25. Lena
At this point, I can confirm that elation and dread can coexist—constantly battling it out for dominance—but they coexist.
Elation.
Research momentum is at its peak right now. We are so close. My skin tingles with how close we are to solving Alonso’s mystery.
Which also means my job here will be done. And I have no idea what to do about getting on a plane soon. Back to my career, which is not even a place. Back to my flat, which is not even a home. Back to telling myself that is all I need.
Actually, is there a going back to before? Before all of this? Before Rico?
Well, there will have to be. It’s how I have made it through—pushing on alone. If I were to ever let myself down, it would be a lot less painful than the alternative.
Dread.
Elation. Let us focus on elation.
I am in my room at the inn, lying on this creaky four-poster bed, staring up at the ceiling, unable to focus on anything but a suspicious stain and that tomorrow we will visit Diego’s hacienda. Don Benny, who is a national treasure, helped us contact and set up a meeting with no less than the executive director of the conservation trust.
I cannot wait to see this property and if we can confirm that Alonso became Diego, prosperous landowner and family man. And, Caridad? Maybe we could find more about her.
My mind wanders to the mysterious stain when I’m suddenly staring up into darkness.
The power cuts out, taking with it the thrumming of the air conditioner that buffered all the street noises. During our stay, electricity has flickered off and on a few times. I have learned this is normal on the island, especially after a storm. So I lay here and wait for it to turn back on.
It doesn’t. And of course with the electricity went all the conditioned air.
After waiting for several minutes, I give up and open a window. All that does is let the remaining cool air out and all the summer night humidity in.
Thankfully, I charged my phone. The screen says it is eleven at night—a night that is entirely too hot for sleep without air conditioning. The room very quickly becomes muggy and stilted. It is suffocating. I fan myself with a random paper from my research stash.
The walls are not actually closing in, but I have to get out. I add leggings to my sleep t-shirt and open the hallway door, gasping and somehow surprised that a swift sea wind does not blow through it for sweet relief.
I pant in the hall as if heatstroke were a possibility when a stroke of genius hits me.
The dubiously helpful employee redeems himself when I recall he mentioned a roof terrace on the secondary structure next to the main house. Surely a breeze must be found there.
I use what presence of mind has not melted away to close my door and walk down the dark passage. Once downstairs, I skulk out the back of the house and across a tiny courtyard.
The outdoor stairs that must lead to circulating open air call my name. My bare feet hit the patio stones, and I realize my presence of mind did not recall the need for shoes. Oh well.
I scamper up the faintly moonlit steps, suppressing a cackle of glee when I swing the iron gate open and step onto the terrace.
As the first trace of a breeze hits my skin, I hear a voice, and my soul startles out of my clammy body.
“Great minds, huh?”
I gasp and stumble back on the gate, grabbing it to settle my obliterated nerves and let my eyes adjust. On a lounge chair, legs outstretched and arms crossed behind his head, is Federico Morales.
I don’t reply—unless one counts panicked huffing—and he chuckles as I un-claw my fingers from the gate.
Rico comments, “It looks like the power will take a minute to come back this time. There was a blackout in the West.”
“Oh.” Words are not a priority as my whole system recovers from palpitations.
Rico waves me over to sit on a lounge chair next to him. I barely manage to walk in a daze and slump down on it. Closing my eyes, I tip my head back and take a deep breath of slightly less muggy night air.
“Nicer here than in your room?” he asks, still attempting to see if my communication skills will ever return.
“Nicer. Yes.” Two words spoken. Progress.
Rico grins. “I’ve been sitting out here before bed most nights, so I was here when it all went dark. I thought of checking on you, but didn’t want to startle you.” He presses his lips into a line, trying to hold in a good laugh as I narrow my eyes at him.
“Yes, thank you. That worked out so well.”
“Hey, you’re the one who came to me.”
I huff. “I most certainly did not come to you . Or ask to have ten years taken off my life.”
Rico laughs outright. With his head thrown back like that, he is at his most aggravatingly appealing. He wipes his eyes as he gasps, “ Mano , you should have seen your face.”
I fight it but can’t help chuckling at the image of myself, eyes bulging and grabbing onto that gate like a spooked lemur in leggings. At my yielding, Rico laughs again.
He is dressed much like he did post-hurricane when he was resting his ankle. Loose t-shirt on his broad shoulders, athletic shorts, and bare feet.
I’m flooded with all the foreign feelings of ease, safety, and home I breathed while in that house, and especially in that room. Now we lay under the moon, side by side on deckchairs, and the sensations overwhelm me much the same. Really, anywhere with Rico feels like that now.
