His Perfect Partner

by Priscilla Oliveras

  From behind her, Yaz heard Rosa’s gasp, Lilí’s sob. She longed to turn around, gather them into a group hug and let the tears flow. She was the oldest though, which meant she had to be the strong one, undaunted by life’s challenges.

  “Okay, so this—” She broke off to clear the scratch in her throat.

  Papi sandwiched her hand between his, returning her love squeeze of moments ago. Tears stung her eyes, burned in her nose at his gesture. Even during this terrible, terrible moment for him, he offered his support and strength to her.

  “Okay, so this—” She tried asking her question again, willing away the quaver in her voice. “¿Qué quiere decir?”

  “It means it’s very aggressive,” Dr. Lopez replied. His mouth a grim line, his gaze slowly traveled from Yaz to each of her sisters before he spoke again. “Your father doesn’t have much time.”

  Her sisters moved in closer behind her and Papi, closing the ranks. Lilí’s sobs continued in earnest as she grabbed Papi’s shoulders. Rosa cried quietly, tears streaming down her cheeks, her arms tightly embracing their little sister.

  Suddenly Yaz’s anger kicked in. She clenched her jaw, desperate to rail at someone, something.

  They’d been fighting this damn battle for too long. Papi had fought so freaking hard. None of them were ready to say good-bye. This wasn’t fair.

  The childish rationale cut off her inner argument. Life wasn’t always fair. She’d learned that the hard way in New York.

  Coming home had been for her as much as for Papi. Helping him heal had allowed her to do the same. Still, she wasn’t ready to let go. Wasn’t ready to leave again. Wasn’t ready for him to leave.

  Fear skittered down her spine like a banana spider on a plantain stalk, shimmying her shoulders with a nervous shiver.

  “I did not want to say anything until after the holidays,” Papi said. He turned in his chair to face Yaz and the girls.

  Lilí sank to her knees in between the two chairs. “¿Por qué, Papi? Why? We’re in this together. That’s what you always say.”

  He cupped her face with his hands. “Sí, nena, we are. For as long as we can. But my body is tired. Mi alma”—he put a fist to his chest—“my soul is weary.”

  Yaz swiped at the hot tears cascading down her cheeks, not even sure when they’d started.

  “We can fight this,” Lilí insisted.

  “Sí, Papi, together,” Rosa added softly.

  Papi shook his head slowly. “I cannot do this anymore, nena.”

  “Te podemos ayudar,” Yaz argued.

  “I don’t want you to help me. I want to enjoy being with you, not feel tired and nauseous, or feverish and weak all the time. With little chance the chemotherapy will work. Eso no es vivir.” The desperation on his face was like a knife thrust to her already battered body.

  “That is not living,” Papi repeated. His gaze pierced Yaz, and she sensed his plea for her to back him up. Help him convince her sisters. “This is the right thing to do. Now I can focus on making sure that you girls will be okay.”

  “I’m not going back to school after the holidays.”

  “Me neither,” Lilí chimed in after Rosa.

  “Basta. No hables de tonterías.”

  “We’re not talking foolishness!” Rosa objected, her raised voice and uncharacteristic back talk to Papi shocking Yaz. “I want to be here with you.”

  “I agree with Rosa,” Lilí said, “I think we shouldn’t—”

  “¡Silencio!”

  All three girls jumped at Papi’s outburst. He rarely raised his voice at them. When he did, they knew better than to keep pushing.

  “I refuse to spend the final months of my life with you nenas hovering around, putting your lives on hold, waiting for me to die!” Papi pushed himself to his feet.

  He stood proud before them, shoulders back, his expression unyielding. The tiny tremble in his chin was the only sign of his inner turmoil. Yaz swore she felt his anguish to the marrow of her bones.

  “Papi, por favor, take it easy,” she begged, worried he might be getting too upset. “We can discuss this at home, okay?”

  “There is nothing more to talk about.” His no-nonsense attitude had her morphing back to her junior year of high school when he’d grounded her for a month for taking the train into Chicago without permission. No amount of her pleading had made him budge then either. “Yazmine, you have your own life to live. And you have already given up enough of your career for me. I will not put us through months of chemotherapy when it would be pointless. And Rosa, te falta un solo semestre.”

