She laughs. “Oh yes. Somehow more than I do here. I’m tied to my desk at the De Vere offices. A little worker bee…” She shudders.
“Do you like it?”
She squeezes her eyes shut, then scrunches her nose.
“No,” she says on an exhale. Then she opens her eyes and laughs.“Shit.”
Nothing like a forced revelation. I’m almost tempted to apologize.
Her green eyes slice over to me. “I don’t like it at all.”
I feel for her in that moment. I almost reach out to stroke her cheek. Instead, I curl my hands into fists.
“Gotta be better than serving drinks in a nightclub,” I suggest, trying to be helpful.
Isabel offers up a sad smile. “Actually? You’d be surprised.”
Right. I know burnout when I see it. I imagine the last few years have been tough for her; grief is so exhausting.
“There are expectations,” she begins. “I’m supposed to takeover the family business once my dad retires. I’ve worked really hard to learn the ins and outs, and I thought I was doing everything right, but…”
Her sentence hangs while she worries her bottom lip between her teeth. I know what that pressure feels like. Before everything crumbled with my father’s company, I was in her same shoes: the only child being groomed to continue a family’s legacy. It’s a heavy burden, especially if you don’t want it.
“I guess things changed after Winnie died,” she notes absently. “I don’t want the same things I used to want. I hadn’t actually realized that until you just asked.”
“I’m sorry.”
She’s wearing a brave face when she looks at me, resolve fixed in place. “Oh well. What are you going to do, right? There are worse fates than being born into a pampered life. I don’t feel bad for myself. I’ll get over this and get Ibiza out of my system and go home. Things will probably settle once I’m back in California in my old life.”
Fuck. I don’t want to think about her leaving.
She cocks her chin and points to the journal I’m still holding. “And until then, I’m going to finish everything on that list.”
“As Winnie’s proxy.”
“Exactly.”
“So Winnie was supposed to have ‘wild sex’…” My eyes pin her in place, one eyebrow rising with my next question. “But nowyouhave to?”
She’s trying so hard to keep up the appearance of general indifference, but color still floods her cheeks. “Yes.”
“You’re certain?”
It feels like I owe it to my abuela to at least attempt to talk her out of it, but that’s all the Boy Scout I have in me, that one question. When she nods emphatically, I shrug.
Okay. So simple. Yet her arms are trembling, her feet are bouncing nervously.
“With who?”
Without a moment’s hesitation, she makes like she’s going to get out of the car. “Not sure. Maybe I’ll find a willing guy during my next shift—”
“Withwho?” My tone leaves no room for doubt: I want the truth.
She stills and turns back, her green eyes threatening to flay me alive.“You.”
The word is a dart flung at my chest; it hits me square in the heart. Now I know for certain that every feeling warring inside me is warring inside her, and the realization is terrifying. This pining is a shared torture, which means the responsibility to act wisely falls solely on me. Too bad I’m not in the mood.
“You want my help completing your list? You’ll have to do better than that.”
