Back at the apartment, I can’t help but wonder how all this will play out.
I place my belongings in a box that will be taken to my new place soon. I stand around looking at the apartment that has been my own personal prison. Too many sad memories reside here, and I can’t wait to be rid of this place. The walls are bare, and my bedroom is all packed. I plan to have a quick night sleeping on the couch and stalking Vic online before the movers come to load my items and bring them to the East Coast. Emma wanted to take me to the airport to catch my flight, but she and Eduardo had to go to her family’s house in Mexico. Luckily, Liv is off and volunteered to take me. That prompts me to remember Emma’s note. I stand up from the couch and grab my bag and laptop, plopping them on my lap as I fall back into the sofa, crossing my legs over one another. Extracting the letter from the envelope, I open the stationery with a capital E in script. It reads:
Dani,
Over the years, you have become one of my most cherished friends. I want you to know that if you ever want to talk, your secrets are safe with me. Even if you don’t want to share, that’s okay, too, because I know you and I get it. You are so much likeme that the first time we met, I knew we would be great friends. Please know that if you need anything at any time of day, I will be available to answer. Should you need help, I will provide it, no questions asked. Don’t be a stranger, and come back home whenever you can.
Love,
Emma Taylor-Ruiz
Home.That word stands out the most in that letter because I only have one home, and that is wherever Vic is. But for the last few years, this place with my found family in Houston has been my home.
I heard rumors about Emma and her husband being in the mafia, but I thought it was just that—a rumor. However, after what I saw that night and the way they helped me take care of the situation with the body in the alley, I knew there was more truth to it. There is usually some truth mixed in with the rumors. The fact that no one was freaked out by what I did was also a big clue. And I know that Eduardo, her husband, would do anything his wife asks, including helping me.
Opening the laptop and typing in Vic’s name, I see a picture of him on the medical staff website. Dr. Victor Flores, of the general surgery department, is depicted in his portrait. The boy, now a man, looks so similar to the person I said goodbye to that day, until his taillights faded from my view, taking my emotions with them. His eyes are devoid of any happiness, and his lips form a thin line. His white coat, with his name in black script, stands out. I touch his face on the screen and vow to make the light return to his eyes and his lips to once again find mine.
TWENTY-TWO
VIC
It’s been years since I last saw Dani, and yet even at thirty, not a single day passes without her ghost of a memory lingering in the recesses of my mind. I left her there, standing in the street, as I drove away. Both of us were eighteen, with hearts and dreams too big, and an all-consuming love. Time and distance have done nothing to subdue it, and the ache only sharpens with each passing year.
On the rare reprieve from the relentless life of a surgeon, I retreat to my favorite corner table at Café Nero, a steaming cortado warming my hands as I attempt to read the pages of my newest thriller. Her absence has never truly left me, it follows me even in quiet moments such as this, seeping into every corner I try to hide in. I tell myself I come here for the quiet, for the illusion of normalcy. Truthfully, it’s in these moments that I feel at peace because they are the only times I can convince myself that I’ve let her go.
Well, almost, until that peace shatters the moment Bethany walks in and spots me. Her face lights up as she rushes over. “What the fuck did I do in this life to deserve this?” I mutter under my breath, keeping my expression perfectly blank.
“Dr. Flores! I didn’t expect to see you here.” Her voice carries that syrupy forced-happiness, grating on my nerves like nails on a chalkboard, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes. I stare at her in disbelief because the woman has been circling me like a vulture for about a year now. Or maybe that’s when I first started noticing her little games. I’m about to tell her I was just leaving when she rushes off to snatch up her to-go order from the row at the counter. Perfect. My chance to slip out before she corners me again.
Unfortunately, luck isn’t on my side today. “Dr. Flores, wait!” She shuffles along in those ridiculous heeled boots, her scarf trailing behind her as she scrambles to catch up to me, heading for the door.
“Bethany, good to see you.” I greet, because I’m a respectable person. Or at least that’s what I tell myself. Anyone who says that is probably far from it. But hey, her problem, not mine. “Sorry, I was just leaving.” Not that I’m actually sorry. I tuck my book under my arm, sparing her a flat-out rejection. But she doesn’t quit. Of course not. Instead, she quickens her pace. The blast of cold air hits us as we walk outside, contrasting sharply with the café’s comfortable heat. Coffee clutched firmly in hand, I lift the collar of my dark grey field jacket, the chill biting at my neck. I frown, cursing the thoughtless mistake of leaving my scarf at home.
Fall is fast approaching, and the cool, crisp air is a welcome reprieve from the city’s relentless humidity in summertime. It’s finally sweater weather. I pick up my pace, and she tries to keep up, but I’m not about to be late for my lunch obligation.
“Where are you going? Mind if I join you?” I stop mid-stride and turn to look at her. She halts, too, wobbling as her heel nearly catches on a crack in the sidewalk, but I don’t lift a finger to help. If she’s going to insist on wearing those ridiculous boots, the least she could do is master the art of walking in them. Shesteadies herself, flashing me a triumphant smile, like she just won the lottery, but the joke’s on her.
“Actually, that would be wonderful,” I say, slowing my pace for her to keep up. She looks surprised, but quickly masks it.
“Where are we going?” she asks curiously.
I glance at her, eyes narrowing. “It’s a surprise,” I say, a smirk tugging at my lips. “Wouldn’t want to ruin the fun.”
Bethany fucking claps. “Oh, how exciting,” she gushes animatedly with fake enthusiasm. I arch an eyebrow and give her my best,Seriously?Look, but it doesn’t faze her in the slightest. This woman is beyond annoying, but soon enough, I’m about to discover her true character. Perhaps I‘ve judged her too harshly.
“Are you going to the gala?” she asks suddenly, the abrupt topic shift so startling that I can’t help but chuckle at her persistence.
I nod once. “Of course,” I reply. Bethany leans in closer, brushing her arm against mine as if by accident, and her overpowering perfume nearly makes me gag. “It is for a great cause,” I continue, side-stepping to reclaim some space, “helping parents of children needing treatment at the hospital stay on campus for a reduced fee, and making it easier for them to be near their loved ones.”
Her manicured hand flies to her chest. “Isn’t it wonderful?” she coos, but the sincerity is about as genuine as her knock-off Louboutins.
“Not much farther.” I throw her a bone, noticing her wince in those four-inch stiletto boots, as we trek down Boylston Street in downtown Boston. We turn the corner and stop in front of the Catholic charity house where I volunteer. I take the steps two at a time and pull the heavy door open, holding it wide for Bethany to go in first. Only, she isn’t there. I turn slowly, exaggerating the movement, pretending to search the landing like she’s vanishedinto thin air. Until I spot her clicking heels retreating down the first step. I let the door close behind me and approach her, already knowing I had judged her correctly from the start.
“Are you not coming in?” I ask, putting on the most sincere face I can muster. She looks around, avoiding my eyes.
“Isn’t that a soup kitchen?” she asks, and I can’t help but wonder how she ever became a nurse.
“That is correct,” I say, watching her, waiting for her just to admit it. But I’m not about to make it easy on her. She ruined my last few minutes of peace, and I could have spent them finishing that chapter.
