"Bottom drawer," I say. "And the shirts go in the closet. And that sweater needs to be folded differently or it gets weird creases."
"Show me."
I move to stand beside him and start sorting through the chaos. Our shoulders brush. Our hands touch when we reach for the same shirt. I breathe him in until my lungs ache with it.
"Sergio."
He pauses mid-fold.
"Thank you." I meet his eyes. "For not letting me run."
"Always." He leans down and kisses my forehead. "Now finish unpacking. Dinner's in an hour, and Carlos's making something that involves an alarming amount of garlic."
"Is that a warning?"
"It's a promise." He heads for the door, pausing with his hand on the knob. "One hour. Kitchen. Don't be late."
"I'm never late."
"You were late to your own wedding."
"That was fashionably absent. Different thing entirely."
He laughs. The sound fills the room, warm and unexpected, and I realize I've never heard him laugh before. Not really. Not like this.
I want to hear it again. Every day. For the rest of my life.
"One hour," he repeats, and disappears into the hallway.
I stare at the empty doorway for a long moment. Then I turn back to my suitcase and start putting my clothes away.
No more running.
I'm finally ready to stay.
32
SERGIO
The town square is packed when we arrive. Jessica tried to leave two days ago. Rosa Castellano showed up that same night with a folder full of Morrison family secrets. This morning, we use them.
I stand on the steps of the Largo Waters Municipal Building, watching the circus unfold below. Three news vans from Portland stations. Two from Seattle. A handful of local reporters with notepads and phone cameras. Photographers jostling for position behind a makeshift barricade of sawhorses that Nacho requisitioned from the public works department.
Small town press conference. Regional story. National implications if the Morrisons keep pushing.
They're not going to keep pushing. Not after today.
I check my watch. Seven minutes until we start.
Carlos appears at my left shoulder, coffee cup in hand, sawdust still clinging to his jeans from whatever project he abandoned to be here. His blonde hair is uncombed. His flannel shirt is buttoned wrong. He looks like he rolled out of bed ten minutes ago.
He probably did.
"Hell of a turnout." He takes a sip of coffee and surveys the crowd. "Didn't know our little soap opera was this interesting."
"Sex sells." I keep my voice flat. "So does scandal."
"We're not selling sex."
