Shall I Stay (Los Morales #1)

13. Rico

Come on, Self-Control. You think you know a guy.

You think he’d learn his lesson about keeping it carefree so nobody disappoints us. You think he’d know that high-strung career chasers want nothing from us but the grunt work. You think he’d be able to keep our mouth shut, our hands to ourselves, and stick to the job.

But no.

Ay, but I get it, Self-Control. We want to help; we want to fix it. Especially when she opens up, and we see the fiercely independent, lonely little girl. That’s when we’re at our weakest, wanting to make her smile.

She’ll shoot us right down and casually wave goodbye. Keep that in mind.

Before Lena and I went our separate ways from El Morro , she mentioned we should research individually now that we have Alonso’s business partner’s name to work with.

And, that was fine by me, Self-Control.

I need to shore up defenses, anyway. Also to ask myself why I involuntarily act in counterproductive ways? How is ‘She will leave to the other side of the world to keep chasing her career’ in any way what I want? It’s not. So stop it and start pulling your weight.

Since last night, I’ve done my best to search for this venture partner, Francisco De Girón Gil. But, besides some vital records, I’ve yet to find anything that points to where in the West they headed.

Mid-morning today I received a text from Lena about meeting at her rental to discuss some findings. So this is excellent. We—I mean— I get to prove unaffected professionalism.

And hopefully, I can stop referring to myself and my prefrontal cortex as “we.”

Lena buzzes me in and calls out from the hall, “The door is open! I’m in the kitchen!”

I walk in and stand by the kitchen island, taking in the long white wall she’s used as a giant bulletin board. Colorful post-its cover the surface, some with lines of string drawn between them. She went on an office supply raid and created a mural with everything we know about Alonso.

From the notes on the wall dedicated to Francisco Girón, I can tell she also came across his vital records. Lena sits at the table, writing more info on a note. She must have found something else.

Of course she did.

Good . As she said, the sooner we solve this thing, the sooner I can go back to not caring what comes out of my mouth, back to focusing on expanding the tour business, and—you know, back to my stumbling search for a life of true meaning and belonging.

Also, the sooner I don’t have to deal with her disconcerting orange blossom scent.

“You’ve been hard at work.” I follow the diagram’s path to where it stops, with Alonso leaving for the San Germán area.

Lena replies, “Eh, yes, this helps me stay on track.” She scribbles on her note and hasn’t looked at me yet. Her hard work has her a little less put together. A pencil sticks out of her high bun and her slouchy, wide-necked shirt reveals a freckled shoulder.

Okay, time to stop noticing.

I sit at the opposite end of the table.

See? Professional distance.

A moment later, Lena sighs as she puts down her pen and looks up at me. She adjusts her neckline, squares her shoulders, but stalls, fiddling with the note in her hand.

“Mira , Rico, I want to apologize for yesterday.”

Huh? My Word-Comprehension must be as faulty as Self-Control.

Lena swallows and goes on, “I let my overwhelm take over. I am sorry for unloading it all on you and then implying I do not appreciate your help.” She takes a step toward me, still fussing with the note. “I—I may not be used to the fact, but . . . we both know I could not do this without you. Or at least it would be a lot more difficult . . .”

I must be hearing things. I think Sanity might be taking a breather.

I clear my throat as she continues with wide eyes. “Also—even beyond the project—I have not been . . . at my best, and you have done nothing but try to help and make things easier. I really am grateful for how . . . attentive you have been. Before we continue to work together, I want you to know this.”

Not only an apology, but validation and gratitude?

Her vulnerability shoots an electrical charge into my arm muscles, forcing them to want to soothe and embrace.

What do we do now, Self-Control? Hold onto our chair and resist? Should we say playing-it-cool and totally-not-wanting-to-hug-you words? Excellent plan.

“Um, thank you for apologizing if you felt the need to. Totally accepted.” I lean on the table toward her. “And I really am just glad to help, Lena.”

Her eyebrow quirks up, as if she’s about to remind me that’s not her name. But she only gives me a shaky smile and a brief nod. “Thank you. I will try to keep the meltdowns to a minimum.”

“One a day?”

Her eyes narrow and her high bun wobbles. “Ha-ha.”

“Every other day sounds pretty dull to me.”

“Hopefully no more meltdowns are necessary.” She twirls the note at me. “Since I found where Girón and Alonso were headed and why.”

Now that’s the smirky, self-satisfied smile that suits her so well.

I lean back and cross my arms. “Okay, profesora. What did you find?”

Lena lifts a shoulder teasingly. “Oh, not much . . .” But then her enthusiasm takes over, and she grabs her laptop, walking over to place it in front of me. “Only that—looking around the Archivo de Indias digital library—I found the special authorization document from the Spanish crown that allowed De Girón Gil his soldier of fortune journey. An expedition specifically to the Guanajibo River—”

“Wait. That river basin was known for—”

“Gold-mining. Yes!” She leans on the table right beside me, beaming with excitement.

Sensory overload is not Self-Control’s friend.

I shift in my chair and grab the seat. “Okay, but this was 1540. The gold rush on this island was practically over. It had already been a couple of years since the Spanish king received the last shipment from San Juan.”

