We splash across the muddy cobblestones of downtown Mazatlan, sandals dangling from our hands, feet bare in the muck. Around us rain is sluicing from the sky, a black deluge, lashing our skin hard enough to hurt. We beeline for the cafe’s open doorway, a misshapen rectangle of light cast across the torrent of mud and garbage washing down the street. Beneath the shelter of its eaves we balance on ancient tiles, sticking our feet into the rain, washing them clean.

Next to me is Rosalinda, Don Fidel’s daughter and part-owner of the condo complex where we’re staying. “Mira!” — look! — she points in alarm. “That is a…how do you say? Lapa!”

“Leech,” I say reflexively, and wonder where I learned the translation. I bend to examine my legs — and discover the small shape, purplish and wriggling. With a brutal flick of thumb and forefinger I send it flying back into the darkness. The mouth leaves a blood trail on the back of my calf. “Ewww! It was already latching on. Did you get any on you?”

The mere suggestion causes the forty-year-old mexicana to shriek a little. Her sandals clatter on the tile, dropped in the rush to slap at her legs. Frantic movements make her hair undulate, dark and shiny as wet mink.

I slip back into my wedgies, immediately adding another 3 inches to my towering height. Every face tilts at me in surprise — even Rosalinda, who should be used to it by now. Oh well. At least I can see better over the oriental screens. The cafe is filled with them. They form a gilded maze around the candlelit tables. “I don’t see Nick.”

The maitre d’ harrumphs to get our attention. He’s glowering at the floor, dotted with puddles by our arrival. Rosalinda smiles apologetically and says something in Spanish too fast for me to understand. Whatever she told him, it doesn’t work. His glare just deepens.

I’m grabbing handfuls of my wet sundress and holding the fabric away from my body, trying to air it out. “The tall American?” I ask simply, but only get a blank stare from the maitre d’. Every American in Mazatlan probably looks tall to him, especially me. “Really blue eyes? Kind of muscular? Handsome?”

That word finally stirs the maitre d’ into motion. He turns aside and waves us toward the back.

Nick is folded into a corner booth, impatient in the flickering candlelight, a knee pistoning beneath the table. He’s dressed in khakis and a yellow oxford, untucked, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The top three buttons are unbuttoned. Even when I manage to dress him up, it doesn’t really work.

“Finally,” he says, sliding out of the booth to embrace me. I take the hug happily, going limp, and he recoils in laughter. “Jesus! You’re soaked! And you too!” he adds, noticing that Rosalinda is just as drowned-looking. He pulls out the table while I inch along the cushioned curve. “What the hell happened to you guys?”

“What happened? It is raining out there!” Rosalinda says, standing on her tiptoes to greet him with kisses Mexican-style. “Wait, I made a mark.” She reaches up and rubs lipstick off his cheek. “Okay.”

Nick settles himself next to me, hip touching mine. “Why didn’t you take a cab or something?”

“We did. But Rosalinda wanted to show me the cathedral on the plaza.” I fluff my damp hair and try to remember the name. “San Vicente de los…what was it again? Innocentes? Anyway, it was amazing! The pillars along the nave were gorgeous, mahogany inlaid with — ”

“Tell him about the lapa,” Rosalinda interrupts, blotting at her blouse with a linen napkin. When I just roll my eyes, she leans across the table in excitement. “She had a lapa on her leg. And did it scare her? No!”

Nick beams at me approvingly. “She’s brave, this one.”

“‘Brave this one’?” Rosalinda’s face turns quizzical. “What is that?”

“What? Oh. The phrasing…” His gaze ticks back and forth, impatient for the waitstaff. “I’m just saying Nooshin is really brave.”

“Ah,” she nods.

A harried-looking waiter arrives with menus, then rushes off again.

“Agua mineral, por favor!” Rosalinda implores after him. “Y la mejor botella de merlot!”

“Anybody want something to eat?” Nick is asking “The oysters here are fucking incredible. Nooshin? Some oysters?”

I make a face, holding my menu loosely, not reading it.

“My husband says I can only eat oysters when he is with me,” Rosalinda chuckles. “So I choose the lamb.”

I make tiny adjustments to my silverware. “How did the call go, Nick?”

“Calls plural. First I talked to Hercules, then I talked to Frankie. And both calls officially sucked ass.” His shoulders jostle mine in a tired shrug. “What can you do?”

“Is that what’s really bothering you?”

Nick stiffens in alarm. “Yeah. That’s what’s really bothering me. Bothering the shit outta me.”

“Because I thought that, maybe…” My voice falters. I shouldn’t bring up my maybe, maybe not pregnancy.

“You thought what? Frankie forgave me for stealing his TV time at the US-Mexico Border Symposium? Or Hercules doesn’t blame me for losing the other half of the Korea Textile archive?”

