much activity.

"Does it always take this long to get anywhere?" I ask my father, who's been answering emails on his phone since we left the airport.

"It's Friday afternoon, sweetheart. Traffic is usually worse around this time."

"Wonderful. So we should've arrived on a Tuesday?"

Dad looks at me, clearly deciding whether the question deserves an answer, before returning his attention to his phone. I turn toward the window again and watch a motorcycle squeeze between our SUV and a bus with so little room to spare that I instinctively pull away from the glass. The driver doesn't seem concerned, which suggests either that he's accustomed to this sort of thing or that he's completely lost his survival instincts.

You're probably wondering what the hell I'm doing in Mexico. Believe me, I've been asking myself the same question since Dad announced his promotion. And before you assume I'm some ungrateful bitch who can't stand the thought of her father being successful, I'll have you know that I was genuinely happy for him. For approximately five minutes. Then he explained that becoming vice president of the Latin American division of his transportation company meant relocating to Mexico City, and that I would naturally be accompanying him. He delivered that last bit as though moving to another country were no different from changing houses across town, somehow expecting me to share his enthusiasm.

I was supposed to be starting my senior year at Vermont High with the same people I'd known practically forever. After three years of dealing with the usual high school bullshit, I'd finally reached the point where I knew everybody who mattered, had a great group of friends and could look forward to enjoying my last year without worrying about where I fit in. I had parties to attend, a soccer team I actually liked playing for and a social calendar that was coming along rather nicely. Leaving everything behind to attend some school in Mexico, surrounded by people I'd never met, wasn't my idea of a wonderful opportunity, and I made sure Dad understood that.

I tried everything I could think of to change his mind. I screamed, cried, threatened to run away and eventually begged him to let me stay with Grams until graduation. She would've been perfectly happy to have me, and I was only two months away from turning eighteen, so what difference could one school year possibly make? Unfortunately, Dad wasn't interested in negotiating. He said he'd considered letting me stay, but after everything that had happened over the previous year, he couldn't trust me to behave without him around. Hearing him say that hurt more than I expected, mostly because I knew he had a pretty good reason for feeling that way.

Things between Dad and me haven't been particularly good for a long time. Mom died when I was twelve, after a horrible battle with cancer that seemed to take over our entire lives, and neither of us handled losing her very well. Dad had always worked a lot, but after she died he practically lived at the office. I suppose keeping himself busy was his way of dealing with everything, although it didn't do much for me. Most afternoons I came home to the nanny, ate dinner without him and went to bed before he returned. I know he loves me, and I know he was doing his best, but there were times when I would've traded every expensive thing he bought me just to have him sitting at the dinner table.

By the time I hit puberty, I'd figured out that getting into trouble was a fairly effective way of keeping myself entertained. I liked parties, boys, expensive clothes and having people pay attention to me. I also discovered that being the girl everyone wanted to hang out with was considerably more enjoyable than having people look at me with that awful expression they got whenever someone mentioned my mother. Some people thought I was a bitch, others called me a slut, and I honestly couldn't have cared less. I had friends, plenty of invitations and more freedom than most girls my age. I knew I could be shallow and selfish, but I was having a pretty good time and didn't see much reason to change.

My therapist had a different opinion. According to her, my behavior was connected to unresolved grief and my inability to process Mom's death. She spent an impressive amount of time trying to get me to talk about my feelings, which usually ended with me telling her what she wanted to hear so she'd stop asking questions. Maybe she was right about some of it, but I hated the way everybody seemed determined to explain every stupid thing I did by bringing up my dead mother. Sometimes I did things simply because I wanted to, even when I knew perfectly well they were a terrible idea.

Last year, however, things got a little out of hand. I spent so much time in detention that the school secretary started greeting me by name whenever I showed up. I got caught making out with boys in places where I definitely shouldn't have been, smoking on school property and skipping classes whenever something more interesting came along. My grades suffered, Dad received several calls from the principal and I became exceptionally good at promising to improve my behavior without having the slightest intention of following through. Looking back, I can admit that I was pushing my luck, although at the time I was convinced the adults around me were overreacting to everything.

