But now I was sitting here with a knee that screamed every time I moved, it felt like an easy choice again. Not because I wanted to help Remy, but because staying here meant facing things I wasn’t ready to deal with. The VA. The therapy. The questions about what came next from the colonel.
Different desks, same suffocating feeling.
I should’ve said no. I should’ve blocked Remy’s number, thrown my phone out the damn window. But saying no wasn’t something I was good at—not when it came to him. Remy had a way of pulling me back even after years of leaving me behind. He forgot my name when things were good, but when things went south, suddenly, I was the only one he knew how to call.
And no matter how many times he forgot me—no matter how many times he chose everyone else first—I always showed up. Always. And it was my biggest fault.
CHAPTER 4
VALENTINA
NOVEMBER 18
I’d seen the late notice on my door last month, but what could I do? Frame it? Add it to my growing collection of missed bills?
Rent was Cillian’s thing. He paid it, he never complained about it, and he definitely never left it to me. I knew there was no way I could keep up with the amount he used to shell out. I wasn’t living lavishly, but my version of “making it work” wasn’t anywhere near Cillian’s budget.
So the notice stayed on the door, mocking me every time I came home, and I stayed exactly where I was, doing nothing about it.
Until this morning.
I was mid-shampoo when the lights cut out, leaving me standing in the pitch-black bathroom with suds in my eyes and no hot water. It was freezing water, actually. It was one of those moments that felt so absurd I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or cry. Maybe I’d do both and let the hysteria finally get me.
My life was a one-woman sitcom these days, except the jokes weren’t funny and the laugh track was just the sound of my bank account gasping for air.
I fumbled for the faucet and shut the water off, trying not to trip or slip on my way to the living room. The first thing I did was flip the light switch. A part of me thought I could logic my way out of losing electricity, like maybe if I flipped the switch hard enough the universe would go, “Oh, sorry, our bad,” and everything would come back on.
It didn’t.
I pulled a towel around me like a cape and flopped onto the couch, leaving wet spots all over the cushions, because, really, what did it matter at this point?
My phone was sitting on the coffee table, glowing with the reminder I’d forgotten to charge it overnight: 11% battery. Still, I picked it up and scrolled through the notifications. Apparently, I hadn’t learned my lesson about making myself feel worse. Isabel had texted three times asking about Mom. José had called, probably about the tab I’d promised to pay off. And the electric company? Oh, they’d emailed me twice—once to remind me my power would be shut off, and a second time to tell me they’d done it.
Thank you,Susanfrom Customer Service. Thank you for beingsoon top of things.
I stared at the phone, weighing the pros and cons of calling Isabel. She’d help me, I knew it. But that was the problem. She’d help, and she’d also remind me about it at every chance she got. I didn’t need her thinking I couldn’t keep it together on my own even if that was the truth.
I pulled the towel tighter around me and leaned back against the couch. Somewhere deep in my gut, I knew I couldn’t keep skating by like this. The lights weren’t coming back on, and the rent wasn’t going to magically pay itself.
I knew what I had to do.
The realization hit me somewhere between the shampoo still crusting in my hair and the growing chill sweeping through theapartment. It wasn’t like the answer had been hiding. It had always been there—I just hadn’t wanted to admit it.
Max.
God, even his name made my stomach turn. Max, the keeper of my so-called fortune. Max, the puppet master who thought he could dangle my future in front of me like a carrot as long as I jumped through his hoops. Max, who wouldn’t marry me off until I was “clean” enough to be a perfect little bride.
It wasn’t like I hadn’t tried. Thirty days, he’d said. Thirty days sober, a chip from AA, and then he’d hand over the money from his own pocket. It was a lot of money too—enough to pay off everything, including Mama’s medical bills, and allow me to finally breathe again. Enough that I could stop looking over my shoulder every time I walked past the landlord’s door.
But thirty days? Thirty days had felt like thirty years. And it wasn’t even about thewantingto stop drinking. I could handle that part—at least on the surface. It was theotherstuff. The sweating, the shaking, the pounding in my skull that made it feel like my brain was trying to punch its way out. The nights when I couldn’t sleep because my body was so pissed off at me for cutting it off cold turkey.
Max didn’t care about any of that, of course.
To him, it was simple: no chip, no money.
I lasted twenty days one time. Twenty miserable, endless days before I caved and used the hundred that stranger gave me to pop open a bottle of wine. And when Max found out—because Maxalwaysfound out—he smirked that smug, condescending smirk of his and said, “Better luck next time.”
Next time. Like it was just that easy.
