My fingers tighten around my phone. Richard. Just his name is a stone in my gut. “Forward them to me,” I say, my voice flat. “I’ll look them over.”
“Of course,” Brenda says. There’s a pause, a beat of silence that’s filled with unspoken questions. “Saramaria... there’s something else.”
I lean back in my chair, the metal legs scraping against the patio stones. “What is it?”
“It’s just... there’s talk,” she says, her voice dropping. “Around the office. That you’re planning on resigning.”
I swallow the lump that forms in my throat. The truth is, I have no idea what I’m doing. What I’m going to do. The thought of going back to that sterile office, of walking the same halls where Richard and Penelope... no. I can’t.
But I can’t admit that to Brenda. I can’t admit that my entire life, the one I so carefully constructed, has imploded in less than a week.
“I’m just working out of office for the month,” I say, the lie tasting like ash. “Handling some family business. I’ll be back.”
“Oh,” Brenda says, and I can hear the relief in her voice. “Okay. Good. We just... we miss you, is all.”
“I miss you guys too,” I say, and it’s not entirely a lie. “Just forward all the work as soon as it’s approved. I’ll be on top of it.”
“Will do,” she says. “Talk soon.”
I end the call, setting my phone face down on the table. My thumb hovers over the screen, tempted, so tempted, to open my messages. To unblock the threads with Penelope and Richard. To see what excuses they’ve crafted, what lies they’re telling themselves.
They swore it was the first time. That it meant nothing. But I’d be stupid to believe that, wouldn’t I? I’d be a fool to go back for more.
With a frustrated sigh, I push the phone away and wave at the barista. “Another coffee, please!” I call out a little too loudly. I gather my phone, heading toward the small, single-stall bathroom marked with a hand-painted sign.
The bathroom is cramped and smells strongly of bleach and lavender air freshener. I do my business, then wash my hands, the water hot against my skin. I look up, meeting my own reflection in the mirror above the sink.
The woman staring back at me is a stranger. Tired. Her eyes, the same green as her father’s, are shadowed with exhaustion. There are fine lines around her mouth that weren’t there a month ago. My hair, usually so perfectly contained in a bun, is starting to frizz.
I should go home. But where is that? The pristine, empty house in Denver? It hasn’t felt like home in a long time. It wasjust a place to store my things, a place to wait for Richard to come home. Now it’s just a place filled with his things, his scent. A place I can’t bear to be.
I should head back to Meadowlark, but what if I run into them again? Knox? Rhett? Boone? Especially Boone. We have so much history, and of all the things I was bracing myself for in this town, he was the last person I expected to run into.
He hates me.
He must hate me.
The thought sends a jolt through me, a confusing mix of anger and something else I don’t want to name.
He has no right to hate me, he doesn’t even know me.
I straighten my shoulders, pulling my professional mask back into place. I am Saramaria Cruz, lawyer. I am in control. I turn off the water and march back out onto the patio, ready to tackle the property tax records with renewed vigor.
Only to find the sequined woman standing at my table, peering at my open laptop.
I stop dead, my brief moment of resolve shattering. I walk up to her, my heels clicking against the stones. “Hello,” I say, my voice tight.
The woman turns, and a huge, genuine smile spreads across her face. “Oh, dear, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t prying, not really. It’s just... you look so familiar. You have her nose.”
I blink, caught off guard. “Her nose?”
“Angelina’s,” she says, and the name hits me like a physical blow. “You look like a woman who used to live here.”
A smile touches my lips, a real one this time. “Angelina? You knew my mom?”
The woman claps her hands together, the sequins on her caftan catching the light. “No fucking way,” she chortles, her laugh loud and uninhibited. “You’re her little girl, aren’t you? Saramaria, as I live and breathe.”
“Yes,” I say, my own smile widening. “I’m sorry, remind me of your name?”
