“Youwhat?” I said. He never told me this, just showed back up in our apartment complex looking like an abandoned puppy.
“I had this dream of Grace and Ruby with me in one of the painted lady houses. She said no, obviously. Immediately. It was embarrassing how quickly she shut me down. ” He glanced over, brow furrowed. “But at least I asked.”
We drove on as NPR droned through the speakers. I wished for a playlist, for a game, for a rhythm drummed on my leg—anything to drown out my regret.
“He would have come with you,” Alex whispered. I hated him for saying it out loud.
Because he would have come. He would have climbed into the backseat at a moment’s notice. He would have woken up early tomorrow to make me a special breakfast, maybe even taken my photo like the first day of school.
Then I would have worked until midnight, only to restart before dawn the next day. I’d seen how much Richard and Dad worked. Cruz would resent me for neglecting him … not right away, but eventually. It was easier to pull off the bandaid and leave while we still liked each other than to drag it out and hurt him more.
He was so young and full of joy. He’d bounce back. Before long, he’d find somebody new who could make him their first choice instead of always coming second to work.
“He deserves somebody who can make him happy,” I replied, my voice like sandpaper.
“He does,” Alex said quietly. “And he chose you.”
My eyes watered at the summer sunlight streaking through the windows. “Why are you coming to his defense? You don’t even like him.”
“But I like who you are when you’re with him.”
My stomach soured as the mile marker sign posts counted down. 182 miles to go.
“I can’t talk about this,” I snapped, connecting my phone to the speakers.
Alex didn’t even complain about my mopey bitch rock when I turned on a Brandi Carlile song that expressed what I couldn’t say: The road behind me was hard, and the one ahead of me wasn’t any better. I would miss Cruz, more than words could say—but he had a life to live, and so did I.
“Wakeup,Victoria,we’realmost there.”
I squeezed my eyes tighter, curling into the leather seat. For just a second, I let myself believe that when I rubbed my eyes, Gloria would be opening the door of their duplex, that we’d be stuffing ourselves with chilaquiles and laughing with his sisters. In just a few minutes, he’d dance with me around his mother’s kitchen.
“I know you’re awake, and I need directions.”
I opened my eyes to harsh fluorescent lights and concrete. “Why did you take the Lincoln Tunnel?”
“This is the way to New York,” Alex said, gripping the steering wheel. God, he was the worst at navigation.
“Yeah, Midtown,” I said, rubbing my eyes. “But we’re going to Tribeca.”
“You usually drive,” he muttered. Had he never been to New York without me? Why had I ever thought that moving here with him was a good idea?
Cruz would have known,I thought before shoving the idea aside.
As I gave Alex directions south, my gaze unconsciously lifted to that skyscraper’s glass windows. As a kid, Mom and I had stood on the sidewalk and counted all 78 floors, then she pointed out her office right beside Richard’s, promising that it would someday be mine.
Tomorrow.
Tomorrow I would put on that crisp blouse, pressed suit and my lucky Jimmy Choos. I would walk through that lobby with my head held high like I owned the place—because I did. And I would take the elevator to the top floor.
Where I belonged.
Alex pulled into Dad’s parking garage. I rolled my suitcases through Dad’s building’s ornate marble lobby, he carried his suit bag and the cat carrier into the elevator. I pressed the button for the penthouse. Dad opened the door, dressed casually in a cashmere sweater and trousers. “Don’t look so happy about the big promotion.”
“I’ll be ready tomorrow,” I said, pushing past him into the foyer. “Where’s her litter box?”
I left Alex to take care of Jurisprudence, walked past the library, and shut the door to my bedroom. I hadn’t lived here since high school—even then, my boarding school dorm had felt more like home—yet all my awards still hung on the walls. A time capsule of who I’d been, who they still wanted me to be. Vickie Fucking Sinclair.
My stomach lurched. I sprinted to the bathroom and dropped in front of the toilet. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast—since Cruz wrapped those cold eggs in a tortilla—and my stomach had nothing to purge. After I’d finished dry heaving, I rested my cheek on the cold toilet seat until the dizziness stopped.
