Everything was different.
Everything had changed.
And it was all my fault.
“When we forgive ourselves, we set ourselves free,” she says. “Forgive yourself, Cristiano. Forgive yourself, and your entire world will change.”
My mother’s dark eyes soften, and her expression is pained. She hurts too. She hurts for me.
“Stay a while this time, will you?” she asks.
Pulling in a deep breath and letting it go, I regrettably inform her my tickets are booked.
I watch her face fall. “All right then.”
“I’ll come home after that,” I promise. “I’ll make it a regular thing.”
Her mouth inches up at the sides. “I would love that, mio amore.”
Mom rises, shuffling across the faded blue carpet of my childhood bedroom and making her way to the door.
“Mom?” I call out.
She turns to me, smiling, which doesn’t make what I’m about to say any easier.
“I have to tell you something,” I say.
“Of course. What is it?”
“I never finished law school.”
Her smile fades. “What are you talking about, Cristiano? I went to your graduation. I watched you walk. Of course you graduated.”
Shaking my head, I say. “I paid someone I knew to put me on the list. I’d dropped out a year before that. I didn’t want to disappoint you.”
She leans against the frame of the door, her gaze falling to her feet before lifting to meet mine. “You could never disappoint me. If you only knew how proud I am of you. Of all my boys . . .”
“I’m so sorry.”
“But it hurts,” she adds. “It hurts that you didn’t think you could come to me with the truth back then.”
“I wish I could have done it differently. Believe me. I’ve regretted it every single day.”
She pulls in a concentrated breath, tilting her head to the side. “I know you were just trying to protect me. For that, I forgive you. But do not ever lie to your mother again.”
“I promise.” There’s a lightness in my chest, followed by a partial release.
“So tell me, what are you doing these days for work? Who’s footing the bill for all these travels of yours?” She folds her arms, and I find myself speechless. I didn’t prepare for that question.
My jaw slacks as I rack my brain.
“Do not lie to me, Cristiano.” She points a finger at me, her dark brows meeting in the middle.
“I can’t tell you,” I say. “And that’s the truth.”
“Is it illegal, this thing you’re doing?” She squints.
“Not at all.”
“Okay then.” Mom lets her hands fall to her sides. “Tell me when you’re ready.”
“I will.” I neglect to tell her that I’ll probably never be ready to tell her . . .
“Hold on, just a moment.” Mom lifts her pointed finger and disappears, her feet carrying her lightly down the hall. I glance at my computer screen, waiting for the confirmation email with my itinerary to show up, and when I look up, I find my mother standing in the doorway with a paperback book pressed against her chest. The front of the cover is hidden by her wide-spread palm and she takes a step toward me, biting her lip like she’s fighting a smile.
Taking careful steps my way, she stops beside me and hands over the book. The title, THE LUMBERJACK AND THE PRINCESS, is scrawled across the front in bold, red font, right across an image of myself in a red checkered, unbuttoned shirt. My jeans are slung low, so low I’m almost giving it all away, and my bronzed and oiled chest is on full display.
“I told you I was in that romance book club, didn’t I?” she asks, speaking slowly.
“Not that I recall.” Not once in my life have I witnessed my mother reading a romance novel.
Clearing her throat, she says, “Yeah, well, I am. Joined it last year. Anyway, this is the book we’re going to be reading next week. I thought the man on the cover looked familiar, but when I opened it up, I saw the model’s name was Jax Diesel. Had myself a good laugh because, you know, they say everyone has a twin.”
My cheeks burn, white-hot, but I do my best to keep a straight face.
“But then I kept staring at this book cover, and I kept thinking . . . that’s got to be my son,” she says, bringing the image closer to her gaze. “So I went on Google and I looked up this Jax Diesel character, and imagine my surprise when I found a whole slew of his images. He even has a website. It’s very professional. Very classy. Anyway, I clicked around, looked at all the pictures. Some of them were quite, um-”
“Mom,” I stop her. I don’t want to hear any more. “It’s me. I’m Jax Diesel. I model for book covers, and that’s how I’ve been making a living.”
