JUST SHY OF a sign that read Leaving Limestone Springs—Come Again Soon, Lauren pulled in at a gas station and started filling Vincent’s tank. Considering how long she’d been on the road, she hadn’t made much progress. Ever since meeting Alex on Navarro Road, she’d been driving aimlessly around town, wasting gas.
A restaurant stood in the next lot—Cocina de Pecarí. The front of the restaurant was decorated with a brightly painted mural of what looked like a javelina wearing a sombrero and an apron, tossing a tortilla and having a wild time.
A family was going in, a mother and father and a little toddler boy. The parents were holding the little boy’s hands, and he kept picking up his feet and swinging in their grasp, and laughing this gurgling belly laugh that shook his whole body.
And suddenly Lauren was crying.
She got back into Vincent and drew the curtains over the windows. She cried hard—great, heaving, hyperventilating sobs. Images flooded her mind, of her baby, and Alex, and Alex with the baby, and Alex making pico de gallo in Dalia’s kitchen with two little children toddling around, Lauren’s daughter and Dalia’s son, and Alex at Béxar, carrying a little girl dressed in one of Claudia’s outfits.
She cried until the sobs ran out. Then she blew her nose, took her phone out of its holder and called her dad.
She hadn’t talked to him in weeks—eight weeks, to be precise. Since just before the pregnancy test. She’d texted to tell him she was going to Dalia’s, and again when she’d arrived, and a few times since, but she didn’t trust herself on the phone with him.
“Hey, honey! It’s good to hear from you. How are you?”
He sounded so cheerful and pleased, and Lauren wished she could just have a nice normal conversation with him.
“Hey, Dad. What are you doing? Are you working?” Operating any power tools?
“I was just about to lay some tile, but it can wait.”
“Good. I have to tell you something.”
There was a pause. Then he said in a calm neutral voice, “Okay.”
For a moment Lauren couldn’t get her own voice to work.
“Dad, I’m pregnant.”
He let out a long sigh. “Thank God. I thought you had cancer.”
“What? Why would you think that?”
“Well, I knew something was wrong, something other than the divorce, something you were afraid to tell me. You weren’t calling, and you weren’t taking my calls. That’s not like you. I’ve been waiting for the blow to fall for weeks now.”
“I’m sorry. I guess that does make my bad news seem a little less bad.”
“Honey, a baby isn’t bad news. So, um...how far along are you?”
“It’s Evan’s,” she said, sparing him the math and the delicate questions. “He came back for a weekend in August—and then he left again. I should have known better, but I didn’t.”
“Does he know about the baby?”
She gave a short, dry laugh. “Yes. I called him just after the ultrasound. I didn’t want to, but I thought he should know. And he made it perfectly clear that he couldn’t care less. He actually blocked my number after he hung up. Whole conversation took about two minutes. Honestly, I think it’s for the best. It’d be bad for the baby, having him come in and out of our lives. He’s toyed with my emotions enough. I would hate to see him do that to my child.”
“I think that’s wise. So you’ve seen a doctor?”
“Yes. Everything’s fine. I’m due in May.”
“Good. I’m glad you’re near your friend Dalia.”
“Dalia’s been great. But I can’t stay here.”
“Okay. Do you want to come home? You know you’d be welcome.”
“I know. But I don’t really have a destination in mind right now. I just have to leave.”
“Why do you have to?”
She took a deep breath. “This is going to sound like the flakiest thing ever, but... I met someone here. I mean, I didn’t just meet him. It’s someone I already knew...well, a little bit. I didn’t suddenly take up with a complete stranger again.”
“Who is it?”
“Dalia’s brother-in-law.”
“Ah. I see how that could be awkward if things went south. But if you have to get away, then better now than later, a clean break. You don’t need to be involved with someone who’s bad news.”
“It’s not like that. Alex is actually a really good guy. Solid, dutiful, traditional. Hardworking. Good with people. Funny and kind. In a lot of ways he reminds me of you.”
“And does he know about the baby?”
“He just found out today.”
“And? Did it scare him off?”
She laughed. “He kind of asked me to marry him.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yeah. And he said if I wasn’t ready for that, he would wait, and just be there for me.”
“And what did you say to that?”
“I said no. I packed up Vincent and left. I’m on the road right now. Not literally driving this minute, of course. I’m parked. I just filled up with gas.”
He was quiet a long time. “Well, honey, I don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know this guy, or how you feel about him or how he feels about you. But I worry about you sometimes. There’s this thing I’ve read about with people your age, this FOMO, which stands for fear of missing out. Have you heard of that?”
She smiled. “Yeah, I’ve heard of it.”
“Apparently social media feeds into it a lot. You’re always seeing these carefully curated posts and images of other people doing fun and interesting things, and that gives rise to this pervasive, ongoing anxiety that something exciting is happening somewhere else. And in your case, I think you’re also kind of haunted by the things your mother missed out on in dying so young. Don’t get me wrong. You know I’ve always been supportive of your desire to travel. And I know you’ve truly loved it, and you’ve had some incredible experiences on the road. But I have to wonder sometimes if part of it isn’t driven by fear. You want to experience things intensely, but there’s a paradox in that because you’re so consumed with the next experience that you can’t really settle down. That whole ‘living in the moment’ can actually rob you of the moment.”
