He kissed my forehead, as though I were a four-year-old with a temper tantrum.

I took a step back. “Don’t touch me!”

I’d spent an hour fixing my chestnut hair just right, reapplying my face powder—my poudre de riz—and choosing a lavender sequin dress that exposed my entire back. And this was what I got from my husband? A fraternal kiss? If he didn’t look at me now that I was twenty-eight years old, what would happen when I turned thirty?

“Let’s talk about this later,” Cristóbal muttered as more people turned to look. “When you’re calmer.”

“No. Let’s talk about it now.”

Cristóbal let out an exasperated sigh. “You’re being unreasonable, Puri.”

Unreasonable? I couldn’t even formulate a response. I would’ve probably insulted him if I did. I turned around and dashed out of the foyer, away from this man who had the power to infuriate me like no one else.

I climbed the ladder that led to the deck and darted forward without looking back. I didn’t want Cristóbal to see my tears. I took in quick breaths, cool air clashing against my cheeks and a crescent moon over my head. I gripped the taffrail at the end of the ship.

Unreasonable, he’d said.

The black waters smashed against the hull—the sea could be so intimidating. My breathing slowed as my eyes focused on the hypnotic waves.

I supposed I was being a little obstinate. Normally, I wasn’t this demanding with Cristóbal. In Sevilla, I had many friends to keep me entertained. I didn’t need his constant attention. But I had no one else here. I’d been lonely for a week already and I was nervous about what awaited us in Ecuador. I needed his reassurance that everything would be all right. Had I made a mistake by giving away everything we had to chase after a dream—my father’s dream?

If only Cristóbal and I weren’t so different. Whereas he could live the rest of his days in a blissful immersion of his books, I couldn’t sit still for more than five minutes. In the beginning of our marriage, I couldn’t stand the long afternoons cross-stitching or mending socks while listening to the ticking of the clock marking the slow hours until dinnertime. The walls in our apartment suffocated me. Chocolate had been my salvation. From a young age, my grandmother—whom I’d been named after—had taught me all there was to know about chocolate. From how to transform the hard cacao beans into a silky, smooth liquid to learning what ingredients to mix in order to create a variety of textures and flavors that could be both pleasurable and addictive.