Then came the night I got arrested for driving under the influence and possession of marijuana. The drugs weren't mine, and I will maintain that until the day I die. Some pothead I'd been fooling around with had left them in my car, apparently intending to retrieve them later, and I had no idea they were there until the police found them.

Unfortunately, I couldn't make the same argument about the alcohol. I'd been drinking, got behind the wheel and was stupid enough to think nothing would happen. The judge was surprisingly lenient considering the circumstances. I received community service, a substantial fine and a suspended driver's license until my eighteenth birthday. Dad, on the other hand, wasn't feeling particularly generous. He confiscated my credit card, grounded me indefinitely and made it very clear that he'd run out of patience with my bullshit.

That was seven months ago, and apparently I'm still paying for it. Dad hasn't forgotten what happened, and every time I try to convince him that I've learned my lesson, he reminds me that rebuilding trust takes time. I suppose I understand where he's coming from, but it's incredibly frustrating to realize that one night of monumental stupidity can follow you around for so long. I can't even blame him entirely, because the arrest wasn't some isolated incident after months of perfect behavior. It was simply the worst thing I'd done in a long series of things I probably shouldn't have been doing in the first place.

Which brings me back to this ridiculously expensive SUV, the never-ending traffic and the unfortunate reality that Mexico is going to be home for at least the next year. In two months I'll legally be an adult, which means I could theoretically get on a plane and return to the United States whenever I please. The problem is that without Dad's money, I'd have to figure out how to pay for everything myself, and I'm not stupid enough to believe that my limited work experience and charming personality are going to support the lifestyle I've become accustomed to. Grams might help, but dragging her into another fight with Dad would probably make things worse.

"You're awfully quiet," Dad observes, finally putting his phone away.

"I'm contemplating my future."

"Should I be worried?"

"Depends. How difficult would it be to get a job that pays enough to maintain my current standard of living?"

He laughs, which I find deeply offensive considering the seriousness of my situation. "I think you'll discover that earning your own money is a little more complicated than spending mine."

"Thank you for that valuable insight."

"Sophie, we've talked about this. I know you're upset, but I'd really like you to give Mexico a chance."

I look at him, wondering whether he genuinely believes another conversation is going to change anything. "I was making a perfectly good life for myself in Vermont."

His expression changes slightly. "You were also getting yourself into a great deal of trouble in Vermont."

"That was months ago."

"And moving here isn't a punishment, sweetheart. I accepted this position because it's an excellent opportunity for my career and because I think it could be good for both of us. I'm hoping we'll have more time together."

I've heard that last part before, although something about the way he says it makes me keep the observation to myself. Dad seems tired, and not simply because we've spent most of the day traveling. He's been trying to convince me that this move is a good idea for months, and I've made sure he knows exactly how unhappy I am about it. Sometimes I wonder whether he regrets accepting the promotion, but he never says anything that would suggest he does.

The traffic finally begins to move at a reasonable speed, and over the next twenty minutes the scenery changes considerably. The crowded streets and chaotic intersections give way to broad avenues lined with enormous trees, expensive boutiques and apartment buildings that wouldn't look out of place in Manhattan. There are restaurants with outdoor terraces, people walking dogs and women carrying shopping bags from stores I recognize. I even spot a Starbucks, which is reassuring, although I'm not quite ready to admit that to Dad.

"We're in Polanco now," he tells me as the driver turns onto a quieter street. "It's one of the nicest neighborhoods in Mexico City. I think you'll like it."

I look out the window again. The streets are clean, the buildings are attractive and the shops appear to be selling the sort of things I actually enjoy buying. It's considerably nicer than I'd expected, although that probably says more about how little I knew about Mexico than anything else. Most of my knowledge comes from vacation brochures, a few documentaries and whatever happens to make the news back home. I'm beginning to suspect my understanding of the country might be somewhat limited.

Our driver slows in front of a residential complex consisting of two sleek towers of glass and pale stone, surrounded by landscaped gardens and separated from the street by a security entrance. An attendant approaches the SUV, speaks briefly with the driver and checks something on a tablet before allowing us through. Beyond the gate, a wide driveway curves toward a covered entrance where two uniformed employees are helping another resident unload shopping bags from the trunk of a Mercedes.

