Shall I Stay (Los Morales #1)

12. Lena

I found Alonso, only to lose him again.

As soon as we step out of the Instituto , I turn left and stride toward El Morro . The long open walkway that leads to the colonial city’s main fortification and citadel of the San Juan Bay stretches before us, spacious green lawns on either side.

I just need to think and walk, so I keep going.

A cliff turned into a fort, the promontory openly faces the Atlantic, so the wind whips from both sides as one walks over. Colorful kites dot the bright blue sky, families taking advantage of the strong seaside gusts. People lounge on the lawn or travel to and from the national park tour offered inside the fort.

Alonso probably did not see any of this massive fortification completed. He had gone west.

Rico catches up to me and, without a word, grabs my heavy tote and offers me a small sugar cone with what looks like an orange-colored sorbet. I warily eye his offering but take the cone, once again murmuring my thanks. He uses the hand holding his own cone with a white sorbet to point toward a spot on the grass to sit on, facing away from the bay but toward the open ocean.

We sit on the lawn, side by side, knees in front of us, set on doing quick work of our sorbets before the heat does. An ice cream pushcart’s bell jingles and the seller calls out the flavors “Coco! Pina! Parcha!” Rico must have stopped there to grab these. I try my cone, and a shock of sweet, tangy acidity hits my tongue.

“This is passion fruit.”

“Yep, and I have coconut. Would you rather trade?”

“Eh, no. This is perfect.”

His mouth turns up into a half-smile. “I thought so.”

We finish up our cones. Silence settles between us while the chatter of people and constant breeze whirl around us.

Rico points to my tote that’s now resting on the grass. “‘Family Tree Hugger,’” he reads aloud from the bag’s design. “How many genealogy pun bags do you have?”

“It’s the same one. The front is interchangeable.”

“Cute.”

I lift a shoulder. “It serves its purpose.”

We are quiet for another little while. Maybe it’s the combination of seaside air and frozen sugar plus Rico’s patient stillness, but it results in the same unburdening effect as last time. I sigh and blurt out, “It feels like finding Alonso, just to lose him again.”

Rico looks at me and shifts in the grass a bit more toward me, arms resting on his bent knees, bronze skin catching all the sunlight. I continue, “Finally—finally there is a lead, but . . . to the West? It was more of a port than a city, no? Barely villages. Certainly no cathedral yet. Finding a paper trail? Probably impossible.”

His mouth opens and then shuts. He clasps and unclasps his hands over his knees and decides to let me go on. “I just—I might have underestimated how this project would go. How out of my element I would be, trying to do my usual standard of work but on this island and . . . having to work together.”

Rico winces a little at that last part. But I really am feeling frayed. I’m used to the pressure, most of it self-inflicted, but not to feeling so adrift and vulnerable, having to rely on someone’s help.

Plus, getting hit out of nowhere with absurd jealousy? One more giggle, and the General Archives have never seen the scuffle that was about to break out—in my head.

Basta . Literally the most unproductive feeling one can think of. It was probably not actual jealousy—more likely annoyance at unprofessionalism. Not jealousy at all.

And then we find Alonso went away from the capital on some unknown venture?

Now what?

My frustrated Spaniard hand gestures pop up as I go on. “I am exhausted from the ‘now what’s. I have become successful by relying on my research plans, my sources, my data analysis, my reassessments. It is what I count on. It is all I have ever been able to count on since I did not have—”

I look down as I catch myself. Our shoes are now toe to toe, so I must have shifted toward him. At this angle, the wind hits my side, whipping my ponytail around.

Rico asks, “What didn’t you have? You mentioned you were independent since you were sixteen, no?”

I sigh and look away from him, squinting at the almost blinding view of the seemingly endless ocean. I shrug as I answer, “I did not have . . . anyone. I am the only child of only-child parents who died tragically.” Rico’s hands flex, and I give a small shake of my head. “So, after that, options were very limited, and not what you would call a loving home. As soon as I could, I used the research skills I had and started working and taking care of myself.”

The correct tense would be: I do not have anyone. Probably because I have made sure I do not need anyone.

But the jealousy has brought me low enough for one day. I am already not proud about wanting to snarl at a colleague for leaning over another colleague. I do not need to open up about my carefully curated personal barriers and attachment issues. This has been enough unburdening for today, so I leave it at that.

“You grew up in Salamanca and stayed?”

A huff escapes me since Rico will not leave it at that. “Yes. It is no surprise—gravestones turned into a fixation. I could not leave them. I also liked doing so well on my own in the same town as my ‘family’ who did the opposite of help me.” Taking a steadying breath, I nudge his shoe with mine. “Plus, it has the fourth oldest university in all of Europe, you know?”

His eyes crinkle with his soft smile. “Ah yes, you and Cervantes—alumni buddies.”

I put a finger up to clarify. “Legendary alumni buddies.”

I look at him, and we both chuckle.

Rico studies me for a moment and says, “Maybe it’s because life sort of forced me to become a ‘wing it’ person, but I can relate to this grasping for control and direction. I can tell you, having someone there? Well, I don’t know how I would have made it through without them.” He nudges my shoe. “So how about you stop resenting my help, so we can move on to actually solving this thing? Easy, right?”

I narrow my eyes at him and hold his gaze. Even under his baseball cap, his eyes are bright and so earnest.

In the end, I swallow my first instinct to resent and defend my resentment. He’s right. Tanned and toned and a good listener—and right.

I sigh with exaggerated resignation and say, “I guess I will have to get over it since I need a driver to get me to the West.”

Rico shakes his head but grins. “I’ll have to check my schedule.”

“The chickens have you all booked up?”

He throws his head back as a full laugh bursts out of him. “ Ay , I’m never living that one down, am I?”

I laugh with him. “Odds are not good.”

We smile at each other—a little too long.

To break the silence and shake off what I’m sure is a dazed look from me, I try to grab at all the loose hair the wind pelts against my face. “This wind!”

“I think it works great.” Rico is still smiling.

I quirk my head. “Works great for what?”

“For doing this.” I swear the ocean waves stall as he reaches over to push a strand of hair behind my ear. His warm fingers graze my wind-whipped face, and there’s nothing to do but look at his eyes. They’re just as warm.

I stop myself before I give in and lean my cheek into his hand, further reduced to some kind of purring—or worse. Worse would be wishing this heart-swelling feeling was something I could have. I have work to do and then I head back almost four thousand miles away.

Get used to his help— that I can do. Any other ideas will not do.

So I stand up and wipe the grass off my shorts as I shakily conclude, “Well, I guess it is good to have someone to count on . . . eh, for now.” The waves and wind have turned deafening. “The sooner this is solved, the sooner I will be gone and back to my research data.” I add a nervous chuckle for good measure.

I try to glance anywhere but at Rico as he looks up at me. He studies me from under his cap, eyes narrowed from sunlight as unrelenting as the wind.

He turns his baseball cap around, and now I really need to get out of here.

I fidget, pushing my hair back out of my face. Finally, he stands up and mumbles, “Glad to help.”