Shall I Stay (Los Morales #1)

30. Rico

Four days later

Wall Street didn’t pan out and if the tour and events business doesn’t work either, maybe I can go into self-help books.

First title: “How Not to Become a Robot While Nursing a Broken Heart.”

Second title: “No, You Can’t Actually Die From Missing Someone Too Much.”

I do love a long title. I might have to wait and see if that second one is factually true, though. It has felt like a close call these last couple of weeks. And I say “weeks” as if they haven’t been eons.

It’s basically a triumph of the human spirit, how I’m still trudging along to make it through. Forget self-help; I might go memoir. Working title: “Easy to Leave, A Tale of Self-worth and Fear of Abandonment.”

Mano , that’s a little too accurately bleak.

The “trudging along” has mostly consisted of heaps of Abuela’s comfort food and finally diving into the events business expansion. Mari, as ever, is willing to help but wants to keep her options open, so it has been Julia and me masterminding strategy and hustling to gain partners and clients. We’ve hired a few part-time tour guides to fulfill our classic historical tours so that I’m more available for our high-end cruise tours.

Most of all, we’ve been busy with our new baby: a complete service planning package for destination family events and weddings. Yep, Morales Tours and Events, your one-stop shop for Puerto Rico group experiences. Very excited about it.

Also excited about how I’ve managed to throw myself into this work without burying myself in it like I’ve done before. For better or worse, Abuela and my sisters have seen firsthand my efforts to not keep it all in and let my vulnerability flag fly. Some days my heartache and frustration have wanted to get the best of me, but they’ve been there to hear me out and then stuff my face with fried food.

That has probably made them very excited about how I’m looking for my own place. I’d love to find a building right in Old San Juan to rent for now. It really feels like the next step for going all-in with the life and legacy I want to build and the roots I want to grow deep.

For a while there, I thought I might not have to go it alone.

But even my hope-against-hope has had a run for its money with no word from Lena in three weeks.

Other close calls have been almost emailing her to make sure all my notes were clear or late-night ranting voice messages I’ve almost finger-slip sent. It’s not even my scrawny dignity that has won out from breaking down and sending her my “Wish You Were Here” emo playlist; it’s wanting to give her the space she said she wanted.

So trudging along it is.

Last night I had another “What Even Is the Use” mood that kept me up, but this morning I have an appointment that gives me a pep in my step.

I’m going to see a listing that sounds like a dream property. Its first level is open space, perfect for an office and historical gallery. And then it also has living space in the upper levels with balcony side views of the bay? Might be stretching it with the budget, but it might be perfect.

As I walk over to meet with the agent, I receive a message that proposes postponing the property viewing for the afternoon. I mean, it works out because I have this mid-morning Old San Juan private tour booking, but it still throws me off.

I head back to my car to kill time before the tour, replying to emails and writing a script for our new night ghost tour offering.

When I look at the time and realize the booking is in half an hour, I check the details and see they want to meet at the La Rogativa statue. That’s odd. Why would tourists unfamiliar with Old San Juan want to start there? Maybe they’re staying at El Convento?

I decide to call Julia to confirm if this is really what’s practical.

“Dímelo , Rico.” It’s her usual get-to-the-point salute, but she sounds a little shaky. We’ve got a lot going on these days.

“Oye, just quickly. This eleven o’clock booking wants to meet at La Rogativa ?”

“Mhm.”

“Okay—first of all, that’s oddly specific.”

A beat of silence. “And second of all?”

“Well, I’m over at San Justo. Makes more sense to just meet by La Princesa and walk around the bay from down there.”

“Um, yeah, no. I think it’s best if you just wait at La Rogativa .”

“But—”

Julia huffs. “ Mira , Rico. You know how I feel about last-minute change of plans. Just meet at La Rogativa . Can you do that?”

My face scrunches up in confusion, and I stare at my phone like it might have an explanation for this intense reaction. Even for Julia.

“Yes, yes, I can. I was just checking—”

“Okay, well good. And don’t blow it.”

“Wha—” But she’s hung up.

How could I blow it? I’ve given this tour so many times I could do it coming off laughing gas and still get five stars.

I decide to review my notes about the statue in case the group is particularly interested for whatever reason. Then I walk over to be early at the meeting spot, still wondering what was Julia’s problem.

Maybe another working title could be: “Just Keep Your Head Down, the Plight of the Only-Male, Middle Child.”

Since I do decide to take the La Princesa route, it takes me a little longer to get to the meeting spot. I’ve been avoiding certain parts of Old San Juan. No reason to needlessly torture myself with places that scream, “Yes, Lena was here, and now she’s not.” It’s bad enough that it happens everywhere in the Morales house.

Fine. It happens with my achingly empty arms. There is no escaping it.

I take a deep breath and continue on.

Below the city fortress walls that circumvent the bay, I walk under rubber tree arches and stare out at the shimmering blue water. I think of Alonso, sailing into the bay, not knowing he was headed straight toward a new life, new love. But once he found it, to run with it, instead of from it, in such a way? Life goals, right there.

At the end of the boardwalk, it feels strangely symbolic to walk through the huge red doors that mark the original colonial entrance to the city. Generations of people walking in, walking out, some choosing to stay and throw in their lot with this blessed island, for better or worse.

And then there’s me, parading in the tunneled entrance like, “I don’t know what I’m doing, but I’m here.”

Turning left, I walk up to the Rogativa statue, side-eyeing the limber spot—scene of the crime of my first can’t-help-baring-my-soul to Lena. I should have known.

I take advantage of the shady tree near the statue and look down at my watch. I’m only a minute early. Rays of sunlight streak through the tree’s canopy, pulling my gaze up to the cathedral’s cupola in the distance.

And then, strolling toward me down Caleta Las Monjas, as if she wasn’t triggering an out-of-body experience, is Magdalena Martín.

She’s got a death grip on her crossbody bag, but her Audrey Hepburn high-waisted shorts and sandals look as effortless as ever.

My heart clamors at my eyes to confirm this is what we’re seeing—or otherwise these are some seriously unnecessary palpitations. Figment of my yearning or no, ‘sight for sore eyes’ does not begin to cover it.

Lena is here.

My brain malfunctions, sending out a scrolling banner of “What does this mean? What does this mean? What does this mean?”

She crosses the street, ponytail bobbing.

I give myself a little internal pep talk along the lines of, “Play it cool, man. Maybe she forgot her chal or something.” But the odds of her being here right this moment without some orchestration from my sister are so slim, my hope levels skyrocket.

Several steps away from me, she stops and puts her signature large sunglasses on top of her head. She’s really white-knuckling that bag strap.

I dig my hands in my pockets as we make eye contact.

Lena clears her throat and smiles tentatively. “I wasn’t sure if you would at least be punctual.”

Okay, that’s how she’s playing this. I suppress a grin as my hope blasts through the stratosphere.

I try to keep it stoic but can’t help myself. “Ah, well, I had my loincloth ready to go this time.”