Page 37 of Out of Control

“So you’re going to try and be She-Ra and handle all things Navarro as the constant peacemaker, the referee, and the publicist, all while trying to set up a gallery to open . . . when again?”

“By artmonte-carlo.”

She barks out a good-natured laugh. “So you’re shooting for the stars after jumping off a cliff. Sounds about perfectly Sofia Navarro to me.”

“Doesn’t it?” I chuckle and love that I have a friend who knows me well enough to know I needed to do this.

“It does.” She sighs. “And I’m going to wish you amazingly well from my perch across the Atlantic and expect many texts about updates and an invitation to its opening.”

“Sounds like a plan.”

“What are you going to name the gallery?”

I twist my lips. “You’d think that’s something I’d already have figured out with as long as I’ve been thinking about this . . . but I don’t.”

“That’s okay. You have time.” She chuckles. “Well, not too much time, but you know what I mean.”

“Funny.”

“Hey, Sof? I’m proud of you and I know your family is going to love what you’ll end up doing with it almost as much as you will.”

A lump forms in my throat. “Thanks, Lil.”

“Anytime. You know I’ve got your back.”

The call disconnects and I’m left in the silence of this vast space. Its floors are a gorgeous tumbled stone. Its walls are a soft ivory with lights mounted just off the wall to shine on whatever I’ll be hanging there. The glass wall of windows at its front is vast and allows all the light in the world to come in along with the breeze off the ocean.

It’s perfect, but I’ve known that since I first walked past it over a year ago. How was I to know the spot would become available? How was I to know that the timing would work with my courage?

“You have one night, Sof,” I mutter to myself. Of panic. To be wishy-washy. To wonder what the fuck you’ve done. And then after that? Tomorrow? You need to get your shit together, lean into the fact that yes, you’re a motherfucking Navarro, and get this done with the confidence you’re letting the uncertainty smother.

It’s normal to freak-out.

But if you’re going to rebel, then you need to fucking do it to perfection.

I rise from my seat and move to the table. I have the cork popped and the champagne poured in a flute in a matter of seconds.

“Cheers, Sof. To something that’s finally yours.” Tears well as I take my first sip but they’re because I’m excited. Because I’m proud. Because I’m terrified.

And then I do what I’ve always done my whole life. The only thing my family has ever known, I turn on the broadcast of the race on my phone to check in.

I watch the two Gravitas cars dueling for position. I look at the ever-changing leaderboard and see my last name. See Rossi’s. And feel conflicted.

Over what I know is expected of me.

And what I know I think should be expected of me.

What about what you’re willing to allow yourself? What about what you deserve?

Call this the first step in my rebellion.

Call this reclaiming a little piece of me.

As I lift the glass of champagne to my lips and watch the cars zoom around the track, I can’t help but like how this feels.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Rossi