Page 118 of The Sweet Spot

I bring the camera to my eye, focusing on a man across the courtyard pushing a cart with an enormous bouquet of balloons. “He made it sound like he wanted me to just enjoy my time with you, no worries, nothing and no one to worry about, but that’s bull. I mean, maybe that’s a tiny part of it…a tiny, misguided part, but mostly he just doesn’t trust me. And that makes me not trust him. Gramma Kate always says that suspicion haunts the guilty mind.”

Arlo chuckles quietly. “Interestingly, my grand-mère used to say, ‘mieux vaut prévenir que guérir.’”

“What does that mean?”

“Something to the effect of, ‘an ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure’. Like it’s better to take precautions against something than have to deal with the damage afterward.”

My heart sinks. “So, you think Luca’s right?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “I’m just pointing out that there’s a saying for literally every situation and grandmothers seem to know them all.”

Snorting, I smack his knee.

He grins, folding his arms as he sits back. “Did I ever tell you that Luca and I kind of kept in touch after my visit to Santa Cruz?”

Surprised, I shake my head. Luca never mentioned it, either. “No.”

“Just on Instagram. He likes my photos…I like his surfing.”

Something warm trickles into my hurting heart. “That’s cute.”

“What’s cute were the pictures of him teaching you how to surf.”

“We only went out on the waves a couple times, but Kellan was there one day. He took those pictures.” My eyes blur with tears at the memory, and I wipe them on the back of my hand. “I never really learned. I still suck.”

“It takes a while,” Arlo says. “You just have to keep putting yourself out there.”

We’re quiet for a while. Sniffling, I look up at him. “Why do I feel like that was a metaphor?”

“Because it was. Luca got hurt and he’s using that to stay where he is instead of moving forward. But I don’t want that for you. Regardless of what he does, I want you to keep going. Okay? Promise me that. He doesn’t define you. Whether he stays or goes doesn’t define you.”

Didn’t Mom say something similar before I got on the plane? My face warms, and the tears I thought I’d kept at bay brim over. Arlo puts his arm around my shoulder and pulls me close.

“Your mom was partly right. Not all men stay,” he says, squeezing me. “But the right ones do.”

* * *

After spending four days in Belize at Arlo’s friend’s ecotourism resort, we hop a plane to our last destination, Costa Rica. I’m getting used to this flying thing. I have about a dozen pictures of clouds and water and landscapes, all taken from the sky.

“I know we’ve been roughing it with buses and taxis, but I’m going to rent a car here,” Arlo says as we walk through the San Jose terminal. I find it funny that I’m once again in an airport with this name, but thousands of miles away.

“Sounds good,” I say through a yawn. I’m exhausted. We spent all of yesterday sunning and snorkeling on Glover’s Reef, an island in Southwest Caye, which is a coral atoll in Belize.

I’m just dozing off when Arlo lowers the volume on the radio. The reception is crackly anyway. “Are you awake?”

“Mm?” I peek at him with one eye.

“I’ve been wanting to get your take on something.” He drums his fingers on the steering wheel.

“Okay…”

“I’m considering renting a place in Santa Cruz.”

Now I’m awake. I sit up a bit, twisting in my seat so I’m facing him. “My Santa Cruz?”

He nods.

“Part-time?”

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