28. Rico
What had been a serene tropical backdrop suddenly feels like oppressive, thundering waves, wind, and sun stinging at my back. I heard Lena’s words, but some sort of instinctive defense mechanism holds the information in denial limbo.
Lena. Leaving. Tomorrow. I shake my head a little to see if it somehow computes.
As I step back, she lets the hands that had been radiating such tenderness on my face fall slowly. Bewildered, wide eyes watch me. “Yes. I was able to book a flight for tomorrow.”
“That was fast.”
She tilts her head and studies me for a moment. With a small, hesitant shrug, she says, “I booked it while you were checking out at the inn.”
I let out a short huff.
Lena takes a step toward me, hands open. “Federico. The research is done. I have a report to prepare. What—what did you expect?”
My jaw ticks. “Well, I definitely did not expect laying my heart out while you’re already checked in on your flight.” I shake my head again; information still does not compute. “It’s obvious you had to go back. I just thought—hoped—you’d be more hesitant to leave.”
Her brow furrows and her eyes narrow as pain flashes in her eyes, but a second later, she sucks in a breath and straightens. “I—I have told you. It is too much. Maybe with some distance and time . . .” She trails off and looks down, letting whatever vain hope she regrets imparting float off with the cooling breeze.
Rationally, I get it. Emotionally and selfishly, I want to chuck a palm tree or something. Maybe rage-ignite some sort of space-time continuum where I could travel back and have a very strong word with whoever allowed this magnificent woman to ever feel unloved and alone.
She continues to avoid looking at me, but my indignation is short-lived as I drink in the sight of her. Lena stands there in her sundress, arms wrapped around herself. Beautiful and brilliant, everything I could ever want.
The rush of if only hits me like a rogue wave on a tide pool—familiar, impotent longing filling every crevice. I shift my stance on the sand as the swirling inadequacy wants to drown me.
But this time I can hold the spiraling at bay. I know enough to remind myself it’s not all on me.
As the wave recedes, acceptance trickles in. Of course, I wish I had more answers, more of the verifiable data she depends on, and a way to direct-download the certainty of us to her. I want so badly for Lena and I to be on the same page—I’ll take the same continent.
But her fierce independence and belief in me have reminded me I’ve got nothing to prove. Only what I want to prove to myself. And I believe I’ve already proven that I am, to my core, someone who stays. Also, someone worthy of someone who stays.
If the one I most wish would stand her ground with me, can’t—or won’t—well, my optimistic-idiot heart wants to blurt out, “Maybe someday.”
And, in the meantime, I have meaningful life-goals business to stop drifting around on. I can pick up my banged-up heart and hobble to it.
For now, I don’t want to see Lena like this, anxious and unsure, for one more second. I step toward her and startle her from her downturned gaze by grabbing her hand. When she looks up at me, her eyes widen at my earnestness.
“Lena—thank you.” I clear my throat as she tilts her head. “Thank you? Um, yes. I want to thank you.”
She eyes me warily, I’m sure wondering how I went from the edge of a ‘You’re breaking my heart’ meltdown to my gratitude moment of the day in the span of a wave’s crest.
I push on, “I’ll always be grateful. Meeting you, working with you, learning from you, laughing together. Even surviving a hurricane. I mean it; I’ve never felt this way. But not just with how I feel about you. I’ve never felt this way with myself. It’s kind of ironic you’ve helped me feel more sure and rooted than ever, and you’re flying away.”
“Federico—”
She lets go of my hand and steps closer, wrapping her arms around my middle as she presses her cheek to my chest. I couldn’t stop my arms from hugging her back if I wanted to. The kiss I place on her head—also as inevitable as the tide.
But, after a moment of indulging the masochism, there’s only so much resignation my heart can handle. She’s leaving and so far, without a word of promise, no crumb of hope, as to any future where I get to hold her like this every day.
As much as letting go will hurt, especially once her absence shakes off my denial and I have to trudge with it every day, I can’t torture myself by stalling.
So I loosen my arms and let go. When she looks up at me, dark eyes uncertain, I fix a strand of hair behind her ear, as an act of ‘who am I kidding’ closure because hope is a stubborn thing.
The sunlight wanes further, and Lena shivers a little, rubbing her hands on her arms. I sigh and manage a faint smile as I say, “Come on. We should get going.”
Lena gives a short nod but stays where she is as I go around the car and get into the driver’s seat. I watch her stand there staring at the tunnel’s entrance. After a while, she looks up at the sky, shaking her head, and turns to get into the car.
There will be no marching through the darkness to glorious sunset views.
At least not today.
Hopeless, I tell you.
I did consider letting us drive straight through in acutely awkward silence, but we need refreshment and to not suffer needlessly for the last several hours before Lena leaves. So I stop at the touristy country store that’s right off the main road, a minute’s drive up from the coast.
“You coming in? I thought I’d get us water and snacks.”
She leans back on the headrest, looking very spent but attempting a smile. “Thank you, but no. Maybe I’ll use the restroom.”
