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 tuckedunder 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.”
