by Alexis James
“Hey, sister,” I say in greeting, muting the TV and pulling the blanket up higher. “You’re up early this morning.”
“Uh, yeah.”
Immediately I can tell by her tone that something isn’t right. “What’s the matter? Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. I just … I thought you should know … damn.” She takes a breath and lowers her voice, the barely-there whisper sending chills of fear down my spine. “I probably shouldn’t have called, but I couldn’t not tell you.”
My stomach flips upside down and settles somewhere in my throat. “Is it Marco?”
“No, no, it’s not Marco. It’s Papa. He’s back in the hospital.”
Shoving the blanket aside, I move swiftly upstairs and head directly to the closet, pulling clothes off the hangers and tossing them down onto the unmade bed. “What happened?”
“They’re not sure yet. He was having trouble breathing so Camilla called 911.”
“I’m on my way.”
“Ah, sissy, you don’t have to come. I know how difficult it will be for you to see him.”
For the first time in weeks, there’s no uncertainty, no nerves, only a purposeful knowledge of what I have to do. “That’s not important now. You are my family.”
“I appreciate that.” She rattles off information about where they are then, “I love you.”
“I love you too. See you soon.”
Tossing the phone aside, I pull on jeans and a green tee with ‘I don’t wanna taco about it’ in bold, black print, a grumpy-faced taco splashed across my boobs. Mia gave it to me years ago, back when we were both poor college students. It’s been my favorite ever since, and something that makes me smile each and every time I pull it on. I throw my hair up into a messy bun, scrub my face and teeth, and slide my feet into sandals then locate my purse and toss my phone into it.
I’m out the door five minutes later, moving with a purpose down the stairs. It takes two tries to get the car started, and then I’m on my way toward the hospital. I refuse to consider how weird it will be for me and Marco. This isn’t about us or what we once were. It isn’t about how much pain I now carry that he alone caused, and it isn’t about the future we no longer have. This is about a family, his family, and by extension mine as well. Although, I’m not so stupid to believe that this will change anything for any of us. The Morans are now nothing more than my best friend’s new family.
I park as close to the entrance as possible then sling my bag over my shoulder and move quickly toward the sliding doors that lead to the emergency room. Taking Mia’s directions, I head down the hall, take a few turns, and suddenly I’m standing outside a private waiting room—a perk of being a Moran, I suppose.
Inching the door open, I glance around and see all the people that I briefly used to call mine. Cruz is seated with Sophia and Camilla, talking softly and patting his mother’s hand. They each send me a tight smile as I move into the room. Roman is with Isabella and shoots me a wary lift of his lips before turning his attention back to his sister.
Mia is standing at the window with Marco and by his stance, I can see that he’s barely holding his shit together. The moment she sees me, relief slides over her features and she moves toward me, pulling me in for a hug and whispering, “Thank you for coming.”
I squeeze her back but my attention is on the dark-haired man at the window. Head bowed, hands shoved deep into his pockets, he looks broken. My heart tightens painfully, the constant reminder of the ache that is still so fresh. Being here with him during this difficult time may bring him a brief reprieve, but I have no doubt that it puts me right back to square one—to the empty, lost feeling I had when he first walked away.
“Any news?”
She shakes her head. “Still running tests.”
I nod and slowly release my hold her. With a deep breath for strength, I move across the room and step up next to him, mimicking his stance. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch his head turn slightly to look at me and though I can’t see the expression on his face, I can hear the gasp of surprise then the long drawn-out breath he releases.
“Hey, sweet cheeks,” he says.
It’s all I can do not to smile at his greeting, the same one we used time and time again. “Hey, hot stuff. How’re you holding up?”
He shrugs. “Just barely.”
I give him a sideways glance. “Anything I can do for you?”
“No thanks. I appreciate you being here though.”
I’d love to tell him that I can’t imagine being anywhere else, but that steps over into unchartered territory we don’t dare cross again. “You bet.”
The simple things like standing next to him and breathing the same air do wild things to my heart, and to my head. Who would have thought that I’d be so damn happy just to be in the same room with him, this man who ripped my heart out of my chest and stomped all over it. The relief I feel just being in his space says a lot about how desperate I’ve become. It also says a whole lot more about how deep my feelings for him run. Feelings he doesn’t return, I remind myself.
