I silence it in a rush and catch the name.
Mamá.
I guess she has a new ringtone.
Thanks, Gabe.
The man next to me gives me a dirty look, and I answer, whispering, “My plane’s about to take off.”
“Good,” she says. “That gives me exactly one minute to remind you that you are not the kind of woman who cries over a boy who spray tans his armpits. His armpits, mi hija.”
Here we go.
She exhales, long and heavy, like it’s taking every ounce of self-control to cushion the truth bomb she’s about to drop.
“He’s not the one.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Mamá, not now.”
“Por qué no? Now is perfect. Tell me. Did you feel fire?”
“Mamá.”
“Heat?”
I roll my eyes. “Heat is overrated.”
Though I hate to admit it, I miss it.
She clicks her tongue. Her most Mexican form of judgment. “Heat is everything.”
When I say nothing, she softens. “Destined souls don’t cross paths. They collide. Burn hot until every sharp edge is gone. Until your heart forgets where it ends… and his begins.”
I blink. Hard.
Thirty years together, and Mamá still looks at Papá like he strung the stars across the sky just for her.
So, yes. The woman knows her shit.
Just like she knows me. And she knows Pierce. Despite the myriad of women falling to their knees for him, she’s right. With him, there’s nothing.
No spark. No blaze. No heat.
Pierce has never melted any part of me. Not unless you count my dignity and career.
I grab a wad of tissues from my pocket and dab at my face as the guy next to me gives me the universal wrap it up look. “I have to go.”
“Okay, mi hija. Call me when you get there.”
“I will.”
I hang up just as a string of texts bombards my phone.
It’s Kali, my PA.
I’m grateful she’s not calling. Talking it out would turn me into a blubbering mess, and I already used her shoulder as a personal Kleenex for six hours yesterday.
I’m too tired.