“Losing the other half? What is Hercules talking about? The tax records are in Aldama now. They’re not lost at all. Right?” I add, just to make sure. The Mexican legal system seems to shuffle evidence around a lot.

“You know how Hercules gets.” Nick mimicks the gravelly rumble of his dissertation advisor. “This isn’t academic research, it’s a scavenger hunt. I didn’t pay $16,000 for half an archive. Blah blah fucking blah.” He spreads his hands on the tablecloth, a closing-off gesture. End of conversation.

Dinner is watching Nick and Rosalinda dawdle over their entrees while bemoaning the state of Mazatlan — luxury hotels gobbling up the beachfront, pristine estuaries threatened with development, ever-bigger cruise ships that require the harbor to be dredged, the traffic snarls caused by a tidal wave of workers commuting to hotels and construction sites. I’m content to be on the periphery of the conversation, occasionally stealing a bite from their plates with a furtive stab of my fork.

For dessert, Nick offers to share his chocolate mousse, a splendid caramel-drizzled wedge. Rosalinda and I shake our heads vehemently. Glancing at his watch, he excuses himself to make some phone calls, lining up a visit to our next destination — Aldama. His broad shoulders recede into the murk of the cafe, but not before he casts a final glance over his shoulder at our table. At me.

“He is worried about you,” Rosalinda observes, fingering the silver necklace dangling from her slender neck. “Worried about how you do not eat, yes?”

“Well, yeah. I’m still getting my appetite back. And…” I crumple a little. “I might be pregnant. But probably not, though.”

The mexicana’s face turns poignant. She reaches over to squeeze my hand. “Is that good news? Bad news? Do you want to be pregnant?”

I pick up Nick’s spoon and lick it clean. “I haven’t given it much thought. Being pregnant, oh god… I don’t know. I just don’t know, really.” Except I do know. Hoping that I’m pregnant — stupid, pointless, insane hoping — makes something ignite in my veins.

Rosalinda is quiet for a while. “He loves you?”

“Maybe.” Reflected in the spoon is an upside-down girl with a wilted, mooning look.

“He is with you, not someone else. Why is that, do you think?”

“Because we’re good together. Really good. Like, incredible.” I pop a crumb of cake into my mouth. “But I don’t know what he really wants.”

“From a woman?” Rosalinda smiles vaguely. “I could tell you if he was Mexican. American men…you’re the expert, not me.”

Years of futility slosh in my head. I wasn’t allowed to have boyfriends or even just boy friends in high school. After graduation I married a traditional Iranian man who put me under house arrest, basically. And Nick is the only other guy I’ve ever been with. What I know about American men couldn’t fill a thimble.

“What do Mexican men want?” I ask her.

She holds up her necklace. A tiny silver Virgin of Guadalupe glints in the candlelight. “This is what Mexican men want. This, and…” She drops the necklace and makes a circle with finger and thumb, then slides it up and down a forefinger.

Our laughs echo in the booth and drift across the cafe, where tables are slowly emptying as the night wears on. Nick carves through the murk, summoning us from behind a pasted-on grin. He jams the cellphone into his pocket angrily, as if a conversation has disturbed him. But I know better. He’s already worrying about me again.

Outside it’s still pouring. We bundle Rosalinda into a taxi, one of the expensive ones for tourists and wealthy Mexicans. She’s going back to the condo complex.

“Hasta manana!” Nick calls, raising an arm in goodbye.

I watch the taillights swim off. “I had so much fun with her today. She’s super-cool.”

“Yeah.” He seems to be hesitating, about to stride briskly into the sheeting rain after her.

“So what club are we going to? Bora Bora? Senor Frogs?”

“How about we just go back to the condo instead?”

“Sure!” I gaze forward with relief. “You see another cab?”

Traffic splashes across the cobblestones. I spot an open-air Volkswagen taxi and dash across the street to intercept it — but it’s already plunging out of sight. I stay on the opposite side. Across from me, Nick is a lanky silhouette under the cafe eaves.

A microbus stops in front of him. He waves to me and ducks out of sight. My heart leaps and I start to go to him. A pair of headlights honk, swerving, and send me back to the curb, gasping a little. Finally I cross when there’s a gap in the traffic.

He left the microbus door open for me. Inside he fills a one-person seat, staring into a window lashed with downpour.

“Did you see that?” I say in belated terror. “I almost got run over!” I brush aside my wet bangs — and feel my purse disappear from beneath that untucked elbow. “Oh no,” I groan and bend down for the small beaded shape. It floats in a dirty puddle.

“You asked me if I’d want to have it taken care of. If you’re actually…you know.” Nick’s voice is tense. He doesn’t look over. “Well, I would. The timing is all wrong. Years from now, maybe. If I finish my Ph.D. and find a tenure-track job. If you go to college somewhere. If we stay together.”

I stand up slowly, gazing at him through the open microbus door. A strange thrill of despair runs through me. Mexico is a bottomless place and I’m falling faster and faster.