Page 94 of Everything We Left Behind

She rolls to her side and he props up on his elbow to look down at her. He cups the back of her head and his thumb traces the hairline along her temple. “Seriously, though, is it peaceful like this in the morning? We’ve slept for less than three hours, but I feel more rested than I have in months.Years,” he adds with a smirk.

“Like I said, you didn’t sleep well, so, no, it wasn’t like this. But I do like this.” She motions between them. “Do you?”

“Yes, very much.” His thumb drops to her lips and so does his gaze. He thinks about kissing her when they both get a strong reminder they aren’t the only people in bed. Marc shifts under the sheet and his elbow connects with Natalya’s breast.

Her eyes grow saucer round. “Ow.” She rubs the tender spot.

“Roll this way, kiddo.” James drags Marc closer to him. “What time did he crawl in here?”

“Four thirty, I think.” She yawns. “I’m going to need a nap today.”

“I’ll take one with you,” James says, yawning. Then it occurs to him there’s more than one way to interpret what he said. He gives her an embarrassed smile. “I meant that I need a nap, too.”

She laughs softly. “I got that. You’re welcome to sleep here with me.”

They watch each other as the room lightens and the birds announce the day. Their hands meet over Marc’s sleeping form. “Thank you,” he says.

“For what?”

“For not giving up on me, and for convincing me not to give them up.”

“Your sons?”

He nods. “In Mexico.”

“I knew you’d love them.”

“Unconditionally.”

James leans down to kiss her. A shrill noise shatters the moment. He tenses. Marc groans under the sheets.

“Sorry,” Natalya says, rolling away. “I’m expecting a call from the mainland.”

She frowns at the screen and answers the call with a question. Her gaze cuts to James before she hands over the phone. “It’s for you. It’s Thomas.”

CHAPTER 28

CARLOS

Seven Months Ago

November 27

Puerto Escondido, Mexico

Señora Carla seemed unusually bothered by the dry heat. She was especially weary of the crowds. Last summer, Julian had convinced her to visit duringFiestas de Noviembre,so Carla moved up her usual holiday stay in Puerto Escondido by several weeks.

Thetorneo de surfwas this weekend. Tourists packed the beaches, streets, and restaurants. Hoping to give her some reprieve from the tournament’s noise, traffic, and the day’s weather, I invited her to the gallery. Upstairs, after cleaning up from a workshop, we decided to spend the remainder of the afternoon painting. Unfortunately, my air conditioner was dying and the ceiling fans only moved stagnant, warm air.

Carla stared beyond the blank canvas, her eyes glazed and skin flushed. She fanned her blouse, a bright flamingo-colored linen, and patted her damp hairline and neck with a folded hand towel. She sighed, exasperated, and set aside her still-clean paintbrush before going to the bank of windows. For a few moments, she watched people mill below; then she opened a window. Air heady with the smell of sunbaked fish, rotting fruit, and sweat gusted into the studio, sucked in by the overworked air conditioner. Loud shouts, high-pitched laughter, acoustical music, and the rev of a motorcycle disrupted the studio’s solitude.

Carla’s face contorted into a look of disgust. She slammed closed the window. “Do you like living here, Carlos?”

“Sí.”I swirled a brush tip in the ultramarine blue and stroked the color across the canvas. The small fishing boat surfing on a sea of blue was slowly coming to life.

She studied me from across the room as though considering me to model for her next painting. I arched a brow. She fanned her face with the towel. “Why do you live here? This place is dreadful.”

“Dreadful?” I said on a laugh.

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