He looks beautiful.
I leave him there.
I peel off my wet clothes. Drop them in a pile on the floor. Pull on dry underwear, sweatpants, a soft shirt.
My phone sits on the nightstand.
I pick it up.
Twelve missed calls from my mother.
I sit on the edge of the bed. Take a breath.
And dial.
She answers on the first ring.
"Marina." Her voice is sharp. Worried. "Where have you been? I've been calling for days."
"I know, Mom." I close my eyes. "I'm sorry."
"Are you okay? Your father and I have been worried sick."
"I'm okay." The lie comes easy. Too easy. "Everything's okay."
"You don't sound okay."
I don't answer.
Because she's right.
I don't sound okay.
I'm not okay.
Nothing about this is okay.
"Marina." Her voice softens. "Talk to me."
I want to.
I want to tell her everything.
About Dante. About the Sartoris. About the cartel and the fake funeral and the man I love who just cried in my arms.
But I can't.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.
"I'm just tired," I say. "It's been a long week."
She's quiet for a moment.
"Is this about a man?"
I laugh. Soft. Broken.
