Page 115 of Claiming Puerto Vallarta

“Okay,” I say again.

Her gaze drops to her book. Conversation over.

I head for the basement door.

The steps creak in the same places they always have. Third from the top. Last before the floor. The air changes halfway down, cooler and damp, with that faint concrete smell no amount of dehumidifier ever fully kills.

My bed is shoved against the wood-paneled wall. Fake wood, orange-brown and glossy in strips, sagging at one seam near the corner.

A drop ceiling hangs low overhead. Some of the tiles are stained around the edges, old water marks blooming brown like ugly flowers. One tile near the pull chain sits crooked because I had to run an extension cord over it for better light.

My boxes are stacked along one wall. Clothes in trash bags. Shoes under a folding table. The small dresser I had as a teenager wedged next to the utility sink. The cam setup occupies the far corner, exactly as sad as it sounds: ring light, laptop, chair, a sheet clipped to a pipe so nobody in the room can see the water heater behind me.

Glamour.

The washing machine sits in the utility area, rumbling through its routine.

I toss my sweaty shirt over the back of the cam chair and drop onto the bed.

I stare up at the ceiling tiles. For a while, I just lie there.

I can hear Mom’s house above me. The soft shift of the recliner. The old floor responding to her feet. A cabinet opening in the kitchen, then closing.

My phone sits on my chest.

Kev’s latest message is still there.

Hit me back ASAP

I don’t call him. Instead, I unlock the phone and open the cam app.

No new messages.

I scroll up before I can stop myself.

Little pieces of him appear in reverse. His careful sentences. His stupidly dry jokes. Pine nuts and broccoli.

I think you know exactly what you’re doing to me.