I can’t look at her.
I don’t want to look at her.
It’s going to be a while before I can look her in the eyes after this.
Shit.
Fuck.
She’s quiet. And I don’t blame her. She just finished admitting she browsed hundreds of images of her near-naked grown adult son.
“I’m sorry,” I say.
“For what? For making a career for yourself?” she asks.
I force myself to meet her gaze, though I’m still cringing hard on the inside. I’m half-tempted to add, “At least I’m not making porn . . .” but I bite my tongue. I’d rather end this conversation as soon as humanly possible.
“When are you leaving, mio amore?” she changes the subject, probably sensing my extreme discomfort in regards to this conversation, and places the book gently on my nightstand. I doubt she’ll be reading it now. Would be a little awkward, I’d think.
“Tomorrow.” I stare at the foot of the bed, my body rigid and frozen, like it couldn’t relax even if it wanted to.
“Well, then, you’d better start packing.”
Glancing up at my mother, she tosses me a wink, fights a smile, and shows herself out. I’m glad one of us finds humor in this situation because I sure as hell don’t.
28
Daphne
“Hey, hey,” I tiptoe into Delilah’s hospital room Sunday morning.
“Morning,” she whispers with a smile. Her gaze goes from the baby to me and back again. He’s cradled in her arms, wrapped in a white blanket as he sleeps.
“How was last night? You get any sleep?”
She blows a swift breath past her lips and softly laughs. “Maybe a few hours off and on? He eats like his daddy. Ravenous appetite.”
“Where is everyone?”
“They ran out to get donuts. They were supposed to bring them this morning and they forgot. They got their coffee. Forgot the sustenance.” Delilah rolls her eyes. “Men.”
“Guess what?” I pull up a chair and scoot it closer to her bedside.
“What?”
“I got the job.” I lift my fingers to my mouth, pretending to bite my nails as I grin ear-to-ear.
“What?!” Delilah’s face lights. “Daph, that’s so awesome! I’m so happy for you. When do you start?”
“Soon,” I say. “They’re flying me to Paris this week. I’m going to mentor with some professor for a couple weeks before the semester starts.”
“This week?” She raises a brow. “That’s insane.”
“I know. They had to fill this spot as soon as possible. The professor who called me apologized for the last minute timing,” I say. “I don’t care though. I’m just excited to have a job.”
“So you’re moving to California.” Delilah’s mouth purses.
“Yeah. I’m moving to California.”
“You’re going to be so far away.”
“Just a plane ride,” I assure her. “You guys can visit any time.”
“Did you know Weston’s going to be a free agent?” Delilah catches me off guard with her left-field question.
My face pinches. “No. I didn’t. And I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”
“Supposedly
San Francisco’s got their eye on him,” she says. “At least that’s what his agent says.”
“O . . . kay. What’s your point?”
Her mouth creeps up in one corner and her eyes glint. “I don’t know. If you’re going to be in California and he’s going to be in California . . . maybe . . .”
“Delilah,” I say, voice firm. “Stop forcing Weston on me. And besides, San Francisco is hundreds of miles away from Seaview anyway. Regardless, it’s done. It’s over. Let it go. I have. I never want to be with him again. Believe me when I say that.”
“Okay, fine.” She sits up straight, arms tight around Noah. “All I’m trying to say is that you loved him once, and he still loves you. Maybe it isn’t over?”
“Trust me, it’s over.” I don’t feel the need to explain to her all the reasons I refuse to play second fiddle or attach my heart to someone whose heart is still attached to someone else.
“For the longest time you weren’t over him.” It’s like she refuses to understand what I’m trying to say, and if she weren’t twenty-four-hours post-partum, I’d be a little less diplomatic with her. “Is there someone else? Oh, my god. Don’t tell me it’s the road trip guy.”
