Shall I Stay (Los Morales #1)

27. Lena

I have no plan.

Unless one counts indefinitely avoiding eye contact and any and all meaningful conversation, a plan. Even though my mature side screams adult conversation never hurt anyone, my emotional overwhelm fight-or-flight instinct is on autopilot to flee. Rico already warned me he wouldn’t let me off easily, so I’m reduced to stalling.

In my defense, how does one verbalize feeling both the safest and most at risk they have ever felt?

Keeping myself unattached has been a way of life, but these weeks, I have been waging a war. From day one, I have tried to resist growing accustomed to Rico’s unfailingly helpful, supportive ways. I tried feebly to resist his charm and the warmth that simply emanates from him and his family. I have warded off debilitating glimpses of his integrally good, passionate heart.

But in the quiet of that cellar and wrapped in his arms, I let myself wave a fleeting white flag. It was too easy to imagine we belonged to each other. That—like with Alonso—love more than repays the risk. Kiss by kiss, my battle was lost.

So I need to retreat and strategize. Now that the research is done, I will be thousands of miles away. It should be easier.

I go up the stairs on shaky legs, still processing what just happened and now also adjusting to the bright office space. Besides my squinting eyes, what other evidence is there of this recent moment of weakness? Is there a sign on my forehead that says “Well and Truly Kissed” and, if so, when does it come down? Maybe the sign says “Caution: Love-stricken and Floundering.” That one might stay up for a long, long time.

I find Santos at his desk. After I catch him up on our findings, he is as excited as someone so stoic can be—for the completion of this project, but also for what it means to confirm the lineage of the hacienda’s original owner. I also ask him for any information they already have on Silva’s descendants.

Santos marvels, “So this literally is La Casona del Conde . By right, our own Spanish count. That’s crazy.”

I’m at the desk sharing notes on what archives I would need sent when I sense someone in the doorway. I also sense eyes boring into my back.

Rico’s voice chimes in, “Yeah, and according to his journals and some correspondence with his wife, Caridad was widely known as a capable, beloved leader in the estate and community. They made quite the team.”

Santos nods and says, “We are so proud that our hacienda’s history includes such a distinguished mixed-race woman in that position.”

“Well, Diego certainly knew what he had found in her,” Rico muses.

I am so glad to successfully avoid eye contact on that one. Done with all this subtext, I straighten and clear my throat to thank Santos. Rico walks fully into the office to add his thanks and shake hands with him as I happen to be very engrossed with my notes again.

We eventually walk back to the car in silence—Rico’s purposeful pace in contrast with my ambling. Of course, I am not delaying. What I am doing is my best to capture the grounds and its scenes with my mind’s eye, locking away the sentiments that sprung up because of it. Rico remains unnervingly quiet, hands in pockets.

He gets to his car well before I do and opens my door. At this point, I hate myself but my commitment to no-eye-contact is locked in. Mumbling my thanks, I slip inside. He stands there for a beat before closing it and walking around to his side.

Now I know he’s waiting me out. I know, I know, I know. Time to be a mature adult.

I am usually very good with the ball being in my court, but I let the silence hang all the way back to the inn, to loading our luggage, to driving out of San Germán. It hangs with Rico’s mood like trapped humidity. How can I sense both irked disappointment and hopeful anticipation from him?

I still don’t say anything. Turns out one can be both mature and a coward.

To my shame, an hour passes with only the hum of the motor, barely audible salsa music, and the occasional bumping of tires as the soundtrack to our discomfort. For the drive back, I changed into a sundress, perfect for constantly fidgeting with the hem or neckline out of self-inflicted guilt anxiety.

We start to drive up the incline near the Guajataca Tunnel when Rico sighs and swerves out of the main road and toward the tunnel’s beach. It’s late afternoon on a Wednesday, so the lot is empty. He parks facing the ocean.

Rico calmly gets out, leans on the hood, and gazes out with his arms crossed. Bracing myself, I step out of the car to join him.

We have a lush green mountainside to our left with the dark tunnel opening carved into it. To our front, fading sunlight streaks over the sand, the waves churn, and some scattered palm trees rustle.

After a few moments of wave whispers and the flap of palm fronds, I shore up enough to put us both out of our misery. Moving closer, I nudge his arm with my shoulder as I say, “I still don’t know what to do with Quiet Rico.”

He looks at me with a small smile, and I turn full pleading eyes on him. Recovering coward here. Be gentle with me.

Nudging me back, he unfolds his arms to grab my hand. “Just—tell me what you’re thinking, Lena.”

“Think—”

“Don’t ask ‘thinking about what,’” he warns, shaking his head. He turns his baseball cap backwards, making sure I don’t miss the ‘I know you’ glint in his eyes.

I press my lips together and lower my head. Cowardice must make me predictable.

