Chapter 44 La Bufadora
LA BUFADORA
ASHLEY
After a quick breakfast in the buffet, Beckett, the boys, and I head out for a short excursion, chosen weeks ago by the twins, to La Bufadora—the blowhole at the end of the bay in Ensenada.
The drive is bumpy and winding, and the boys take turns guessing how many times the geyser will “sneeze” while we’re there.
“Ten,” Max declares, nose pressed to the window.
“That’s a lot of ‘gesundheits,’” Beckett murmurs to me, his hand brushing mine between us. His fingers linger, warm and easy, and I lean in slightly, smiling.
“Gesundheit,” Blakey echoes.
Max follows with his own.
“Gesundheit, gesundheit, gesundheit…” Between the two of them, they repeat it ten times, of course—one for every predicted sneeze.
Then Max swivels in his seat. “No, but seriously, Dad—did you know it’s called La Bufadora because that means ‘the snorter’ in Spanish?”
“Because it snorts water out,” Blakey adds, clearly pleased with himself. “Air and water get all trapped in the cave, and it has to get out, so it explodes up like—foooosh!”
“It’s a marine geyser,” Max continues seriously. “We watched a video. It’s one of the biggest blowholes in the world.”
“And it can spray up to sixty feet high,” Blakey says, puffing his chest out. “But only if the waves are really, really big.”
Beckett blinks at them, impressed. “Well, damn—”
“Language,” I cut in automatically.
“Well, dang,” he corrects, shooting me a grin. “You guys did your homework.”
“Mom let us pick this ‘scursion, and then showed us a website about it,” Max says. “And we made a list of facts.”
“We also looked up sea lions,” Blakey says. “But mostly because Max wanted to know if they bite.”
“They do.” Max nods solemnly. “So don’t pet them.”
“Noted,” Beckett murmurs, clearly trying not to laugh.
I glance over, catching the quiet admiration in his expression as he watches the boys.
“They’re pretty great,” I say under my breath.
He leans closer. “Yeah. They really are.”
I feel his fingers trail lightly along my wrist. It sends a tiny jolt to my pulse, and then everything inside me quiets.
I’d been resisting this feeling for a while, unwilling to trust it, but…
We’re just Mom and Dad, Blakey and Max. Our special little unit.
Driving toward the edge of the earth to watch it breathe.
The ride doesn’t last forever—though part of me wishes it would. Soon enough, the road straightens, the sea stretches out in full view, and the sound of distant waves grows louder.
When we arrive, it’s all mist and laughter and dramatic ocean spray. The blowhole does not disappoint.
Max shrieks the first time it erupts. “It’s like the ocean just farted!”
“Max!” I say automatically, glancing around. Even though with twin seven-year-old boys, I should be used to this by now.
Beckett’s snort of laughter doesn’t help.
Afterward, we weave through the vendor stalls where we pick up some cheap sunglasses for the boys (Blakey picks blue ones, Max insists on a neon green pair with palm trees on the side). I haggle—because it’s expected—and the vendor humors me, tossing in a tiny woven turtle.
Shopping and watching the ocean sneeze—or fart, depending on which twin you ask—has left us all thirsty and starving.
We find a street vendor with sizzling meat on a flat grill, the scent alone enough to make my mouth water. Beckett glances back at me, one brow raised. He already knows what I want—but still checks.
“Al pastor?” he asks. “Or do you want chicken?”
I grin. “Al pastor. Definitely.”
He nods, turns to the woman behind the cart, and dives in with his best limited Spanish. “Dos al pastor, por favor. Uno pollo. Y… uh…” He glances down at Max, who’s scowling at a piece of charred onion.
“?Tiene algo solo… tortilla?” Beckett asks, brow furrowed.
The vendor laughs and points at Max. “For picky one?”
Beckett nods solemnly. “Tortilla only. Not spicy. Please.”
She winks and says something too fast to catch, already wrapping up the tortillas.
I watch Beckett pull pesos from his wallet like it’s nothing, and somehow that—him fumbling his way through dad duty in a foreign country—is the most attractive thing I’ve seen all day.
But the sight of the cash triggers something else too. A brief, uninvited thought. Bonuses. Home renovations. The boys’ exorbitant tuition. How many times had I just… not asked?
He hands the boys each a plate and a bottle of water, then—with two more plates stacked in one hand and drinks tucked under his arm—he makes his way over to the brightly painted metal table I snagged for us.
He holds out a can of Diet Coke, tilting his head. “I figured we’d hold off on the margaritas until later.”
“Good idea.” I take it from him. Caffeine is always a good idea.
Max’s tortilla is deemed acceptable, and Blakey devours his chicken. For now, everyone’s happy
Back in the cab, I’m feeling a little sleepy as the driver barrels down the winding road toward the cruise port like he’s training for the Baja 1000.
The boys, meanwhile, are busy turning their sunglasses into performance art—Max is wearing his upside down and Blakey’s rocking the backwards look…
“Stylin’,” Beckett mutters, barely holding back a grin.