After our laughter dies down, his amused eyes linger on me. Still a little too frayed to meet his gaze, I look up to the firmament and the scattered stars the moonlight has not faded.
Rico joins in the stargazing, and we sit in contemplative quiet.
“My abuelo loved pointing out the stars to us.” Rico’s voice. This time with a different kind of heart-stopping effect. The darkness helps me focus on his expressive tone and vibrating timbre, and I turn slightly toward him.
He continues, “Abuelo—Lorenzo Morales to everyone else—was a history teacher and tour guide. But also sort of a self-taught Renaissance man. He’d name the constellations. Slip in some mythology.” Rico shakes his head and chuckles with nostalgia. “Abuelo Lolo.”
“Abuelo Lolo sounds remarkable. And fun.”
He sighs and says, “Yep, he was. And, combined with Abuela, you can imagine the love-chaos when we visited them every summer.”
Recalling Tina and all the hectic, steady affection in that home, I chuckle with him. And yet, I am struck with how imagining was all I could ever do. Now I know .
At my silence, Rico asks, “No love-chaos for little Lena growing up?”
A tiny snort escapes me. “Just the chaos.”
“I know you said no next of kin were kind to you, but nobody else stepped in?”
“Not until I left on my own. I had some amazing professors who took me under their wing and became my unofficial adoptive moms. Maybe eccentric aunts would be more accurate.”
“I love that. Do you see them often?”
I shake my head. “I’m so busy now. I get their love-chaos on holidays, mostly.”
Rico smiles. “Well, I’m glad you have them.”
Darkness also brings a sense of anonymity that lets me open up more than I would. I turn fully on my side, propping up my head with one hand. I sigh out their names, “Meche and Monse.” I smile the same bittersweet smile that always creeps in at the thought of them. “I am glad I have them, too. They are the most I have allowed myself, though.”
“Allowed yourself for what?”
“For people in my life I depend on. And even then, it’s for special occasions and check-in texts, or a random meme.”
“Why would you put a cap on that?”
I shrug. “I had to learn early on. It keeps the odds of disappointment low. Lower.”
“Ay , well, that’s a shame.”
I sputter out an indignant, “Why?”
“First of all, eccentric aunts sound amazing, and you should take full advantage they’re in your life.”
“More love-chaos?”
Rico chuckles. “Yes. Can never have too much love-chaos.”
“And second of all?”
He mirrors my position, shifting to his side and resting his head on his hand. Where to focus? Eyes or flexed arm? Yes, eyes. His bright eyes.
“Second of all, being and having someone to depend on is what it’s all about.”
“Is it?”
“Well, I can tell you what it’s not. It’s not blindly chasing ambitions, wanting to prove you made it on your own.”
I gesture with my free hand. “But I do want to prove it. I didn’t need anyone. I did it. I am doing it.”
Rico shifts, swings his legs toward me and sets his feet on the ground, sitting with arms resting on his knees. He is closer now.
“You really did do it. And are doing it. I’m in awe of you every day, Lena.”
My eyes widen, and I swallow. Rico continues, “You’re brilliant, passionate, focused. I love—I love seeing how you light up when you’re doing the work you love.”
“Eh . . .”
“But shutting people out? It takes all the soul out of ambition. It turns any achievement empty. Look, I wanted to take Wall Street by storm, so I did. I thought I was proving I was the success story my dad never was and with no help from him—actually the opposite of help from him. With the added pressures and pain of him leaving us.” His voice cracks, and he rubs at his head.
With more gravel in his voice than I have ever heard, he continues, “Even if he had been there to see it—or even cared to see who I’d grown into—after years and years, I had to learn the very hard way. The measure of my true success lies in being what he most failed at becoming: someone who stays. Someone who will stand his ground with those who would stand with him.”
“Torches and all?” I whisper.
Rico looks up at me, nodding with a small smile on his lips. “Torches and all.”
I have to ask, “What was ‘the very hard way’ you learned that?”
Rico sighs and lowers his head. I am surprised I have absorbed every word while being unavoidably distracted. A few moments ago, he started absentmindedly twisting a corner of my oversized sleep t-shirt. I don’t even dare to breathe.
To not make it awkward or to not make him stop? I will examine my reasons later.
His long fingers play with the fabric as he explains, “Last year, at the height of my career, I had two finance venture partners. One is—was— is Juli’s husband Rafe.” I tilt my head in confusion. “Anyway, while we were so busy working ourselves into the ground—and still processing dad’s death—our third partner cleaned us out. He took everything.”
