I shake my head and run my palms over my two-day-old stubble. Regret is already gnawing at me, slapping around inside my skull, but I’m too numb to feel it properly. I don’t even have the strength to fight it.
I’ll deal with it later. Right now, I need to get moving. Alex will be here soon, and I’m completely out of sorts—which shouldn’t surprise me, considering I just cheated on him like a total asshole.
Swinging my legs over the edge of the chair, I grab my phone—and freeze when I see five missed calls from Alex. Jesus Christ. I wasn’t expecting that.
I hit redial. Straight to voicemail.
Try again. Same thing.
A jolt of panic flickers beneath my ribs as I head for the bathroom. I need to shower. Shave. Rinse this fucking guilt off me before it seeps in any deeper.
Hands shaking, I fire off a quick text to my daughter, keeping my tone as casual as I can:Hey, have you or Emilee talked to Alex yet this morning?I reread it twice, checking for anything that sounds off, then hit send.
Nothing.
The silence stretches. Too long. I don’t wait.
I step into the shower and scrub like I can erase everything—his scent, his touch, the whole goddamn night. My skin burns under the force of it, but I don’t stop. I can’t.
Through the glass, my phone sits on the counter, screen dark. No reply. And with every passing second, the weight in my chest tightens—like something’s coming, and I won’t be ready for it when it hits.
19
ALEX
“¡Bienvenidos a Puerto Rico!”
The pilot sounds way too cheerful for someone who’s just spent three hours hauling a metal tube through the sky, but maybe that’s part of the job. I’m already thumbing my seatbelt release before he gets to the next line.
“Clear skies await us today in San Juan, with a lovely temperature of ninety-six degrees Fahrenheit. Enjoy your stay on the island”—he pauses, as if remembering protocol—“and please remain seated until the seatbelt light turns off.”
He really should’ve started with that part.
I power on my phone while shaking out my legs, flexing them just to feel the blood return. Even business class can’t spare my knees from feeling like they’ve been folded in half for three hours.
My phone wakes up with the screen blooming with notifications. Two missed calls from Elijah pop up—both within five minutes of the wheels hitting the ground.
As I step out into the jet bridge, the air swells around me, thick, balmy, and unmistakably Caribbean. Already, I’m feeling relaxed, looking forward to slipping on my sandals.
That’s when my phone pings—Facetime: Teya.
I swipe to answer. “Morning, sis.”
She’s a blur of rumpled hair and half-formed sentences, blinking at me from what looks like the deep end of sleep. “Alex, I got your text,” she mumbles, followed by a yawn big enough to distort the video. “You land yet?”
I adjust the strap on my bag and merge into the river of passengers heading for the baggage claim. “Just got off,” I say. My neck cracks as I roll it from side to side. “Trying to remember when I even texted you.”
“You look like hell,” she says, squinting at the screen as she takes a sip from her mug.
“Gee, thanks.” I run my fingers through my hair, attempting to smooth out my bedhead. Apparently, three cups of bitter airplane coffee hasn’t done much to fix my disheveled appearance. Migraine. Stress. Anxiety. Guilt. I tick them off like a doctor listing symptoms. Gotta say… it’s not looking good for me.
I fall into pace with the slow tide of passengers, holding the phone at an angle where I can pretend I’m still engaged. Teya’s voice drifts on in a long, drawn-out story about something—a neighbor, maybe? Or dog? I can’t keep track. I give her soft hums, the occasional “mm-hmm,” enough to prove I’m still here.
The hallway bends to the left, and I follow the curve automatically until the crowd thins, and I see the wall of glass overlooking the runway.
And stop dead in my tracks.
Gabriel.