“Fashion icons,” I say, resting my head on his shoulder, absorbing this feeling—this moment.
That’s when my phone rings. Luna.
“Ash!” she blurts out before I can say anything. “I can’t find my shoes. I brought them. I swear I did. I think Mom moved them, or maybe I left them at the hotel. But now I can’t find them and we’re running into town to look at this boutique—but—”
“Luna. Breathe.”
“I am breathing. But while we’re out, can you and Beckett go by the registration office and pick up our marriage packet thing? Your name’s listed as a witness so they should give it to you.”
Luna sounds like she’s one missed heartbeat away from a total meltdown, and I feel the Fixer in me kick in. If a ten-minute detour to some dusty government office is what it takes for my sister to get her fairytale ending—then yeah. That’s an easy yes.
“Sure. Text me the address.”
“Thank you! You’re a goddess!”
I hang up, laughing under my breath.
Beckett raises an eyebrow. “Shoe crisis?”
“Yup.”
We give the driver the new address just as we’re hitting the edge of town again—sunlight bouncing off dusty windshields, dogs napping in the shade of taco stands, scooters zipping between traffic.
We’re trundling down one of the little side streets when Blakey turns to me, face pale.
“Mom?”
Oh no. I know that voice. “What’s wrong, honey?”
“I don’t feel—”
Too late.
He throws up all over himself. And the seat. And a little on Beckett’s shorts.
The smell hits first—sour and hot.
And my heart doesn’t just sink. It plummets.
The driver starts shouting in Spanish. I’m scrambling for wipes and a towel from my travel bag. Max is gagging while Blakey is trying not to cry.
But Beckett takes over without missing a beat. He grabs the wipes from my hand and kneels down in that cramped backseat, already soothing.
“It’s okay, buddy,” he says, voice light, reassuring. “Tacos. Sunshine. Bumpy roads. It happens, kiddo. Bodies do weird stuff sometimes.”
And just like that, he’s wiping Blakey’s hands, then his shirt, the seat, his own shorts…
“I should have brought snacks from the ship instead.” But it’s too late now.
We’re in Mexico. Ninety-degree heat. I let my kid eat spicy chicken off a street cart like we were at McDonalds or something. “What was I thinking?” I murmur, stuffing soiled wipes into the Ziplock I thank God I remembered to pack.
Beckett glances over, eyebrows raised. “That he was happy, hungry, and adventurous?”
“Oh, Blake, I’m so sorry.” I’m spiraling—just a little.
Beckett looks over at me again. “Ash. He’s fine. It’s fine. This isn’t anyone’s fault.”
I nod and pass him another wipe. “Okay. I know.”
But when he glances down at his stained shorts, he winces.
“These were getting kind of old anyway,” he says.
I laugh—because what else can I do? —just as the cab jerks to a stop at a cab stand at the edge of town.
While Beckett talks to the driver in slow, careful Spanish, I twist around to check on Blakey—his color coming back now, thankfully—and Max, who’s happily sipping from his bottle of water like he wasn’t just gagging.
Beckett glances between me and the other cabs, then back at the boys.
“You head back to the ship with the boys,” he says. “I’ll find the registrar’s office and grab the paperwork.”
I know what he’s doing—trying to keep me from wandering through a strange town alone.
“They might not give it to you,” I say, shaking my head. “My name’s on the license, not yours.”
He frowns, knowing I’m right but clearly not happy about it. “I’ll be fine. One stop. Easy peasy,” I say with maybe a little more confidence than I feel.
But then I glance at my watch. Shoot!
We’re running later than I thought. “If you could grab my stuff and the boys’ tuxes from the room… I can meet you at the winery instead?”
He hesitates, still holding my hand. His eyes search mine, checking to be sure I’m really okay with this.
“I’ll be fine, seriously,” I reiterate.
After only a slight hesitation, he nods. “Okay. But call me when you’re heading towards the winery.”
“I will.”
He leans in and kisses me—and his lips linger just a little longer than they should.
“I’ll see you soon,” I whisper.
“You’d better.”
“The limo will be there at one o’clock,” I confirm. “Ride with my mom and Luna. And—don’t forget the tuxes. Yours and theirs.”
“Got it.”
“And my dress. And my bag.”
He smiles. “On it.”
“And Luna’s dress—remind her it’s in the closet.”
“She won’t forget her dress. We’ve got this.”
I turn to the boys, drop a kiss on each of their heads, and press my forehead to Blakey’s for just a second longer. “Love you.”
“Love you, Mom,” he whispers.
And with a last wave, I climb into one of the other idling taxis.
The driver gives me a grin and thumbs-up before speeding off in the direction of the registrar’s office, giving me a few minutes to rehearse everything I need to do in my head.
Get the paperwork.
Get to the winery. Check on the flowers. Try to reach the photographer again.
But when I reach for my bag to get my phone…
I freeze.
It’s not here.