Her gaze flicks over my shoulder and her expression makes my blood run cold.
We’re not alone.
Glancing behind me, I see Weston standing in the doorway, a box of donuts in his arms. My dad and Zane flank his sides.
“Oh, hey guys,” Delilah says, pretending like we weren’t just having a conversation about my non-existent future with Weston. “Come on in.”
Weston studies me as he walks in, and he places the box of donuts on a nearby counter.
“Daphne,” he says. “Morning.”
“Good morning.” I force an awkward smile before shooting my sister a look. If Weston heard our conversation, I would feel horrible. Despite the fact that he hurt me, it wasn’t intentional. And I would never want to hurt him intentionally either. He’s a good man. He’s just not the man for me.
“How’s our boy, huh?” Zane makes a goofy face as he hovers over Delilah.
“Shh,” she says. “Don’t wake him.”
Weston takes a seat in the corner of the room, and when I glance through the side of my eye, I catch him watching me. He rakes his hand along his smooth, angled jaw, and his brows are furrowed.
“I’m going to grab a coffee,” I say, standing up. “I’ll be back in a bit.”
When I round the corner outside of Delilah’s room, I bump into my oldest sister, Demi, and Royal.
“Hey,” she says, wrapping her arms around me. “I feel like we keep missing each other. You came last night after we were gone, and when we came back, you were gone. Where you going now?”
“Just grabbing a coffee,” I say. “I’ll be back.”
She studies my face. “Everything okay?”
I chuckle, though it feels as fake as the smile on my face. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t it be?”
She pushes a breath through her nostrils and sizes me up. Demi knows me, and she doesn’t buy this for one second.
“We’ll talk later, okay?” I point toward Delilah’s room. “Everyone’s in there. I’ll be back in a bit.”
Royal squeezes my shoulder as he walks past and makes a funny face. Growing up, he was like an honorary big brother to us. He was my brother Derek’s best friend, and he was over at our house all the time. That’s how he and Demi started dating.
He’s still as obnoxious as the day he first showed up at our doorstep, but I still love him just the same.
Heading toward the hospital coffee shop, I find a place in the long line and peruse the menu. A minute later, I grab my phone to pass the time. There’s a white popup on my screen, telling me my voicemail is ninety-five percent full. Going through my messages, I delete some of the old ones. Most of them are Delilah, giving me pregnancy updates. Some are from my mother. I clear them out one-by-one, and when I get to the message I received this morning from that Ashley girl, I pull in a long, hard breath and hover my thumb above the delete button, holding it in limbo as I decide whether or not to listen to it one last time.
“Next,” the barista calls.
29
Daphne
“You need anything, babe?” Zane rises from the sofa Monday night. It’s the de la Cruz family’s first night at home. Mom, Dad, Demi, Royal, and Derek were here earlier, but they’ve since gone their separate ways.
“Maybe some more water? Pretty please?” Delilah blows Zane a kiss as baby Noah snuggles into her other arm. All this kid does is sleep, but my sister says that’s what newborns do. I’m counting down the days until this kid is old enough to hold a paintbrush or charcoal pencil.
“I’m starving,” Weston says from his chair on the other side of the living room.
“You guys want to order some pizza?” Delilah offers. “My cupboards are pretty bare. Didn’t buy a ton of groceries since we’re going back to Chicago next week. I’m sorry.”
“I can pick some up,” I offer. I still have that damn rental car and I’m paying a pretty penny for it, so I may as well get some more use out of it. Pulling my phone out, I call Giovanni’s Pizzeria and order some pies.
“You’re the best,” Delilah grabs a bottle of water from Zane when he returns. “Daphne’s going to grab some pizza for us.”
Zane sinks into the seat beside his wife, new-father exhaustion written all over his face. “Thanks, D. What would we do without you?”
Rising, I shove my phone in my back pocket. “They’ll be ready in fifteen, so I’m going to head out now.”