The door behind us opens and suddenly there’s a flurry of activity. Marco and I turn to see a gray-haired doctor holding Camilla’s hand in his reassuringly. “Okay, folks, we have a few test results back and here’s what we’ve got.”
Without thinking, I reach over and take Marco’s hand in mine. He tightens his fingers and together we take a step forward to listen to the doctor. Most of what he says sounds foreign to me, something about a chest x-ray and fluid. I weigh it all by the tenseness of the man standing next to me and the relief that slides over him when the doctor assures everyone that this is not heart related, but rather a case of pneumonia that was caught early.
I have no clue how bad that can be, but I take my lead from the doctor and refuse to believe the news is anything more than reassuring. When he finally takes his leave, there’s a flurry of conversation—some in English, most in Spanish—and yet the man holding tightly to my hand says nothing, does nothing.
I glance up at his face to find him shell shocked, white faced and on the verge of collapse. He looks exhausted, worn out, and ragged. As I push him into the nearest chair and sit down next to him, I lean close and whisper, “Are you all right?”
He scrubs a hand over his face. “I … I … don’t … know.”
“Hey, look at me.” It takes him a moment to either comprehend my words or find the strength to comply, but finally he turns lifeless blue-green eyes on mine and in them I see a wealth of emotion: relief, sorrow, gratitude, and fear. “Your dad is going to be okay. He just needs some time to heal.”
“I thought … God, the things I thought …”
Restraint aside, I cup his cheek in my palm and lean close. “I know.”
His forehead comes down onto mine, and he whispers, “I can’t believe you’re here.”
Emotions wash to the surface and it takes a monumental effort not to burst into tears. “You’re my friend. I wouldn’t be anywhere else.”
Maybe that’s a slight distortion of the truth, but I have to believe that underneath all the hurt and anger there are still threads of friendship between us. At one time he was the main person in my life, the one man I could rely on for a good laugh, a hearty conversation. At one time he was my partner in crime, my co-lover of R & B music, and fellow naughty dancer. Before emotions got involved and sex was brought into the mix, he was my buddy, my best friend.
Reaching forward, he pulls me against his chest and holds me tight. I listen to our hearts beating in sync, feel the warmth of his body against mine, and remind myself that this is nothing more than one friend lending support to another. In a few days’ time I’ll be back to bellowing out Phantom songs, and he’ll go back to whatever he’s been doing in the weeks since we split.
My eyes meet Mia’s from across the room. I can tell by the look on her face and the hesitation in her eyes that she’s worried about me … about us … about diving headlong, once again, into the dis
aster that was our relationship. I suppose she’s right to be concerned. I know I am. As impulsive as I was in making the decision to come here, I never expected to be in his arms again, holding his hand, or exchanging whispered words with our lips mere inches apart. I certainly never expected to feel more for him than I did when he was mine.
When he releases me to get up and speak to his mom, I’m weary with the rush of emotions that continue to wash over me. Staying strong will get me through this day. Keeping a level head about it all is the wisest decision, even though that small voice inside of me says there’s always the potential for second chances. Then I recall my almost obsessive job hunt over the past few days, the numerous interview requests I’ve yet to confirm, and the driving need to escape that took me in that direction in the first place. That is all reason enough to take a breath and put all of this into perspective. Right now Marco is upset, sick with worry, and not at all in the same mindset he was in on the day he walked out of my life. Once his dad is feeling better, things will go right back to how they were: each of us avoiding one another and our lives moving in separate directions. The true reality is that this is nothing more than a brief reprieve from the heartache. Nothing more.
Marco returns to my side a few minutes later, holding out a hand to me. “I’m going to get coffee for everyone. Want to come with?”
Nodding, I take his hand and let him pull me through the room and out into the hall, where I immediately release my grip and shove my hands into my pockets. He gives me a brief, perplexed look then shrugs it off. We’re silent as we head upstairs to the cafeteria, silent as we fill cups, adding sugar and milk to a few. He pays for our purchases, shooting the cashier a spine-tingling smile, and then we head back to the bank of elevators with our trays of drinks.
It’s weird and awkward, being next to him and saying nothing. We were never at a loss for words before, but I suppose this change is to be expected. After all, we are now strangers. We live separate lives, no longer having anything to do with one another. If it weren’t for this situation we find ourselves in now, I’d be sitting at home moping and he’d be out doing whatever it is he does.
“How’ve you been?” he asks as we wait for the elevator to arrive, glancing down at my taco shirt with a somewhat bemused expression.