"Please tell me this isn't where we're staying until you find us a house," I say, studying the towers through the window.

"This is home, Soph. At least for the duration of my assignment." Dad sounds pleased with himself. "I thought an apartment would be more convenient. It's close to my office and your school, and the building has excellent facilities."

I look up at the towers again. Our house in Vermont has a large backyard, a swimming pool and enough rooms that Dad and I can go most of a Sunday without running into each other. Living together in an apartment, even an expensive one, sounds like an excellent way to discover just how much we get on each other's nerves. Dad must be thinking something similar, because he assures me the unit is considerably larger than I'm probably imagining and that we'll each have plenty of privacy.

The driver pulls up beneath the entrance canopy, and Dad gets out to speak with the attendant while I collect my handbag. Watching him introduce himself to the building staff, I have to acknowledge that my father looks rather impressive for a man who's just spent most of the day traveling. Vincent Wiltz is forty-nine, although people regularly assume he's several years younger. He's tall, with broad shoulders, dark brown hair that's only beginning to show a little gray around the temples and a neatly trimmed beard that he maintains with almost ridiculous precision. He works out regularly, eats well and spends far too much money on clothes that look deceptively simple. Today he's wearing dark trousers and a pale blue shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and despite the long flight, he somehow manages to look as though he's just stepped out of a business magazine.

He's also annoyingly handsome, something I've been aware of ever since my friends started making inappropriate comments about him when we were younger. I don't particularly enjoy hearing other girls talk about how attractive my father is, especially when some of their mothers aren't much more discreet. Fortunately, Dad hasn't shown much interest in dating anyone since Mom died, and I would be perfectly happy if things stayed that way. I already have enough complications in my life without having to deal with some woman trying to insert herself into our family.

The lobby is enormous, with high ceilings, polished stone floors and a contemporary chandelier that looks like an expensive piece of abstract art. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlook an interior garden filled with trees, fountains and immaculate flower beds. A seating area furnished with cream-colored sofas and low marble tables occupies one side of the room, while a reception desk stretches across the other. A young woman welcomes us in English before switching to Spanish to speak with the driver, who has followed us inside with our luggage.

A building representative is waiting to take us upstairs. She explains that residents have private access to their floors, round-the-clock security and a concierge service that can arrange everything from restaurant reservations to housekeeping. Dad listens with interest while I study the elevators, wondering whether the building has some kind of delivery service. If I'm going to be stuck in a luxury apartment complex for the foreseeable future, I'd at least like to know whether someone can bring me decent food.

We take an elevator to the seventeenth floor, where a short hallway leads to our new front door. Dad unlocks it and steps aside to let me enter first. I walk into a wide entrance hall that opens into a living room considerably larger than I'd expected, with enormous windows overlooking the city and a terrace running along one side. The furniture is modern without looking uncomfortable, a mixture of warm wood, cream-colored upholstery and dark accents that works quite well. There's a large sectional sofa facing an oversized television, a dining table that seats eight and an open kitchen with a marble island, built-in appliances and enough counter space to prepare dinner for a small army. Someone has already stocked the kitchen with groceries, fruit and snacks, presumably after Dad provided a list of things we like.

I wander toward the windows, drawn by the view. From up here, the city stretches in every direction, interrupted by clusters of trees and neighboring buildings. The terrace is furnished with outdoor chairs and a low table, and although I can't imagine spending much time sitting outside admiring the scenery, I can appreciate that somebody went to considerable trouble to make the place attractive.

"Well?" Dad asks, joining me by the windows. "What do you think?"

"It's nice," I admit. "I still would've preferred Vermont, but at least you didn't move us into some horrible little apartment."

He smiles, apparently deciding to accept that as a compliment. "There are three bedrooms, so we'll each have our own space. I'm going to use the third one as an office whenever I need to work from home."

I turn toward him. "That's comforting. Now I'll get to watch you ignore me in two different countries."

