“That huge-ass bet happened,” Eli says, shrugging. “Just before we teed up, Griggs said we needed to make this round interesting. I tried to turn them down, but the judge kept goading me on, heckling me.” He shakes his head. “That guy’s a real dickhead.” Then he shrugs and says casually, “So I agreed to their bet, and I won a shit-ton of money off them.”
And with those words, Eli confirms my worst suspicions: He’s using us to get to the big payouts, and he doesn’t give a damn whether it ruins our plans. I’m so furious that I want to scream. Or cry. But instead, I suck in a deep breath and then try to make him understand the huge mistake he’s made.
“Oh, you’ll pay. Weallwill pay!” I hiss. “You’ve ruined any chance of Judge Thacker agreeing to let you in on their business dealings.” I let out a frustrated groan. “The manhatesto lose.” Eli shrugs in response, which only has the effect of making me angrier. “And Griggs has already made perfectly clear that you’re not going to be invited back,” I snap.
Eli bites his lower lip, his chest deflating. Our cocky Tripp has suddenly vanished.
“Okay, I get that you’re angry,” he says, his voice pleading. “And I’m sorry. But you have to understand—with guys like this, if I turned down a bet, I’d look weak. Like a total loser. They’d never respect me enough to do business with me. I did the right thing, Holly. I promise,” he begs. “Please just let me follow through with this. Send me back out there and I can make it work.”
“The thing is,” I tell him, “I just don’t know whether we can trust you. You’ve put our entire plan—and us—at risk.”
I suddenly feel nauseous. Elijah Denvil Sweet Jr. is a con artist, and a good one. Now, instead of wasting his time on dollar bets at a pool table in Westlake, he’s hit the big leagues, and it’s all thanks to me.
Well, not anymore. My head begins to ache as I recall what I told Luisa back at that biker bar: When it comes down to it, Griggs and Eli are virtually identical. They’re both cunning, smooth-talking, and charming as hell. They also both happen to be criminals, and I refuse to be taken advantage of by either of them for even one more moment.
It must stop here. All our work, all the time and energy we invested, all those risks we took to set this plan into motion, they’re all for nothing. How could I have been so stupid and naive, relying on a small-town pool hustler to rescue me and my son?
With the thought of Aidan, my anger turns to sorrow.
“Just go back there and tell them you had a family emergency or something,” I tell him, holding back tears. “And then please get the hell out of here before they think too hard and realize who you really are.”
He stares at me, his mouth agape, as I walk away. I head straight to the powder room, lock myself in a stall, pull out my phone, and text Luisa.
Call me ASAP. It’s over.
She will be furious when she learns of Eli’s mistake. Meanwhile, I’m just plaindefeated.
As I wait for her reply, my phone buzzes with a text from Hugh.
I was so looking forward to tomorrow night, but unfortunately I’m still stuck across the pond. Sorry to miss.
My chest sinks in on itself, literally deflating as I take in the news. I guess I hadn’t realized how much hope I’d pinned on tomorrow’s date until it slipped away. My fingers hover over the keyboard while my mind struggles to compose a breezy, nonchalant response. Then another text comes in.
By the way, I promise I’m not cyberstalking you, but must admit I did some googling and I can’t find information on your production company anywhere… What am I missing?
Hugh found out I was lying.Of coursehe found out. And now, instead of rescheduling our date, he’s backing out for good.
I squeeze my eyes together tightly, trying in vain to come up with any words at all that might explain what he’s “missing.”
I could tell him the truth, but he’d never want to talk to me again, not after he learns about the scheme he’s been participating in without his knowledge or consent. I feel completely and utterly foolish. How could I have thought this ridiculous scheme with Luisa could actually work? How delusional am I?
My head sinks to my knees, and, once again, I’m falling apart in the powder room of the Dogwood Hills Club. At least this time I’m not puking.
CHAPTER 23Luisa
I take another sip of Gloria Castillo’s horchata, hoping its cool, creamy sweetness will soothe the ache in my chest. We sit beside each other in silence, lulled by the rhythmic creak of her rocking chairs, watching Little Mishel and Abelardo ride their bikes down a dirt driveway lined with Southern live oaks. Pablo has gone to the cemetery to visit Don Luis’s grave.
“He’s been going on longer and longer walks,” Gloria says, her voice low and tired. The shadows under her eyes are more pronounced since I last saw her, but somehow she still manages to smile for the kids, pretend their world isn’t about to be turned upside down.
“Have you told them anything?” I ask. It’s been five days since the golf fiasco, and at this juncture, our plan to outmaneuver Griggs seems unsalvageable.
Gloria shakes her head. “I’ve been on my knees every night,” she says, kissing the cross of the rosary around her neck. “Praying to La Virgencita for a miracle.”
I stare at the milky horchata in my glass, absently stirring the long cinnamon stick protruding through the ice cubes. After we moved to Atlanta, I, too, prayed on my knees. I prayed to return home to Puerto Rico. Homesick and lonely, I missed my cousins and friends, missed our lazy weekends on sunny Buyé Beach, the tangy taste of an icy piragüa de tamarindo on my tongue, the wonder of surfing in Rincón at sunset, and the joy of living my life in Spanish. But pray as I might, Mami refused to reverse course. Puerto Rico was our past, she would tell us, angry and resentful. Atlanta was our future, and hell would freeze over before we moved back.
By the time I returned to the Island in my early twenties, my Puerto Rican Spanish accent and fluency were atrophied. My aunts and cousins teasingly called meLa Gringa. I laughed at their jokes, taking them in stride, but inside, an essential part of my identity bifurcated, eroding any fanciful, childish beliefs that one day I could return to my life just as it used to be. On that homecoming trip, I realized that the woman I had grown into didn’t fully belong on the Island, and didn’t fully belong in the States. The day my father’s lies became known, I lost my home and became irrevocably torn as a result. No amount of prayers could put me back together again.
In the distance, Abelardo’s laugh rings out as the kids circle the trunk of a massive oak, heads thrown back with mirth, carefree and happy. I can’t blame Gloria and Pablo for keeping the terrible news from them, for keeping them whole for as long as possible.
