Emmy And Me

We stepped out into the night, the streets of the walled city still warm and humming with music that drifted from open doorways. The air smelled of grilled meat, diesel, and sea salt.

The restaurant was only a few blocks away, tucked behind a wooden door that looked centuries old. Inside, candles flickered against stone walls, and the fans did their best to push the heavy air around. A guitarist played near the bar.

"This is gorgeous," Katrina whispered as we sat.

"Figured it'd beat room service," I said, scanning the menu.

She grinned. "You figured right."

Dinner was easy — grilled fish, plantains, cold beer. We ate slowly, the conversation meandering from Cartagena's history to her childhood to my nonprofit's headaches. She listened more than I expected, leaning in, asking sharp questions. I caught myself enjoying her company more than I should.

Afterward we walked back through narrow streets lit by lanterns. A group of kids chased a soccer ball across the cobblestones, laughter echoing. Katrina slowed, watching them, something soft in her expression.

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"You really are trying to change things here," she said finally.

"Trying," I admitted. "But it feels like bailing water out of a sinking boat with a teacup."

"Still — you're bailing."

That stayed with me as we reached the house. I opened the heavy front door, and she stepped inside, looking around as though it might reveal new secrets since her last visit.

"Tomorrow you'll have this place swarming with work crews?" she asked.

"Pretty much. Grant and Mike want to finish by end of day."

She lingered in the kitchen, fingertips brushing the marble counter. "I can't believe you just… live like this."

I shrugged. "It doesn't feel real yet. Like I'm borrowing someone else's life."

She turned to me then, expression unreadable. "It suits you."

For a second, the air between us tightened. Then she broke it with a laugh. "Anyway, thanks for dinner. I should get going before you make me haul more wine."

I chuckled. "Deal. Safe walk."

After she left, the house seemed too large, every creak amplified. I wandered the halls, double-checking locks even though I knew the system was solid. Finally, I ended up on the top deck, looking out at the city walls and the dark sea beyond.

Cartagena was alive beneath me, pulsing, chaotic, beautiful. And for the first time since buying the house, I felt the faint tug of belonging.