His expression changes, and I immediately wish I'd chosen something else to say. Dad doesn't pretend to misunderstand what I'm talking about. He knows he's missed a lot over the years, and I know he hates being reminded of it.

"I know I haven't always been around as much as I should've been, Sophie. I'm trying to make some changes, and I thought this move might give us a chance to spend more time together."

He sounds sincere, which makes it difficult to maintain the level of irritation I'd been enjoying all afternoon. I don't particularly want to discuss our relationship in the middle of a furnished apartment with a woman waiting in the hallway to show us around, so I ask whether I can see my bedroom. Dad lets the subject drop, although I can tell he's disappointed.

My bedroom is at the opposite end of the apartment from his, which immediately improves my opinion of the place. It's spacious, with pale wooden floors, a king-size bed, an upholstered headboard and a sitting area beside another enormous window. There's a walk-in closet that could accommodate all my clothes, although I suspect Dad has seriously underestimated how much wardrobe space a girl can require. The bathroom is equally impressive, with a double vanity, a glass-enclosed shower and a freestanding bathtub positioned near the window.

I walk through the closet, checking the shelves and drawers before returning to the bedroom. Several of my suitcases have already been placed near the bed, and a few unopened boxes containing things Dad insisted on sending ahead are stacked against the wall. Most of our belongings are still on their way from Vermont, but at least I won't have to spend the next few weeks living out of one suitcase.

"If you want to change the furniture or decorate it differently, we can arrange that," Dad offers from the doorway. "I thought you'd prefer choosing things yourself."

I look around again. The room is beautiful, but it could belong to practically anyone. There are no photographs, books, shoes scattered around the floor or half-finished bottles of nail polish on the dresser. I find myself thinking about my bedroom in Vermont, with its familiar clutter and the photographs I'd taped around the mirror, and realize how much I'm going to miss having everything exactly where I left it.

"I'll probably change a few things," I tell him. "The bathroom's amazing, though. And the closet."

Dad looks so pleased that I almost feel guilty for making him work this hard for a compliment.

The building representative is still waiting to show us the amenities, and when Dad suggests we take a look before unpacking, I decide it might be worth the effort. The fitness center occupies a substantial portion of one of the lower floors, with professional-quality equipment, separate areas for strength training and cardio, and a studio used for yoga and Pilates. One wall is almost entirely glass, overlooking the gardens below, and there's enough space between the machines that people can work out without practically sitting on top of each other.

"This is actually pretty good," I admit, examining the weight-training area. "Do we need to reserve anything?"

The woman explains that the gym is open from early morning until late at night and that personal trainers are available by appointment. Dad mentions that I play soccer, and she tells us about the building's conditioning programs. I enjoy working out, although most of my exercise comes from soccer, and I have no intention of letting an entire summer of sitting around ruin my fitness.

Dad also mentions that he's already spoken with someone at my new school about the soccer program. Apparently, the coach has an impressive professional background, although Dad can't remember the details well enough to explain them. I tell him I'll worry about that when classes start. I've been playing since I was little, and as long as the guy knows what he's doing, I don't particularly care where he played before becoming a high school coach.

The swimming facilities are even better. There's a beautiful indoor pool surrounded by lounge chairs, with enormous windows overlooking the gardens, and an outdoor pool on a landscaped terrace that catches the afternoon sunlight. The woman explains that the indoor pool is heated year-round and that residents can use it for swimming laps or simply relaxing. I can already imagine spending entire afternoons down here, especially if the weather is anything like Dad keeps promising.

Then she takes us to the spa, and I start wondering exactly how much the company is paying for this apartment. There's a sauna, a steam room, a Jacuzzi and several treatment rooms where residents can book massages and facials. Everything is decorated in soft, neutral colors, with subdued lighting and the sort of peaceful atmosphere that usually costs a ridiculous amount of money at a resort. I ask whether residents have to pay extra for the treatments, and Dad laughs when the woman explains that the facilities are included but private services must be booked separately.

"You've been here less than an hour and you're already finding ways to spend my money," he observes.

"I'm trying to make the best of our situation. Isn't that what you've been asking me to do?"