“I’ll go with you,” Weston volunteers.
“You don’t have to . . .” I try to stop him, but the look on his face tells me his mind is made up. And he’s only trying to be nice. In an instant, he’s making his way across the baby-gear-littered living room and passing me, placing his hand on the small of my back as he squeezes between myself and a bassinette. I turn to my sister who winks because for the love of God, she won’t give up this idea that the two of us are still meant to be. “Okay. Guess we’ll be back in a bit.”
It’s snowing again. But it’s a pretty snow; a dusting really. Giant snowflakes swirl and dance as I park my car in Giovanni’s parking lot.
“I hope it’s okay that I tagged along,” Weston says as we climb out. He walks around the back of the car, his hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans and his eyes on mine. His cologne travels through the crisp January air, filling my lungs with the scent of clean musk and fresh snow.
“It’s fine,” I assure him. He was just trying to be helpful, and he’s been staying at Zane and Delilah’s the last few days, so I’m sure he was wanting some change of scenery. I can’t blame him for that.
Dropping my keys in my purse, I’m startled when I look up. Weston’s standing less than a foot away from me now. He’s so close, the warmth of his presence radiates into my space.
“Oh, hi.” I say, tittering. I’m not nervous – I’m just uncertain of what he’s about to do. This isn’t him. This isn’t typical Weston behavior.
“Daphne.” He says my name as he releases a held breath, and his eyes lock on mine once again. “Seeing you these last couple of days . . . you have no idea how hard it is . . . I look at you, and I just want to . . .”
His hand reaches for my face, cupping the side of my cheek. Weston licks his lips. I purse mine. Within seconds I feel his mouth graze mine, my heart pounding in my ears.
“Please stop,” I say, pressing my hand against his chest and moving away.
“Daphne.”
Placing my palm over my heart, I say, “I can’t. I can’t be with you.”
“Why not?” His face is twisted in a way I’ve never seen before. My normally calm and collected Weston wears hurt and anguish, his features angled and dark.
“You’re just not who I want to be with anymore.” I deliver my line with as much care and gentleness as I can muster.
“I’m over Elle,” he s
ays. “If that’s what this is about. You were right. I wasn’t over her before. It was too soon. You and I happened so fast, and I hadn’t had time to process anything. You knew I was still in love with Elle before I knew it.”
My chest squeezes, and I glance away. I’ll never forget the look on his face the first time he told me he still loved her. He apologized. Said he wished more than anything that he was over her, but he wasn’t, and he couldn’t go on pretending. This gentle giant held me as I wept in his arms. I wept for him, because he was hurting for me. I wept for myself, because I was so certain Weston was going to be that epic love I’d been waiting for. And I wept for us, because we could’ve been great together.
“It’s not about Elle,” I say, lifting my vision in time to watch his expression fall.
“Then what is it? Is it that road trip guy?” he asks, almost laughing because to him, it probably seems implausible.
“No,” I say. “Not directly.”
“Not directly?” He chuffs. “What does that mean?”
“I realized some things about myself this past week.” Snowflakes land on my lashes and cheeks, melting upon contact. First cool, then warm, then gone. It may as well be a metaphor for my romantic life. “If I want love to find me, I have to stop looking for it.”
He scratches the side of his head, and a lock of sandy blond hair falls in his eyes. “I’m not following.”
“I need to do my own thing for a while,” I say. “I need to live my life, chase my dreams, and focus on making myself happy. I have a really bad habit of falling fast for guys I hardly know. I put the cart before the horse. I get my hopes up. And I get hurt. Every. Single. Time.”
“Daphne, I never meant to hurt you. I told you that. It kills me that I hurt you the way I did,” he says, reaching for my hand. “But if you give me another chance – give us another chance – I promise I’ll never hurt you again.”
He cups my face with his hand, though this time I don’t think he’s going to kiss me. It’s a sweet gesture. Loving. If we didn’t have a history, we could be great friends.
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