  He held up a finger to make his point. “Only one semester! If you do not graduate, the Queen of Peace Academy will not hold the job for you. Lilí, you cannot”—he slashed a hand through the air like a machete cutting off any arguments at their roots—“put your scholarship in jeopardy. ¡No lo permito! Do you hear me? I will not permit it!”

  He staggered back a step.

  “Papi!” Yaz and her sisters lunged forward to grab him.

  “Estoy bien,” he muttered, leaning on Dr. Lopez’s desk for support.

  “Okay, okay, we get it.” Yaz’s fear for his well-being drove her to say whatever would calm him. “We won’t talk about this anymore. Right, girls?”

  She turned to her sisters. Rosa’s pale face was tear-streaked, her eyes dark pools of worry. Lilí ducked her head and snagged a tissue from a box nearby. Neither said a word.

  “We’ll do whatever you want, just, por favor, Papi, cálmate.”

  “Yazmine’s right, Rey, you need to calm down. This anxiety and stress is not good for you.”

  Yaz gave the doctor a look of thanks, praying Papi would at least listen to him.

  Papi sank down onto the edge of the desk with a heavy sigh. Shoulders sagging, he dropped his head to his chest, the picture of a man accepting defeat.

  Yaz pressed a fist to her mouth, trying to push back the sob building in her chest.

  When Papi finally spoke, his tone was measured, his words eerily steady. “We have the entire winter break to be together. Once school starts, you girls may come home on the weekends, if it will not compromise your grades. But I cannot—” He looked up at them, a sadness so profound pinching his features, Yaz shuddered with pain. “I will not go to your mother with the guilt of having stopped you girls from achieving all you have worked so hard to achieve. ¿Entienden?”

  The ostrich egg–sized lump in her throat kept Yaz from speaking, so she nodded her understanding.

  Her sisters, eyes downcast in shame, followed suit.

  “Now, tonight is Yazmine’s Christmas recital. It should be a happy occasion, the same way it has been every year before. You promise me this one will be no different.”

  * * *

  Tomás peered around the stage curtain at the standing-room-only audience, his palms sweaty with nerves. He swiped a hand over his clammy brow, then rubbed the moisture on his tuxedo pants.

  Damn, all these weeks of practicing, not once had he given serious thought to the idea that he’d actually be standing on a huge stage, white lights glaring down on him like supercharged sunlamps, his limited dance skills on display for all the world to critique.

  “Are you excited or what?”

  Tomás turned to gape at the burly dad standing next to him. His beer belly protruding over his cummerbund, his chubby cheeks framing a gregarious grin, the dad fussed with his bow tie while they waited to go on next.

  “Uh, I’ll go with ‘or what.’” Tomás tugged at his shirt collar, feeling like it had somehow managed to shrink since he’d put it on a few minutes ago.

  “Dude, we’re gonna kill it. Katie’s my youngest of three girls so I’ve done this plenty of times, and you caught on pretty quickly after those no-shows. It’s in the bag.” The dad punched him playfully in the arm and Tomás tried to offer him a reassuring smile.

  Obviously he hadn’t done a very convincing job because Yaz sidled up to their group and the dad shook his head, jabbing
his thumb toward Tomás.

  “Looks like we’ve got a spooked one, Ms. Yazmine. You may need to talk him off the ledge.”

  Yaz stepped closer to Tomás, a question drawing her brows together. “What’s up? You look—”

  “Nervous? Petrified?”

  Her mouth spread in the reassuring smile he’d seen her give her students countless times, her eyes crinkling at the corners. She put her hands on his chest and leaned in closer. Her violet scent filled his hyperventilating lungs.

  In a sound-barrier-breaking hot second his situation went from bad to worse.

  Since their sanity-blowing kiss in the snow two days ago, he’d made a point of not getting too close to her. Trying not to ogle the curve of her neck as she tilted her head, listening closely to one of Maria’s stories. Not to notice the way her full lips twitched a millisecond before she laughed. Not to remember how delicious she tasted and how amazingly good their kiss had made him feel.