He sighed. “I’m not doing a good job explaining this.”
“No, I understand. And...you’re not wrong. But it isn’t just the stuff Mom missed out on. It’s the stuff you missed out on by being tied to me.”
“What are you talking about? I loved being your dad. I wouldn’t trade a minute of it.”
“I know that, and you were the best father to me. But I remember how it was when I was growing up. You went on dates once in a while, you even had a few girlfriends, but none of them seemed to take. You were a young, good-looking man, sweet and funny and hardworking, with so much to offer. But you spent all those years single—decades, really, all through your twenties and thirties—and now you’re, what, fifty-two? And you’ve been single for all but a few years of your adult life. And it’s all because of me.”
“You think it’s your fault I never remarried? Honey, that’s not true.”
“It is true. Any woman in her right mind would have snapped you up in a minute, if you’d been unencumbered by a kid.”
“No. You’ve got it all wrong. Sure, it’s challenging, dating as a single parent. Some people are put off by the presence of a child, but those aren’t the right people. I think in my case, knowing I had you to look out for gave me a lot of clarity. I didn’t waste time on relationships that I knew on some level weren’t going to work out.”
“That’s what I’m trying to do here. But I don’t feel like I have much clarity.”
“Is it possible that you’re giving up too soon? Some things worth having just take time. They have to be worked for. You can’t have them right away, and you can’t drive to them in a van. Listen, honey. I love how bold and eager you are, and how you’re willing to go after what you want. But if you keep chasing experiences, you’re going to cut yourself off from other experiences, like belonging.”
“That’s pretty much what Alex said.”
“Well, he sounds smart. Look, I’m not telling you that you should be with this guy. But don’t go away just because you’re afraid of being tied down, or of tying him down, or of not knowing what’s coming.”
“But what if I stay, and I get close to him, and the baby does, too, and then it doesn’t work out?”
“Then it’ll hurt. But you can’t insulate yourself from emotional risk. You can’t work yourself to a place where nothing can touch you anymore. Or maybe you could, but that would be the worst thing of all.”
“I don’t know what to do. I’m afraid of messing up. There’s so much I’ve got to figure out. I don’t know how to be a mother. I’m four years older than you were when I was born, and I don’t know anything.”
“I didn’t know anything, either. I messed up a lot as a parent. I felt young and inadequate all the time, and I didn’t know how to be a father any more than you know how to be a mother. I just did it, anyway.”
“I guess that’s what I’ll have to do. Learn as I go.”
“You’re going to do great. And I’ll help any way I can. You can still move back home if you change your mind, and I’m available anytime you want to draw on my font of parental wisdom. After all these years I actually do know a thing or two about raising kids.”
A knock sounded at Vincent’s window. Lauren pulled back the curtain and saw a confused-looking woman who was undoubtedly waiting on the gas pump. Lauren mimed “sorry,” then said, “I’ve got to go, Dad. I’ll call you later. Thanks. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
She got out and returned the nozzle to the pump. There were some incredible food aromas coming out of Cocina de Pecarí. Suddenly she was ravenous. Her stomach had been tied up in knots all day, but now she felt limp and wrung out, and ready for some enchiladas. It was almost six o’clock, and she hadn’t eaten anything since sometime yesterday. Her erratic eat-and-sleep schedule wasn’t going to cut it anymore. She had to get proper rest and nutrients and all that.
She got a small table near a booth where the couple and the little boy were sitting. The boy was in a booster seat. A baby at another table sat in a high chair, and was being fed a mashed paste of rice and refried beans. How old did a kid have to be before you could spoon-feed it beans and rice at a restaurant? Dalia would know.
She ordered some green enchiladas with charro beans, then started in on the chips and salsa. The salsa was good, but hot. She imagined Alex sitting across from her, loading his chip with mounds of salsa like he had at the River Walk.
Then her enchiladas came, and for a while she took a break from thinking and just ate.
The restaurant seemed to have a lot of regulars. A couple of cops were sitting at the bar, eating nachos and drinking coffee and chatting with the staff and other customers. If Alex were here, he’d be greeting people and making comfortable small talk the way he did. Probably he knew half the people in this place.
The waitress brought her check. “Here you go, mija.”
As Lauren was counting out her cash, the cops got a call on their radio. Lauren tuned in partway through.
“...report of a Hispanic male in a mariachi suit, chained to a gate at 412 Corbett Road, shouting taunts at passing motorists. Subject is armed and appears intoxicated or emotionally disturbed.”
“Copy. We’re en route.”
The two cops looked at each other.
“Maybe he’s intoxicated and emotionally disturbed,” said one.
“Sounds like a humdinger either way,” said the other.
“Corbett Road,” said the waitress. “Isn’t that the old Reyes place?”
“I believe so,” said a cowboy at the bar. “But it’s pretty much shut down since the old man died.”
Back in Vincent, Lauren pulled up her navigator app. What was the street number? Was it 412, or 415? The patrol car was already gone.
She typed in Corbett Road and figured she’d know the right spot when she saw it.