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I stretch and glance around at the collection of beautifully preserved buildings and the bright colors of the flags that adorn the main street we’re parked on.
“Where are we?”
“Todos Santos, I thought we could stop and grab coffee and take a picture outside Hotel California.”
“Like the Eagles Song?”
“Yeah, but the Eagles swear it’s not. Wait there.” He hops out of the car and I take the opportunity to admire his loose, ground eating stride as he comes around the front of the car to my side.
He opens my door with a bow and offers me his hand and murmurs, “Goddess.”
“You’re silly,” I giggle and let him help me climb out. He twines our fingers together as we walk down the street toward a cluster of restaurants. And, I don’t mind one bit. I haven’t held hands with anyone but my children in decades. I forgot how intimate it is. Even though I just rediscovered him two days ago, it feels just as comfortable and easy as it did all those years ago.
We left just after sunrise and I didn’t even ask where we were going. I found I didn’t care. I trust him. And I want this experience, with all the handholding, beautiful views, and unscripted stops it comes with.
I breathe in deep and catch the salt of the ocean and the sweet of the flowers and the spice of the aromas floating out of the restaurants, and my empty stomach grumbles.
Todos Santos is one of Mexico’s most popular destinations. And not because of the hotel. It’s home to the burgeoning artist community who have come to set up shop and make a name for themselves.
“This place is gorgeous. Can we eat and hang out for a bit?” I ask.
Stone lets go of my hand, to sling an arm over my shoulder and pulls me close to his side. “We can do anything we fucking want,” he drawls.
And we do.
We sit and check Trip Advisor and decide on a place called Art and Beer for breakfast. It’s a quaint little outpost that can’t decide whether it wants to be an art gallery or bar and so has decided to be both. The chalkboard menus boasted everything from shellfish appetizers to whole lobster. We sat out on the reed covered deck that overlooked the spectacular wild blue of the Sea of Cortez.
In all that time, we barely said a word. Normally, I’d feel compelled to fill silences with small talk. But as always, nothing with Stone is as it normally is. I thought the lack of structure in our plans would make me nervous. It hasn’t.
I’m more relaxed than I can remember being. Ever.
When we were just kids, and our relationship was based on a very different kind of feeling, we spoke a language that didn’t have words. It was accented by a mutual enjoyment of food, music, and trust. Now, I can add adventure, desire and safety to things we can share without saying a word.
When we’re done eating, we walk out to an outdoor market set up on a narrow cobblestone street. It’s lined by vine covered hacienda’s that had been converted to tiny artisan shops. And they’re filled with glorious creations I wish my children were here to see.
Stone is a social butterfly He smiles at and greets nearly everyone we pass. He asks so many questions about everything, then plays devil’s advocate with the answers. When we stopped at an art gallery, he drew one of the other patrons into a boisterous argument about the influence of 20th century Mexican muralists on the Chicano Mural Movement in the United States. At one point the man looked like he wanted to drop kick Stone, but the conversation ended in a fit of uproarious laughter and they parted ways after exchanging hearty slaps on the back.
He kept pausing to translate for me, until I told him that I was enjoying just watching the body language and facial expressions. He’s as animated, curious, and mischievous as he’d been as a boy, but he’s got all the grace and athleticism of a man who pushes his body’s limits and takes a genuine interest in people. He’s a joy to watch.
We sit to watch a group of old women, their heads covered in black kerchiefs play a wickedly competitive card game he said was called Conquian. Stone leans in and whispers in the ear of the woman closest to him.
He’s been watching her hand from over her shoulder and whatever he says makes her eyes light up. She’s grinning when she puts her cards down, drawing groans from her friends. She and Stone share a high five. And they all kiss his cheeks when he tells them we’re leaving
“How do you know how to play that game?” I as we walk on, still hand in hand.
“One of the other fellows in my program is Mexican, he taught me on the flight down.
“And of course, you mastered it instantly,” I swing our joined hands and smile up at him.
Suddenly, he presses me against a wall, cups my face and kisses me long and sweet
“I used to dream about kissing you whenever I wanted,” he murmurs.
My heart hammers, wild with the thrill of this reckless, spontaneous passion. “Then do it,” I breathe and wind my hands around his neck. He presses open mouthed kisses on my chin, my cheeks, my jaw, my ear, my neck, my eyes.
And I revel in it. The Regan he knew is long gone, but he makes me remember and miss her. More than I have in a very long time. Maybe while we’re here, I can pretend that I’m her, still.
His lips come back to mine and he cups my ass and grinds his hips against mine. “I want to fuck you right here. Right now, Regan. Can you feel how badly I want to?”
