“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.
