Shall I Stay (Los Morales #1)

19. Lena

It seems our century exchanged indoor plumbing for upper body strength. There is no way I would have the kind of arm definition I’m gaining without having to carry buckets of water up the stairs. It has been four days of this workout regimen thanks to the electricity and water service not being restored yet.

Which means it has been five days since Rico sprained his ankle coming down the ladder.

One moment he was taking down the last of the storm shutters, mouthing along word for word to Julia’s belting of the West Side Story soundtrack, and the next, one misstep had him on the ground, clutching his injured joint. Oh, how the mighty lip-syncer fell. Tina’s retired doctor friend came over to check it out and declared Rico’s ankle only needed a lot of rest.

Our rooming plan had to be switched out because Rico could not make it up the stairs to his room. And so, it has been him on the fantastic queen-sized futon in Julia’s ground-level room while I have been relegated to the daybed in Mari’s room, also known as her indomitable artist studio. It was either that or Rico’s bed—and no, gracias .

Rico has been resting with his leg up, and I have been the unofficial water deliverer since. The house has a water reserve connected to the main line, but it doesn’t run to the second-story house, requiring water to be carried up.

I almost had to scuffle with the Morales women for the privilege, but I now have experienced the previously unknown pleasure of standing in a queue to refill containers from the water delivery relief truck. I’ve never felt more the equalizing influence of basic needs.

Standing there, under the scorching sun, no breeze to be had since the hurricane took it all, and we are all there desperate for water, stripped bare. I even managed some nods and smiles of acknowledgment among my fellow water retrievers.

In addition to being as scared as I have ever been and literally stormed out of my comfort zone, I have learned that a natural disaster will expose and even refocus. Any pretense or extrinsic motivation blows away like an unsecured plastic lawn chair. You are not worried about your next career milestone or reinforcing your independence when you’re inside a dark, shuttered room while the wind presses against it and the rainwater rises for hours upon hours. You are not worried about appearances when everyone is surviving on sponge baths and dirtying as little laundry as possible. You are not worried about professional boundaries when your colleague has had to brave all of this while immobilized by pain.

So I have also been the unofficial Rico companion. Tina cooks and rations the goods. Julia hand-washes dishes. Mari has become the electric generator whisperer. And, besides joining in the family time that has also included absurdly heated rounds of UNO, I have become the futon sidekick. Historical non-fiction read-alouds, debates on modern colonialism and brisca card games—all my specialties.

“Bueno , that was the last of the research tomes I grabbed,” I say as I snap closed the one about the San Juan gold rush.

Of course Rico could read to himself, and I could hound Tina to let me help in any other way. But—been there, done that, failed miserably. Water collection duty has been my only victory, but she seems content to let me help her grandson not go stir-crazy.

Not surprisingly, Rico’s cheerful disposition has pushed through some frustration at being stuck. I have seen his contemplative side take over more often, though.

Thankfully, a cloudy, rainy afternoon has lowered the temperature because there is still no power to help remedy the heat. The intermittent hum of generators and the consistent sound of news broadcasts have become a tuned-out background.

Rico shifts from his sitting position on the futon, leaning with pillows against the wall, to fully lying down, both arms behind his head. His daily fashion of loose t-shirts and basketball shorts is different from his usual put-together casual. The short beard he has grown out contrasts with his shaved head and is . . . not a bad idea.

I drop the book and stand up to re-fluff the pillows that prop up his ankle.

He groans. “Lena, I’ve told you you don’t have to do that.”

“And I have told you it is for selfish reasons. The sooner your ankle is better, the sooner you can haul those buckets yourself.”

Rico chuckles and sighs, looking up pensively at the ceiling. “What are the odds of two people being equally invested in reading about colonial life in the district of San Germán?”

I sit in my official sidekick armchair and shrug. “Most people don’t know about the fascinating pirate stories and enemy attacks that caused the original village location to change several times. Their loss.”

“Yes, I’m sure they’re missing out as part of their post-storm entertainment.”

I huff. “I have heard no complaints from you.”