“You sure? I undersold by calling them ‘snacks.’ This rustic cabin may not look like much, but inside are many, many cultural delicacies and wonders.”
Lena chuckles. “ Bien. I will try whatever you recommend.”
She’s back in the car by the time I come out with my hands full of two bursting grocery bags and a piping-hot brown paper bag.
I settle in the driver’s seat with all of it. When her eyes widen at my purchases, I explain, “Puerto Ricans do very few things in moderation—can’t think of any at the moment. Snacking is definitely not one of them.”
Her eyes light up like I haven’t seen since we found Alonso. Raising her chin, she quips, “You do know we Spaniards invented an entire meal format around snacking?”
I cock an eyebrow at her and warn, “This is not the time to try to one-up me, profesora .” I carefully pull out the contents of the paper bag and open up the foil. “We’re about to blow your tapas out of the water. Behold, a pincho.”
My mouth waters as she takes in the large chicken skewer smothered in special barbecue sauce and crowned with a crispy tostón . I hand it to her with reverence, as a knight to their liege, and she accepts.
Lena demolishes it. Good thing I bought a second one. Who buys one pincho anyway?
No one needs to teach her the customary finger-licking at the end, but I do point her to the obligatory mopping up of the sauce with the soft garlic bread.
As she enthusiastically participates, I say, “You’re a natural. Wash it down with this coconut soda.” Lena grabs the can with a mumbled ‘thank you.’ Finishing up my own skewer of happiness, I watch her and muse, “Well, I’m glad you could try this before you leave. I would not be a self-respecting host if you left Puerto Rico without trying a pincho .”
She chokes a little on her drink. And I notice how quiet she’s been.
“Okay, now look at all these traditional baked goodies.” I show her package after package of ginger snaps, coconut kisses, shortbread cookies, guava cake roll, and the like.
Lena smiles through my detailed description of each and then says, “They look and sound amazing. But what am I supposed to do with so much?”
“You can take them with you. They travel well. And if not, cucas are better crushed up, anyway.”
Thanking me again, she presses her lips together and nods.
Last in the bag is a small, white bakery box. “I did get you a mallorca for right now. You seemed to like them your first morning here.”
Lena looks at me for a long moment. But, instead of being excited about the doughy goodness, she slowly opens the box with what clearly looks like dread. She stares at the powdered bun, but then closes both the box and her eyes. Leaning her head against the seat with a pained groan, she proceeds to let tears fall.
I’m so confused. I look down at my lap full of signature sweets and start putting them back in the bags as I scramble to understand.
Lena wipes her tears in silence when I quietly admit, “I don’t know what to do with . . .”
“Blubbering Lena?” she adds with a watery chuckle.
I tilt my head in question as I seek out her hand and go for reassurance when I squeeze it. This stop was all about not being miserable for the three hours back and somehow I made it more charged.
Lena looks down at our hands. Then she straightens and slips hers out of mine. Shifting to look out the window, she sighs and says, “I don’t know what to do with her either.”
I wait, but she sits rigid and determined to stare out the window. Shaking my head, I pull out of the parking lot and toward San Juan.
Awkward silence it is.
In a way, three hours of driving, stoplight after stoplight, barely audible radio station droning on, and a travel companion settled on silence might have helped with this part. Tired and heart sore, I’m just too done to draw out this goodbye.
Is that what Lena has been doing? Shutting me out so I don’t make this ‘see you never’ moment more uncomfortable than it needs to be?
Well, it’s working.
I laid it all out, tried to get her to open up, to face those fears together. But, after all that, the way she’s put up her walls so fiercely has taken all my fight. I’d try to climb those walls, but I definitely don’t want to be the only one fighting for . . . it? Us?
I’m exhausted.
As we finally arrive, even the orange lamps of the San Juan airport appear drained, lamely holding up against the moonless night. The airport hotel stands as another reminder of just how not on the same page Lena and I are. I’ve never seen anyone book a flight so fast.
I pull up to the curb, pop the trunk, and get out to help with her luggage. Lena’s faster than me, already getting her stuff out. I grab her tote to hand it to her, hesitating. The tote. As I consider what to do, I hang onto it.
Might as well try to see if she makes eye contact with me for the first time in one hundred and eighty minutes. When she does look at me, her eyes are wide but shuttered. There’s some panic there, but mostly the same soul-weariness I feel.
Like one who waves a white flag hoping it’s a lost battle and not the war they’re conceding, I let go of the bag. Lena watches me as I place her other luggage on the sidewalk. She grabs them and rolls them toward her.
Opening her mouth and closing it again, she finally says, “ Bueno , thank you. Thank you for everything, Rico.”
Huh. This is how it is? I look down and rub the back of my head.
I’m equal parts unsurprised and frustrated at my unshakeable urge to give her what she needs. Time, space, distance, and me not having a breakdown in front of the airport hotel. So I glance up with narrowed eyes and reply with a shrug, “Glad to help.”
Lena shifts uncomfortably for a beat, then slowly closes and opens her eyes. Then with a brief nod, she turns and walks toward the hotel’s double doors.
No looking back. Ready to fly away.