Shall I Stay (Los Morales #1)

20. Rico

I have been a good person. Or so I thought.

I may have been a little merciless in my finance career days. But I’ve always tried to be honest, given up my chair, returned shopping carts. Definitely not someone I would say is deserving of tailor-made exquisite torture.

Maybe I’m still paying dues from when I tangled Julia’s hair in my remote control car. I never saw it again and thought my debt was paid.

It must have been a serious offense that has landed me in this week’s worth of torment. I can’t recall ever dog-earing pages, though. I’m not that kind of monster.

But medieval torture tactics really missed out on the concept of an excruciating chamber where one has to be laid up while the object of one’s fascination flits in and out, completely oblivious. Or at least, she doesn’t seem in any way aware of how every page read, every idea shared, every teasing remark, and every contested win at cards twists the knife, chips at my resolve, and drums a beat of impending doom.

Seeing Lena day in and day out divested of all her buttoned-up outfits, sitting in that chair like she wanted to be there? Like wood panels and measly nails against hurricane winds, I never stood a chance.

The sponge baths by one’s grandmother add to the torturous indignity. Even the strongest would break.

Then again, maybe this is not punishment for some past transgression but a trial to prove myself. If so, canonization might be in my future. Saint Federico, patron saint of Useless Pining—right up there with my buddy, the patron saint of lost causes.

Because that’s what this is. I’m aware enough and have had plenty of stare-at-the-ceiling time to trace out this nosedive trajectory. Lena is ambitious and brilliant, but she’s leaving. Lena is charmingly vulnerable, but she’s leaving. Lena is kind to her core, but she’s leaving. Lena is devastatingly attractive, but she’s leaving. Lena is nurturing and protective, but she’s leaving.

All my plagued, dumb heart cares about is the first part.

Not that there’s anything rational about it, but if she weren’t leaving, what difference would that make for my chances? Best I know is that her tolerance for my company seems to have gone up.

I’ll just have to focus on the excellent point that, as soon as the mystery of the nobleman’s son is solved, or even if not, odds are very low I’ll ever see her again.

This agonizing predicament feels particularly customized to how my whole purposeful-life thing centers on growing roots. I’d throw something in frustration, but doing so with a propped-up ankle seems particularly pitiful. Plus, I wouldn’t want to maim more of Julia’s “priceless” artifacts.

Instead, I lay here and observe, drinking in her presence like an empty container, not knowing if or when the water truck will be back.

And there’s something different about Lena. Not sure if it’s always been there and that it’s being revealed or if she’s had a shift. But a more wide-eyed, unguarded look shines in her eyes. An eagerness I had only seen in her work now makes an appearance in trivial conversation, in laughing together, in sharing a random memory. My guess would be the storm, its aftermath, and this living situation forced a stop to everything, and it lifted something in her.

I can still sense the loneliness she tries to hide. She would still spook easily, but there’s a lightness, a softness that wasn’t there before.

But what do I know? Maybe it’s the torture delirium talking.

Well, it was a fever dream moment when Lena, once again, trying to help, hovered over me. Her just-out-of-reach warmth and orange blossom scent, not unlike waterboarding to my restraint. It’s unnerving how involuntarily my hand shot out to keep her close.

And the way she settled next to me after her initial surprise? Let’s add not reading anything into that under “lost causes.”

Utilities should be restored in the next couple of days, and business as usual should resume. Time to push through this so it can be over.

As my last thread was about to snap, my ankle markedly improved—just in time to head west. Communications are up, and I contacted the San Germán local history museum to set up a visit on Monday.

Also, air conditioning does wonders for one’s sanity. I just woke up from the longest, most restful nap of my life, considering this week of unrest. Things are looking up.

The need to go to the bathroom urges as my current predicament. But there’s no way I’m letting anyone help me hobble over there anymore.

Not only do I have to be mobile with these old crutches, I also need to be stealthy—there are pushy, vicious women right outside the door. Even with the pedestal fans doing their best to blow away the mugginess, their chatter travels from the dining room.

If I do this right, I can sneak by the hall. They’ll never know I wasn’t napping anymore.

The door hinge creaks slightly as Mari lets out a raspy cackle, and I step into the hall undetected.

“—yeah, but in a way, Rico had the worst of it.” That’s Mari again, but now with her rare, serious tone.

A beat of heavy silence and then Abuela’s voice. “Their mom suffered so much when my son left for good, and Rico just had to put on a brave face. Try to fill his absence. We told him over and over he didn’t have to.”

“For good? He had left before?” That’s Lena.

Wait, what? They’re talking about me and our family mess with Lena? Not the kind of chat you’d expect with an afternoon snack.

The Morales women and Lena have grown too close, if this is the result. I scoot to the wall that leads to the bathroom so I have cover but am still within earshot. Already at risk of a scolding, if discovered, and that doesn’t burn off my eyebrows, eavesdropping extreme awkwardness will.

There’s no way I’m not listening in, though.

Julia answers, “Yeah, our dad was . . . unsettled. I don’t remember him ever being very present when he was home, and at first he would travel with all these different social movement organizations. Then he’d be gone longer and longer. He’d come back, have a fight with Mom, leave again—until he didn’t come back.”

From my hiding spot, I lean on the wall. I close my eyes to those memories and catch myself almost letting go of a crutch to scratch my head.

Dad would always ruffle my hair. Saying hello, saying goodbye, that one time he apologized about losing his temper, he’d ruffle my hair and walk away.

I can hear the sad shrug in Mari’s voice when she adds, “Yeah, Mami was amazing and did the best she could. But she died eight years later. Dad never showed up.”

It’s Julia who continues. “This lit a fire in Rico even more. Mari had to move back here with Abuela, but he and I were just starting our careers, so we stayed in New York City. He was like a machine for years.”

“My Rico, always smiling, such a big heart, always loving his family. But besides that, his heart has been locked away.” Oh, Abuela . I almost drop a crutch again from the need to facepalm.

Mari adds, “Moving back here this last year, he’s still been go-go-go, but in a different way. He’s seemed adrift. These past weeks? We hadn’t seen that spark in his eyes in so long, Lena. And, I have to say, you’re the only reason we have not heard a peep from him while he’s been stuck in bed.”

What in the Hurricane Minerva?

I take a step to stop this right now, but Lena clears her throat and asks, “Have you seen your dad again?”

Some silence during which I can only guess they’re shaking their heads.

Then Julia sighs and answers, “We were notified he died last year. He had no fixed address. As transient as ever.”

“I am so sorry.” Lena. Lena. Lena.

Someone blows their nose. Must be Abuela—never not mourning her wayward son.

But my sisters are not done. Julia says, “Again, Rico had the worst of it. So much unresolved, plus then . . .”

Okay, far enough. No need to drag in more recent wounds. No choice but to hop to the bathroom and close the door loudly enough to reveal my location.

Abuela’s reaction is instant. “Federico Morales!”

I hear the dragging of chairs as some of them stand. From inside the bathroom I can’t quite make out their voices except Abuela making sure I hear, “ Sí , Lena, mi amor, you go pack. I’ll deal with Rico.”

This is what I get for being a good person.

Time to finish up this project so I can be put out of misery—or let a whole new kind of misery begin.