He turns his thoughtful gaze at me with a strange, restrained smile. “Can’t say that I have any.”

I clear my throat. “I thought so.” I straighten and point at him. “ Ahora , you need to finish your lunch so you can take your pills, or I will send the wrath of your abuela on you.”

“Wait. I do have a comment about the service—a little too threatening.”

With a laugh, I say, “Oh, you know this is no empty threat. Let’s not bring up the lamp incident.”

“Ugh, yes, can we not?”

Shaking my head, I tsk twice. “You just had to try standing on your own and knock over one of your sister’s prized possessions.”

“First of all, who has Funny Girl memorabilia as a bedside lamp? And second of all, I ordered another one from eBay as soon as we had a lightning strike of phone signal.”

“But the disappointment in your family’s eyes. Such a dishonor to be warned that next they’ll tie you to the bed.” I add another tsk. “ That won’t fade as easily.”

Rico scoffs. “Thanks for the reminder.”

I narrow my eyes as I flash my brightest smile. “Here to help.”

He lifts his eyes to the heavens as he awkwardly moves around, trying to get his blanket out from under him. I go back to him and kneel beside him on the futon so I can lean over and help. When I pull the rest of the blanket out and am about to straighten up, Rico grabs my wrist.

I startle, staring at his hand and then search his face. His eyes look right into mine. My mouth falls open in—Surprise? Confusion? Fear of a first-degree burn? I hover a second too long. His gaze moves to where his hand surrounds my wrist as he guides me to sit facing him on the futon.

Suddenly, I’m very aware of the same tank top and linen shorts I have been wearing for two days. I settle next to him, also very aware of the warmth from our sides pressed together. I’m close enough to catch the pained expression that flashes in Rico’s eyes before he looks down.

“Is it your ankle?” I move a little and look back to his foot to make sure I’m not hurting him.

Gently releasing my arm, Rico shakes his head. After a moment, he says, “You’re not the only one that can get overwhelmed when things don’t go as expected.”

I sigh in understanding. “Which part did you not expect? All the bumps on this genealogical wild-goose chase? Or housing me while bedridden?”

“Very much both. But I also did not expect to have you—to thank you for so much.”

Oh. That takes me a bit to recover from. “You did not think me capable of helping?” I ask, eyebrows raised.

“I didn’t think you capable of sticking around once you saw my car full of chickens.”

I choke out a guffaw. “So, you underestimate both my kindness and my tenacity?”

“Pues , not anymore—on either count.” He swallows. “On several counts.”

Well, that buoys me. I sit up, hands folded in my lap. “The pleasure of proving you wrong is all mine.”

Rico lets out a short laugh, but his gaze eventually is back to . . . troubled?

I continue, “I guess I have surprised myself too.”

“How so?”

I look down at my hands. “Being more okay with giving up control, being more open to . . . possibilities.”

Rico shifts up onto his elbows and stretches out a hand to test my forehead. “Yeah, I think this is the cabin fever talking.” I swat his hand away as we both laugh.

“Maybe I will go get your abuela after all. Or perhaps I will ask your sisters to recommend what to read next.”

“I think I also underestimated your sadistic streak.”

I nudge him on the side as he chuckles. His pained expression has cleared, in its place a wistful smile that, by the strain I feel in my cheeks, I’m sure I have been returning. Rico nudges me back.

A sound in the hallway interrupts the teenage flirty behavior. I quickly plop in my chair as Tina barges in. Immediately eyeing Rico’s unfinished plate, she calls out, “Julia, he barely ate half—you lost the bet! Mari gets the last alcapurria!” Vague lamenting travels from the other room.

Tina mumbles, “This is how we amuse ourselves now.” She turns to Rico and asks, “What’s going on? You need to eat well for those pain meds.”

“ Abuela,” Rico whines. “Lena keeps distracting me. Won’t let me eat.” His eyes are as innocent as his grin is sly.

Tina rolls her eyes, clearly seeing right through it.

After this utter betrayal, I stand and abandon him to face his grandmother. I do mention as I stroll out of the room, “I’ll go check Mari’s bookshelf.”