My phone rings in my hand, surprising me. Mami’s name blinks at me. It’s the third phone call I’ve ignored. The last two I’ve let ring out to voicemail. It’s very unlike me, but I don’t have the energy for her. Not tonight. Not with my mind already swimming with work, my shifts, and of course, the twins.
I grab my bag, sling it over my shoulder, and push out through the double doors. Into the smell of car exhaust and wet asphalt. The hospital parking lot lights buzz overhead, turning everything a weird, flat yellow.
My breath puffs in front of me when I exhale. The night feels damp and heavy, and a surprise late-season storm brings colder air. Like Boston, spring is clinging to the tail end just to be spiteful as I walk to the train.
Three days, and I still hear Massimo’s voice as clearly as the overhead page that called a code this afternoon.
I’ll take you wherever you want to go. Day or night. Just text me.
His face plays on a loop from when I told him I need my own bed. My own space. The way he swallows down whatever he wants to say, nods like I’m handing down a sentence, and he intends to serve every second of it.
He thinks I don’t see it.
He’s wrong.
I drop onto the cold metal bench just as the train doors slide closed. It slides under my ribs and presses on all the parts of me that have been sore since Saturday. The parts that wake up in the middle of the night, reaching for a body that isn’t there. The parts that remember his hands on my hips, his mouth against my throat, his voice in my ear promising, I’ll take care of it. You don’t have to handle everything alone.
I do what I’ve always done when a feeling scares me more than it should. I shove it into a box, tape the lid shut, and stack another double shift on top. If he doesn’t consume my thoughts, it’s his twin. The playful way he says exactly what’s on his mind. No malice or ill intent, just a careless immaturity that comes from being protected all his life. Still being protected by his brother, is that the kind of protectiveness I would get?
I saw a glimpse of it. I have to admit it was lovely. After taking care of people all day, I’d easily surrender to being taken care of. Easily do whatever they wanted within reason if it meant I didn’t have to think, plan, or even raise a finger.
The ride is mostly empty. All walks of life. Hospital staff, students, and a guy in a hoodie asleep against the window with his headphones in.
This is what you wanted. I remind myself when the ache starts up again. Your space. Your quiet. Your own bed. No one to answer to. No one’s feelings to worry about except your own.
I think of Emilio’s face when I say I’m going home. The way he babbles to fill the silence, throwing out jokes like lifelines, trying to tether me to their house with sheer ridiculousness. The way he acts as if we truly do share a dog. I think of Paco trotting after me, choosing me in the custody battle that started as a joke and has grown less funny as the hours tick by.
I press my lips together. Watch my own reflection in the glass, tired eyes, messy bun, and dark circles that no concealer can hide.
I’ve made the right decision.
Haven’t I?
“I don’t know,” I whisper into the dark glass. “Dios, I really don’t know.”
I close my eyes for the remainder of the ride. Opening them for my stop and making the familiar walk in the dark to my apartment with new locks. I walk faster.
Paco will be waiting. He always knows when I’m close. Somehow, some way. I picture his tiny paws scratching at the inside of the door, ears perked, bug eyes bright, little body vibrating with excitement.
The thought warms something inside me.
I don’t see him at first.
He’s just a shape under the streetlight. A shadow leaning against the brick wall near my building’s front steps, hood up, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s just another guy taking a smoke break or scrolling his phone.
Except my ex never owns a phone that lasts longer than a month. He’s never been patient enough to just lean anywhere without pacing, twitching, looking for his next hustle, his next weakness to exploit.
The second my brain recognizes the slouch of his shoulders, the way he cocks his head when he hears footsteps, my stomach plummets.
No. No. No, not tonight. Not here.
My grip on my bag strap tightens. Every instinct I have screams at me to turn around, keep walking, act like I haven’t seen him at all. But the problem with being a woman who has to walk into dangerous rooms for a living is that eventually, your fear learns how to shut up and let your training take over.
My steps don’t falter.
His head lifts. His face comes into the light.
“Buenas noches, Sofia.”
