Shall I Stay (Los Morales #1)

4. Lena

Of course I would prefer to not need Rico’s help for sustenance. But I could tell as we drove closer that there would not be much to choose from. As ready as I am for my rental’s bed, I need food.

I sigh the sigh of the resigned and answer him. “Yes, very hungry. Could you just point me to where I could get something?”

Narrow eateries and pubs occupy the first floors of some of these nearly half-millennial row houses. The short alley where Rico parked has several businesses currently shut up, either already closed or not opened yet. But, at the end, where it expands to the main street and another alley, stands a cafe of sorts with its outdoor dining area right on the cobblestoned street in front of the entrance.

“Bah, I can do better than that.” Rico lowers the car windows, shuts off the engine, and gets out of the car. He checks on the puzzling chickens, murmurs at them something I’m not sure was reassuring or threatening, and walks toward the cafe.

My independent streak wants to enter the battle, but I get out and follow, reduced to going along with whomever and whatever will get me fed the soonest.

If it were not for these waging forces, I am sure I would have enjoyed both the drive here and this Spanish colonial part of town with its mix of coastal, urban, and historical beauty. Hopefully, “The Island of Enchantment” appears more enchanting when my blood sugar is back to normal and my head stops pounding.

As of now, things turn increasingly bleak because, as we get closer, everything looks closed and empty.

Rico struts over to the cafe employee, as she valiantly sets up small tables and umbrella shades while wearing long dress pants in this afternoon humidity. She sees us and immediately puts up a stance that says, “Not open yet. Come back later.”

Maybe I can dig up a granola bar or something from the bottom of my purse since I refuse to die in this state of perspiration or before achieving all my ambitions.

After they get the usual buenas tardes greeting out of the way, I am not prepared to witness how Rico throws down the equivalent of a schmooze attack on this unsuspecting cafe manager. I stand here, starving and dumbfounded, as he smiles, jokes, nudges—I think I saw a wink or three.

As if his charm is not enough, he offers to send tourist clients their way if we could just get some pre-opening food service. Management counteroffers with a to-go meal as an alternative to not throw off their setup too much. And, before I know it, we walk back to my rental, my hands full of warm styrofoam containers that smell like something they would hand you when you enter the gates of heaven.

The sun starts its descent, and the waning sunlight makes the cobblestones sparkle and turns the colorful buildings a more uniform sepia tone. A warm evening breeze caresses the back of my neck. Golden hour suits Old San Juan very well.

Feeling much better, I glance at Rico as he strolls along in contented silence, hands in his pockets. He did offer to carry the food, but at this point, he would have to pry it from my starved, lifeless fingers. Even as the sky darkens, I catch how his resting face looks like he could contentedly hum.

We had a rough start, and still he came to my rescue.

I turn a little more toward him and say, “I can’t believe you got her to sell us some food. Gracias .”

Rico shrugs, but his grin is very self-satisfied. “I’ve learned to turn on the Rico Charm when I need to. Growing up in a household of women taught me well—about how to get what I want and also all about hangry symptoms.” And that’s a fourth wink. I doubt he knows he’s doing it.

He has even named that spell he cast, like it should be bottled for litigators and salespeople to dab on when needed. I swear I have rolled my eyes more in the presence of this man than I have since I refused to smile because of braces. Now I refuse to smile for other reasons, namely in support of my curated, I mean business power stare I employ to keep distractions at bay.

“Well, I am glad today it was used for good. I—I really needed it,” I concede as we arrive in front of the rental. Van-chickens sound a little restless but otherwise fine.

Rico makes to get in the car as he says, “ No fue nada . Glad to help and make up for the late pickup. Hope you get some rest.”

“Wait. You are not going to eat any?” I lift up the containers to show I obviously can’t consume all of it.

We are strangers/colleagues—I am not sure what the etiquette is here, but to have all his charm-earned food winnings to myself doesn’t seem right.

“My thanks, profesora. But I have to go. These chickens need to finally arrive at their destination, plus my abuela would never forgive me if I didn’t let her know I won’t be home for dinner.”

“Oh, well, let me—” I try to see if I can divide the order for him to take some with him, but he waves the idea off.

“Don’t worry about having too much left over. Sancocho is always better the next day.”

With that, he takes my things out of the trunk, helps enter the code to open up the door and get everything inside, meaningfully swiveling the luggage.

I guess I’m not the only one that thinks, “More than enough of you was an hour ago” because he then drives away, casually waving with salsa music blasting.

Rico. Tour guide. Historian. Eats dinner with his abuela . Could charm the birds from the trees. Or the chickens into a van.

I definitely need to reinforce my power stare.

Whenever I arrive at a rental or hotel room in the evening, I usually feel disoriented and even depressed. But clearly I have been staying at all the wrong places.

The welcoming magic of standing in this open space while I hold the promise of the best meal of my life in my hands has before been unknown to me. Golden-tinged stucco on arched walls crowned by centuries-old wooden beams contrast with white, modern furnishings. There is even a light-filled indoor patio with a hammock. I let out an overwhelmed, relieved sigh.

Feeling like the perfection of this rental is some undeserved divine reward, I dive into my food right here, bending over the coffee table. These are desperate times.

I reverently try a steaming spoonful.

What.

Can we have a moment of silence for how I have been walking this earth in blissful ignorance of food that can affect one this way? I’m Spanish—I come from the land of paellas and Serrano ham. But this.

This is home in a bowl. A rich, decadent stew-home with a comforting combination of savory herbs and spices. That would have been enough, but I add to it a side of puffy, garlicky white rice and crispy fried plantains. Admittedly, my notion of what a home is might have faded, but my taste buds let my soul know this is very close in concept.

Let’s blame the exhaustion for how I fail to hold back a moan of awe.

After I have had more than my fill, there is plenty left over, and I don’t know how I could feel anything but content. I think this sancocho vanquished both hunger and some emotional wounds while it was at it.

My full belly and fatigue would have me collapsing on the couch, but I unpack and put everything away because that is who I am.

Very satisfied with the shower, I am ready to give in to exhaustion.

But my mind is always on my work. That is also who I am. I text Rico.

I have two questions. First, when will we meet to discuss the project? We never mentioned it.

This is Magdalena.

And second, how can this sancocho possibly get any better tomorrow?

Hello to you too.

All the spices in the broth break down the meat and root vegetables even further during the night to make a thicker, more lusciously flavorful consistency when next you reheat. Prepare yourself.

I didn’t bring up when to meet since I wasn’t sure how much rest you would need. Also wanted to allow you some time to adapt to the barbarian natives.

Thank you again and in advance for tomorrow’s food. I see lack of civilizing does not affect a tendency for irony.

I’m unironically at your disposal.

Tomorrow 10 am at my rental? I don’t want to lug around all the research I have with me.

See you then, profesora.

Does an eye-roll count if the object of the annoyance is not there to witness it? There should be a limit on how much someone out of puberty is allowed to eye-roll each day.

I don’t even have the strength to send off a representative emoji. I’m done. And so glad to be done on perfectly decent thread-count bedding.

I start to doze off, still blearily wondering why those chickens were in that van.