He laughs again, and I ask the woman whether the spa has a price list. She promises to email it to us along with the rest of the building information, and I decide that perhaps I shouldn't complain about the apartment quite so much.

By the time we finish the tour, I've discovered that the building also has a residents' lounge, a private screening room, several meeting spaces and a rooftop terrace with beautiful views of the city. There's even a small café where people can order breakfast and coffee without leaving the complex. It isn't the same as having our own house, and I still hate the idea of living in Mexico for an entire year, but being stuck here might not be quite as miserable as I'd imagined.

When we return to the apartment, Dad asks whether I'd like to go out for dinner or order something in. He's been awake since an ungodly hour, and although he's doing a remarkable job of hiding it, I can tell he's exhausted. I suggest ordering pizza because the idea of getting back into a car after spending half the day in traffic makes me want to scream. He agrees immediately and starts going through the restaurant recommendations the building left for us.

While he's placing the order, I return to my bedroom and start opening my suitcases. My clothes are wrinkled, my cosmetics have somehow ended up mixed with my shoes, and one of my favorite necklaces has tangled itself around the charging cable for my phone. I spend several minutes trying to separate them before giving up and tossing everything onto the bed. From the window, I can see the outdoor swimming pool and part of the landscaped gardens, where a few residents are walking along the paths.

I take a couple of photographs of the view and send them to my friends, who immediately start asking questions about the apartment and whether I've met any cute guys yet. I haven't, obviously, although the thought reminds me that I'll be starting school soon and will eventually have to make some kind of effort to meet people. I've never had much trouble making friends, but I'd rather not have to start over when I already had a perfectly good life waiting for me in Vermont.

Dad appears at my bedroom door a little later to tell me the pizza will arrive soon. He's changed into jeans and a T-shirt, and without his business clothes he looks more relaxed than he has in days.

"I really do hope you'll give this place a chance, Soph," he says. "I know you're angry with me, and I understand why, but I don't want you to spend the whole year miserable just to prove a point."

I wish he'd get angry with me occasionally instead of being so reasonable. It would make things easier if I could convince myself that he was deliberately ruining my life, but he genuinely believes this move is going to be good for us. I can see it in the way he's been watching me all afternoon, waiting for some indication that I might eventually forgive him.

"I'm not promising anything, Dad. I still think making me leave Vermont was unfair, and I'm not suddenly going to love living here because the building has a swimming pool."

"I know, sweetheart. I'm not asking you to pretend otherwise." He hesitates before telling me that he hopes we can spend more time together, since his new position should allow him a more predictable schedule than the one he had back home. I don't entirely believe that, because I've heard similar promises before, but there's something about the way he says it that makes me want to believe him this time.

I tell him I'll try, which is as much as I'm prepared to offer, and he seems satisfied enough to leave me alone with my suitcases. Once he's gone, I sit on the edge of the bed and look around the room again. Everything is unfamiliar, from the view outside my window to the sounds coming from the street so far below us, and I suddenly miss the ordinary things I used to take for granted. My bedroom back home, the smell of the kitchen in the morning, Grams calling to ask whether I'd eaten anything decent, even the ridiculous arguments Dad and I used to have about leaving my shoes in the hallway.

I unzip the smaller bag I'd carried onto the plane and take out the framed photograph of Mom that I refused to pack with the rest of our belongings. It was taken during a family vacation when I was ten, before she got sick, and she's laughing at something outside the frame while I cling to her waist. I have dozens of photographs of her, but this one has always been my favorite because she looks exactly the way I remember her before everything changed. I place it on the nightstand beside the bed and spend a little longer looking at it than I intended.

Dad calls from the living room a few minutes later, announcing that our dinner has arrived. I answer him and get up, leaving the photograph where I can see it from my pillow. I'm still furious about being here, and I haven't forgotten that I had an entire senior year planned with my friends back home. But the apartment is beautiful, the facilities are impressive, and Dad seems determined to make things work between us. I suppose I can enjoy the swimming pool and the spa while figuring out how to convince him to send me back to Vermont. After all, nobody said I had to be miserable every single minute of my exile.