Rico squeezes my hand. “Okay. Maybe asking what you’re thinking is too vague. Let’s see . . .” I look up as he steps away from the car to face me and grabs my other hand. He places it over his heart, and his amber eyes pierce mine. “What do you think—Lena—about how my heart still wants to beat out of my chest an hour after holding and kissing you?”

While my mind glitches and my heart lurches at his question, my hand senses an overload of information about his thumping, solid chest. I open my mouth to say something.

Nothing. Maybe it dropped open while words were still loading.

With his hand around my wrist to hold it in place, Rico is not done. “What do you think—Lena—about how I see you—strong, smart, resilient—and that I love nothing more than to walk alongside you and soothe any frown or ache you let me?” He actually wants to kill me as he rubs his thumb on my wrist and presses my hand firmer against his pounding heart. “What do you think—Lena—about not having all—or nearly any—answers but knowing, as you know that sun is about to set, that the risk of losing something like this is greater than the risk of whatever it takes to keep it?”

I press my lips. Rico lets go of my hand to wrap an arm around my waist and shake me a little, pulling me closer. Both of my hands on his chest, I search his eyes for understanding, some sort of lifeline because I am drowning.

“This is all new to me, Federico.” Ugh. I know —weak at best.

Rico tilts his head. “Oh, you think this is a common occurrence for me? I’ve never felt this way—for anyone.”

I grab his hand to place its palm over my own careening heart. “Feel that?”

Rico’s throat bobs as he gives a quick nod. There is no way he can’t feel my heart thumping out a mayday signal.

Shaking my head, I let him know. “I—I am not sure how it is still beating after what being in your arms—and kissing you—did to me. And with what it has been through with you throwing blow after softening blow at it all these weeks.” Rico lets out a breath and smiles at me. I grasp his hand over my heart and continue, “I see you too, Federico. You are wholehearted and everything that is good. I would never tire of reminding you. You have seen me at my worst and yet still bring out the best in me—without even trying.”

Rico intertwines our fingers and puts our hands over his heart again. He lowers his forehead to mine. The salty wind blows strands of my hair over both our faces.

His hold tightens as I shudder and blurt out, “But I am terrified.”

He blinks slowly and sighs, giving me space as he says, “A braver man would tell you it’s okay to be terrified.” I chuckle but shake my head as he continues, “I’m scared too, Lena. So scared that I can’t help putting myself, my whole heart, at your mercy.”

I close my eyes. We are nearing ‘too much’ again. I chuckle nervously. “Well, it is a good thing you are not a braver man.”

“Ay , but I want to be.” I open my eyes as he extends his arm and points toward the tunnel. “I’d march right through anything with you; come what may.”

This man. I manage a watery smile as I ask, “Torches and all?”

Rico squares his stance and narrows his eyes meaningfully. “Torches and all.”

I stare at the tunnel opening, pitch black and ominous; it is hard to imagine even more breathtaking, sun-drenched ocean views on the other side.

Hands on my arms, Rico pulls my gaze back to him. His eyes soften as he whispers, “What’s so terrifying, mi vida ?”

Will him calling me that ever not be devastating? It physically hurts to imagine I will not find out.

But Rico deserves an attempt to explain myself. I look down and play with the soft fabric of his shirt as I reply, “You say you have never felt this way for anyone. I—I have never had anyone. You have had amazing people in your life, a built-in support system. I can’t—I can’t just switch on making space for that in my life. I have fought so hard, so hard, to not need anyone I might lose.”

“Lena—”

I shake my head. “You speak of greater risk. I am terrified that—that now? Now, no matter what, I risk losing something.”

“But that’s just it. You’ve been at risk. We’re all at risk of missing out on the truest, most meaningful, and lasting things in this life. Shutting them out, chasing the wrong things for the wrong reasons. I’ve been there.”

Rico grabs both my hands in his, stopping my fiddling and forcing me to look up at him. He searches my eyes as he continues, “I left the career-ambition chase—everything—behind when I realized what I really want, and that’s to prove I’m someone who stands their ground, who is there for those he loves. But I think I overcompensated in this transition. I went full-on aimless, searching for something real to grab onto.” He looks beyond me and then right into my eyes. “Maybe I stayed adrift because, deep inside, I knew you were out there.”

With every word he spills from his heart, I drift closer. He squeezes my hands and pulls me the rest of the way until our foreheads are together. The sun at his back, his usual warmth is even more enveloping. Rico takes a breath and says, “So I’m more terrified of not asking—I don’t even know what I’m asking, Lena—besides, besides don’t shut it out. Don’t run away from it, okay?”

Letting go of his hands, mine go up to touch his wonderful, scruffy face as he bends down further. I want to say so much about how he has more than proven his steadfast soul. But with our lips brushing again and thoughts getting more and more muddled, I start my response with: “Federico, when I get on that plane tomorrow—”

He pulls away. “Wait. You fly out tomorrow?”