  Now here she was getting all up close and personal and in his face.

  His hands fisted at his sides.

  This was the opposite of helping.

  “Yazmine—” he ground out.

  “I was going to say you look handsome. Maria will be so proud of you. I am.” She straightened his bow tie, then smoothed her hands down his lapels. That quickly his libido flicked into overdrive.

  His blood surged south and he willed his body to slow down. He was already stressed about the curtain going up, no need to add to his discomfort.

  “You’ll be marvelous,” she continued. “I’m sure of it.”

  “Gracias. I appreciate the pep talk.”

  She stepped back, but Tomás trapped one of her hands with his against his chest. Crazy as it might be, he needed a little more of the reassurance she offered.

  At least that’s what he told himself.

  “In case I don’t get a chance to tell you later,” he said, “your number with the senior class was beautiful.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate you saying so.” She peered up at him, batting her wispy fake eyelashes.

  Man, who knew those things would be a turn-on?

  He did now.

  She was breathtaking, both on stage and off.

  He’d seen her dance at the studio, but watching her come alive on stage tonight had been absolutely astounding. She could have been dancing a solo for all the notice he gave the other girls performing with her. As soon as she moved, all graceful arms and sexy legs, wearing another one of those figure-hugging dresses, this time in red, a wispy skirt flowing around her thighs, he’d only had eyes for her.

  If there’d been any doubt about the level of her talent before, it’d been erased mere seconds into the dance number. Yazmine Fernandez was meant for bigger stages, bigger crowds, and bigger things than Oakton, Illinois, or he could ever offer.

  She was incredible, but the reality had been sobering.

  “Now”—Yaz slid her hand from under his to give his cheek a playful pat—“you go out there and enjoy this special moment with your daughter. Hopefully it’s the first of many. Treasure them. It goes by fast.”

  He started to fire off a smart remark, feeling more confident thanks to her. But then he looked into her eyes, saw a hint of sadness lingering behind the go-get-’em, professional persona she maintained at the studio.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked, grabbing her shoulders to keep her close to him.

  She shook her head and looked away, though not before he saw the shimmer of tears.

  “Yazmine?” He cupped her chin, turning her face back toward him.

  She bit her bottom lip, the white of her teeth glaring against her red lipstick. “I can’t—I can’t talk about it now. I promised Papi that it wouldn’t ruin the evening. But it’s not good. He’s not—”

  The jazz music for the group on stage surged to a climax signaling that the routine neared its end. The father-daughter dance was next.

  Yazmine clasped her hands in front of her chest. Her shoulders rose and fell on a deep breath as she stared out at the stage. When she looked back at him, her gaze was steady and clear. All trace of her personal turmoil wiped away. She was a professional, cognizant that the show must go on.

  The music drew to a close. The dancers curtsied at the applause, then sashayed off to the opposite wings.

  “Time for me to wow the crowd, right?” He winked, hoping she’d gift him with one of her appealing smiles. His anxiety eased when she did.

  Seconds later Maria joined him at their spot onstage, wearing a pink shimmery gown with tiny roses circling the waist. She looked like a little princess, which he knew pleased her immensely. She’d probably sleep in the outfit for the next week. Or try to convince him to let her wear it to school on Monday.

  Out of the corner of his eye he caught sight of Yaz, ready to mime their steps behind the side curtain. Like always, there to lend a helping hand and a measure of support. But who was there for her?

  The music started, grabbing his attention. He concentrated on remembering the moves and not making a fool of himself. Throughout their number there were a few flubs in the routine, none by him, thankfully. From the wings Yaz emphasized her steps so whoever was off could catch on again.

  Before Tomás knew it, he and the dads were bowing to a standing ovation and then hurrying off. Yaz greeted them in the wings with high fives as they moved out of the way for another group to find their places on deck.

