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And then, hopefully, this version of me will be gone too.

Don makes it halfway up the stairs before he begins bargaining with God.

“Take me now,” he says, one hand on the rail, the other pressed dramatically to his chest. “Just make sure… my ashes… are scattered someplace cool.”

I keep climbing.

“Paul! It isn’t a race.”

“You insisted on coming.”

“I insisted on supporting a grieving friend in Mexico. I did not consent to mountaineering.”

“It’s just a hill.”

“It’s a hate crime against people with scrawny calves.”

The staircase cuts up from the Romantic Zone along an old white wall with bursts of bougainvillea spilling over it. The steps are narrow and uneven in places. Below us, the tourist streets hum with early evening life: music from the bars, scooters zipping past, restaurant chattering.

The air is sea air, heavy and warm and salted. It sticks to my shirt, softens it, and dampens the back of my neck. The sun is lowering, but the heat lives on.

Don stops behind me. Again.

He leans against the wall, fanning himself with the wide brim of his oversized hat.

“You look like a vapored widow in a Tennessee Williams revival.”

He looks at me. “Good. That’s what I’m going for.”

“Our bags will beat us there.”

“Our bags have a driver.”

I look up the staircase. We should have taken the cab all the way. Nothing about dragging Don up a Puerto Vallarta hillside in loafers makes sense, but I wanted the walk. I wanted the climb because the first time Renny brought me here, he made me climb it.

We were both younger then. I was young enough that the heat felt like annoyance instead of threat. Renny would have been around my age now, and so I know he felt it.

He walked ahead of me, ridiculously pleased with himself. I complained the entire way because that was my role when surprises were involved.

Then we reached the blue door. A house tucked into the hill, smaller than I expected, more beautiful because of it. He had bought it impulsively, which was how Renny did most large things. I told him he was insane. He told me I needed a place where I could paint with the sea breeze.

I had kissed him in the courtyard and forgot to be furious about the money.

We never made this climb again. I thought doing it might bring that back.

Don clears his throat, and I realize I’ve stopped moving.

“Are we resting or suffering heatstroke?” he asks.

“Just thinking.”

“Babe, you need to walk and chew gum at the same time. I need to find electrolytes.”

I glance down the hill to the town below us: red-tile roofs, balconies, bright canopies, the bay beyond catching late sun. Beautiful. Loud.

The rest of the staircase goes faster because I stop trying to make it mean something. Don mutters continuously. Something about cramps and betrayal. At the top, the street levels out enough to feel like mercy.

And there it is. The blue door.