Lena straightens up and shrugs, placing those shoulder freckles in sight again. “De Girón must have had the crown’s favor to grant this permission. And I looked it up. Some gold findings were reported in that area up to the late fifteen-hundreds.”

“Well, it makes sense. Alonso would be excited to join a fortune-hunting expedition and abandon whatever to-do’s his dad had for him in the capital.”

“Oh, yes. To a young aristocrat it would have been quite the adventure.”

I study the document on the screen. Her eyes have been wide with hope again, and I hate to dampen even a millisecond of that. But I’m not sure this is the great breakthrough she seems to think it is.

After searching this new information for any other scrap of a lead, I say, “It’s such great news you found this.” I look up at her. “But—it doesn’t explain why he disappeared.”

Lena sighs but rallies enough to say optimistically, “I know. And yet, it narrows it down, no? Instead of having to search the whole western partido, we’re looking at where the actual city of San Germán stands today, correct?”

“Yep. La Ciudad de las Lomas.”

She slowly shuts the laptop and turns to me, wringing her hands. “ So. When do we leave?”

I chuckle and take off my baseball cap to scratch my head as I think about it. “Well, I’ll have to look up resources in that town and make some arrangements . . .”

“So tomorrow?”

I lean back in my chair, hands behind my head. “Lena, I—”

My phone rings. A call from Mari.

I show Lena the call screen image—my little sister in a bucket hat, sticking her tongue out. “Sorry. She didn’t text first. This must be life or death.” Lena nods and walks away to place the newest note on her research wall sculpture.

Sensing Mari’s impatience on the other side of the call, I go ahead and answer. “Mari , ?qué pasó?”

She huffs. “Rico, I have Juli here on speaker, too. Mira , we have a situation with a booking.”

Julia cuts in. “Actually, we have several situations. The first being that Mari has pink eye”—she continues off the speaker—“do not take a step closer. Echa pa’llá!”

Mari sounds farther away but continues, “ Ay. Yeah, it’s not a good look. But especially because we have that sunset cruise private tour tomorrow, remember?”

Julia adds, “And not only that, they called to request a second guide because their group is much larger than anticipated. So . . .”

Mari calls out, “I’d be worth two guides if it wasn’t for this . . . unpleasantness.”

As usual, when it’s all three of us, it’s like I’m not even here.

Julia says, “Well, I’m not dying to cover it, but I have to take Abuela to this appointment we’ve waited months for. You know how it is. I won’t be back in time.”

Mari comes from farther away, but her tone is clear when she dramatically states, “If only we knew two renowned historians who could fill in and blow away our clients with their brilliant archival knowledge . . .”

Agh. Enter Foreboding.

“Wait, is Magdalena there with you? Put her on speaker.” Juli has her older-sister tone.

I sputter out, “No, you guys. I don’t think—”

“Rico, you better put her on or—”

No need to hear the rest of what I’m sure is a creatively torturous threat. I mute my phone, close my eyes for a second at the futility of resisting, and direct my voice to Lena, who’s been perfecting her note placement on the wall. She notices I’m not on the call at the moment and turns.

“Um. Something came up with an important tour booking that’s tomorrow. My sisters think you could . . . help?” I blink slowly and shrug. “I really can’t think of another alternative so last minute.”

Lena comes over and takes the chair beside me. I quickly catch her up on what’s going on and the general idea of the event and ask, “So, is it okay if I put you on speaker with my deepest apologies?”

Her eyes have widened, but she nods, signaling she’s listening. I sigh and unmute my phone.

“—and that’s not all, Federico—”

“ Mira, nena, Lena’s on speaker,“ I say, as I warily look at her.

Mari’s teasing whistle cuts through. “So it’s ‘Lena’ now? Ookaaay.”

I let out a soul-deep huff of exasperation. Just as it feels like we are back on more solid footing as colleagues, this favor might blur things a bit. Just as we have a new direction for the research, this would slow us down. And just as Lena seems more sure of herself again, this might cause more overwhelm.

After greetings and pleasantries, Julia jumps right in. “So, what do you think, Magdalena? I’m sure you’ll be an amazing tour guide. And it would be such a great help. This booking could mean so much for our new high-end events expansion.”

Of course Mari has to chime in. “They’re going to love you. And your accent? I don’t know why I never thought to have us fake one just to get people going!”

I step in. “Mari, por favor .”

“Say you will, Lena! Abuela will make you pinón!”

I facepalm at Mari’s closing pitch.

Lena looks at me. I shrug, knowing it’s a tough call.

But then, with her eyes more unsure than her voice, she replies, “Well, whatever that is, I am sure it is delicious. I might need to brush up on my San Juan Bay history, though.”

After many exclamations and praises to Magdalena, my sisters finally hang up.

I feel the need to explain what pinón is in case it does help. “It’s like a Puerto Rican lasagna. Layers of sweet plantains and ground beef, all covered with cheese. Abuela’s is worth two bookings. Maybe three.”

Lena chuckles uncertainly. “It does sound worth it.”

“Thank you.” I sigh with both relief and apprehension.

She puts her soft hand on mine and squeezes. It’s brief, but just enough for that aforementioned electric charge to shoot up to my chest. Thankfully, the reaction paralyzes me in place, so I don’t miss her warm smile as she says, “Glad to help.”