  Backstage, the daughters scurried away to the dressing rooms to change and the dads headed to the men’s bathroom in the lobby. Tomás hung back in the hallway, intent on talking to Yaz before she returned to oversee things.

  She was a dynamo, this woman. From their first dress rehearsal, to the pre-show “break a leg” talk earlier this evening, to keeping the dancers organized during the recital . . . not once had he seen her ruffled. Except for that moment right before he’d gone on for their number.

  “Hey!” he called.

  About to grab the stage door handle, she glanced over her shoulder. She arched a brow in a You want something? kinda way.

  Man, there were a million things he wanted from her. None he could have.

  Knowing she was busy, he strode back to her quickly.

  “I told you things would be fine. You were great,” she said.

  “Yeah, well, I have this amazing instructor . . .”

  They shared a grin, him marveling at how astoundingly ready to conquer the world he felt around her. “So are we still on for hot chocolate at your house after the show?”

  “Of course. I had a surprise visitor show up tonight, so he’s coming over, too. He’s a great guy. I want you to meet him.”

  The stage door opened and they stepped to opposite sides of the hall, making room for the group of dancers exiting.

  “Anyway, I should run. Make sure the stage moms have the next groups wrangled and in place. You did fabulous! See you after!”

  “Sure, good lu—break a leg!” he called, but the door was already closing behind her.

  He turned and trudged toward the hall leading to the lobby. Now he couldn’t help wondering who Yazmine’s “surprise guest” might be. And exactly what this “great guy” meant to her.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tomás sat in a dining chair he’d dragged into the Fernandez living room, eyeing the interplay between Yaz and her friend from New York. The life she couldn’t wait to return to. Jealousy tinged his vision.

  “Jeremy is one of the few sane people I know in the City,” she said, clinking her mug of hot chocolate against her friend’s.

  “Probably because I’m not in the entertainment business.”

  The guy’s response earned him a smack on the knee from Yaz.

  Their easy camaraderie tightened a knot of envy in Tomás’s gut. From the moment Yaz had greeted him and Maria in the theatre lobby after the recital, her arm around Jeremy’s waist, Tomás had noticed the light of pleasure shining in her eyes when she looked at the guy.

&nb
sp; There’d also been a young blond woman in the group Tomás had quickly learned was Yaz’s best friend, Cheryl. Her parents were waiting, so she hadn’t stuck around long, though frankly, Tomás had been more concerned with sizing up Jeremy.

  Something about the guy had seemed familiar, but it wasn’t until Yaz mentioned their tie to New York that Tomás remembered the bin of photos Maria and Rey had been going through a couple of weeks ago. Jeremy was the blond IT guy with a football-player build who’d been in several pics with Yaz. One in particular had stuck out. The two of them cozied up together at some fancy event, all smiles and hugs for the camera.

  Tomás really didn’t want to like the guy, but when Jeremy had hunkered down to Maria’s eye level and praised her “awesome dance moves,” Tomás knew he couldn’t fault him.

  If Jeremy Taylor were a schmuck, Rey and the other two girls wouldn’t have welcomed him into their home. Especially not Rey, the ever watchful, vigilant father.

  “I’m glad you made it,” Yaz told Jeremy. “It’s been too long since I’ve had a connection to New York.”

  She leaned back on the sofa, seated next to Rey. Lilí flanked their father on his other side and Rosa had settled on the armrest. Since his arrival, Tomás had noticed that none of the girls strayed far from Rey. He’d also lost track of the number of worried glances furtively sent in the older man’s direction.

  “Yazmine has been working hard at the dance studio, practicing while the little one is in school, to keep up her form and technique,” Rey said. “I don’t want her to lose her skills or any opportunities because of me.”

  “Enough, Papi,” Yaz mumbled. “I’m not losing anything. I chose to come home. I don’t regret it.”

  Rey opened his mouth to respond, but must have decided otherwise because he pressed his lips together instead.

  Yaz laid her head on her father’s shoulder. Lilí followed suit with the other. Rosa leaned forward to finger-comb Rey’s hair lovingly. Surrounded by his girls, Rey relaxed back into the sofa cushions, eyes closed.