I gasp and pull my knees toward me, wrapping my arms around them. “I am so sorry, Federico.” I make a mental note to find out about Julia’s civil status situation and what happened there.
Rico smiles briefly at his name. He lets go of my shirt and shrugs. “In a way—” He clears his throat. “In a lot of ways, it was the best thing that could have happened. ‘The hard way’ can be a very effective teacher.”
“You have been a good student.”
He chuckles. “Bah, I don’t know what I’m doing. And I’m not saying I didn’t have a bit of a crisis for a second there. But when Julia said she was moving to Puerto Rico to help Abuela, I jumped. Have to try my hand at Abuelo Lolo’s success story.”
“And what would that true success story look like?”
He considers for a moment. “Doing what you love while serving your community? To find and keep someone who wants to keep you too. To fill a home with love-chaos together. Everyone in that home feeling like they never have to worry about belonging. To live a life of hope and faith.”
I smile a true smile. “Sounds prosperous and happy to me.”
“It does?”
I have to admit, “More than ever.”
Rico smiles back, but his gaze turns sad. He rubs his head, shaking it dejectedly. “Well, Abuelo had his life calling for the right reasons from the start. He blazed through his plans to become a teacher. He met Abuela, and that was it for them. He also killed it as a historical tour guide, all while supporting and standing by his family. I’m over here, floating around after my career burned down, dabbling with genealogy, playing at the tour guide thing with a van full of chickens.” He lowers his head and huffs. “I’m as far away from that success story as I ever was.”
That is it . How does this man—this persistently enchanting man—not know? How does he not know he inspires and nurtures as easily as he breathes? How does he not know he already has within him everything he needs to achieve what he wants?
I sit up in the lounge chair and place my feet on the floor. I face him directly, my knees in between the widened stance of his legs. Rico startles a little at the movement, especially when I place my hands on his forearms to keep him where he is, leaning toward me. Squeezing softly to get his attention, I lock eyes with him and make certain he does not miss my earnestness.
“I think it is time to be done with that.”
He tilts his head. “Done with what?”
Wanting to shake him, I tighten around his arms again. His relaxed stance contrasts with the tension there. But I have to tell him.
“Federico Morales, I am in awe of you . You are an exceptional research historian. You have instincts that can’t be taught. Your enthusiasm and love for stories and heritage make people’s lives better. You—you have taught me so much.”
His jaw slackens a little. His eyes search mine. “Lena, I—”
“You could do anything. If you wanted to, you would be so prominent in the research field. If you wanted to, you could blow up the tour business. Or both! Or neither. Become a financial advisor? A—a chicken farmer!” Rico huffs, and I squeeze his arms once more. “You could do anything. And have your true success story.”
“Anything?”
I nod confidently. “I do not want to see you adrift anymore.”
His skin is warm and smooth, and I realize I know because I have been distractedly rubbing my thumbs on his arms. The ones I still hold onto.
I try to let go and lean away, but Rico grasps my upper arms. Dragging my chair even closer. Keeping me there.
I give in, relaxing slightly, and he grins at my failed retreat. One of his hands comes up to push a strand of hair behind my ear. He lingers there as his eyes narrow thoughtfully. “You know? For someone who doesn’t want to depend on anyone, you make yourself very . . . indispensable? Crucial?”
“Vital?”
He chuckles and nods. “‘Vital’ is the word, profesora .”
Smiling, I nudge my knee against his leg. “ You’re the one that makes me need you—I mean—I meant to say you make it too easy to count on you.”
Rico’s amused expression fades to one of such seriousness it’s almost studious. I stare back. Locked together between two lounge chairs, surrounded and anchored by him in the dark. Overstimulation is an understatement. His scent, another reminder of our time together in Julia’s room. Safe, steady, seen. The way I feel now.
His gaze flits back and forth from my eyes to my mouth, and his thumb strokes my cheek. My hands tense, bracing as we lean as close as we can get without—
Light flares and sounds blare. We both startle back, blinking as the string lights on the terrace trellis turn on, and the AC units on the rooftop clang and hum to life. Neighbors cheer that the power has returned. Dogs bark at the commotion.
We almost kissed. I grab my chair to calm my galloping heart for the second time tonight.
When I dare glance at Rico, he smiles knowingly at me. He sighs as he stands and then offers his hand. He doesn’t let go of mine until he walks me to my room. After he dutifully confirms that my air conditioner survived the blackout, he stands at the door, glancing back at me. With a quick “Buenas noches, Lena,” he’s gone.
I lay on this creaky bed, staring up at the ceiling, unable to focus on anything but Rico and I. Almost kissed.
Elation.
Dread.
Elation and dread can coexist.