Page 89 of Claiming Puerto Vallarta

“Then you are better.”

She cuts a cherry tomato in half with more precision than necessary. “You look less gray.”

“That’s not a compliment.”

“I’m aware.”

When we step outside, the heat presses down immediately. Downtown Riverside in July has the damp, sweet smell of river towns and old brick: hot pavement, cut grass, a little earthy in the shade. Pearl Street stretches toward the park, storefronts catching the afternoon sun. A woman comes out of the antique shop with a paper bag and the satisfied expression of someone who has just made a find.

Jessica puts on sunglasses and fishes for her keys.

“Walk?” I ask.

She turns toward me. “Voluntarily?”

“Let’s stroll to the park.”

“What’s up with you?”

“I take walks now.”

Jessica sighs, checks her watch.

“Fine. I’ll walk—but I’m not strolling. I have to show a condo on the river anyway.”

“Big Four Park,” I say, starting forward. “Then the river, then your condo.”

“Perfect.” She falls into step beside me. “Look at you. Outdoors. Upright. Almost not gray.”

“I take it back. We’re standing still.”

She smiles.

For half a block, we say nothing. That’s easier with Jessica than with most people. She doesn’t treat silence like a leak that needs patching.

My phone is in my pocket. I’m aware of it the way a recovering smoker detects smoke. There’s no reason to check it. HotnReddy doesn’t exist in daylight. Still, I feel the shape of it against my thigh.

Jessica asks, “Reggie call?”