I shrug. “I’ve been okay. Busy. You?”
He stares at the numbers above the doors, like he’s purposefully wishing they’d ascend quicker. “Fine. Busy.”
The elevator arrives with a loud ding, and we step back to allow people to get off before stepping inside and pushing the button for the ground floor. Then he’s turning to me, taking a step forward and gently easing me back into the corner, murmuring, “You’re not fine, babe, not any more than I am.”
My heart pitter-patters furiously inside my chest as I hold the tray of cups between our bodies, shielding myself as best as I can. “No, I’m not.”
Bending over, he whispers, “I’ve missed you.” With a brief tip of his head, his mouth descends over mine—a soft, sweet touch I feel like wildfire over my entire body. His kiss is everything I’ve longed for, everything I’ve dreamed about, everything I’ve ever shed a tear over. It’s filled with longing and need and apology, and although it’s short-lived, it’s a kiss that speaks louder to me than any words ever could.
Marco takes a step back, leaning against the wall and staring at the tray of cups in his hand. “Fuck, I’m sorry. That was way out of line.”
Speechless, I offer up a shrug and avert my eyes. Thankfully we arrive at our destination on the ground floor in no time. The doors slide open and people rush in, and all of a sudden I have this great urge to scream. To yell and throw things and cry about how unfair life is. Why does he think it’s okay to kiss me now, today of all days?
What the hell was that? Pity sex, without the actual sex? Is that it, is he feeling sorry for me? Poor Amita, look at how sad she is, let me fix that with my oh-so-sexy lips.
Robotically, I follow him down the hall, around the corners and back into the private waiting room. I hand off coffee cups like the perfect little hostess, toss the tray in the trash, and quickly take the empty seat between Roman and Cruz to give myself a moment to breathe without Marco looming over me. He shoots me a confused look when he sits down across from us, but I ignore him as best as I can and let Roman pull me into a conversation.
Wow, he’s pretty gorgeous too, I think as he grins at me and talks about the job he’s currently working on. He’s missing the pretty blue-green eyes that I’ve become addicted to in such a very short period of time, but he has the same cocky smile that Marco wears and the same smooth intensity of big brother Cruz—minus the invisible tether I feel every time I get within inches of Marco, the tingling awareness that covers my entire body whenever he and I are in the same room. It does make me wonder if I’ll ever have the capacity to be drawn so completely to another man. The immediate answer that comes to mind is no.
Roman smirks at me. “So, I hear that you’re back with the ex, huh?”
My stomach vaults and my eyes shoot to Marco’s. He’s either really good at ignoring me or he’s simply not affected at all by Roman’s accusation. I have no idea why he’d have the impression of me that he does, but I use it to my full advantage. Smiling at Roman, I shrug. “Maybe, maybe not. What’s it to ya?”
Roman chuckles, but sobers quickly when Marco shoots him a dark look. “Just curious is all.”
“And how about you, Romeo, who is the new lady of the week?”
He pretends to be embarrassed, pulling off that “aw, shucks” routine so well it appears to be perfected. “Her name is Elaine.”
I clap my hands together eagerly. “Oh, do tell.”
While he yammers on about his new love, I glance casually at Marco sitting across from us, brooding. I wish I could crawl inside his head and hear what he’s thinking, though his current demeanor very clearly shows his irritation with me and his little brother. Mia plops down next to him, pats his knee, and attempts to pull him into conversation with no luck. He has the gall to shove her hand away and fold his arms defensively.
What the hell? Really? He gets to sit here all pissed off because of what … because I may or may not have kissed him just a few moments ago? Because I may or may not be back with Vic? Or maybe it’s because I’m talking with Roman, and sure, maybe I’m flirting just a teensy bit, but still … The nerve of that man!
A nurse appears in the doorway, indicating that Papa Moran is stable enough for visitors. Cruz and Camilla rise and follow the nurse out of the room and the minute they’re gone the tension rises to the boiling point. I notice that even easy-going Roman can sense the change. His fingers gently clamp down on my forearm, like he’s trying to restrain me somehow from unleashing my wrath onto his brother. Little does he know that no amount of hand holding will keep me from saying what needs to be said.
“What the hell is your problem?” I snap, glaring at Marco as I get to my feet.
“Amita …” Roman warns.
I tug my arm out of his grasp. “Back off, Roman.” Turning my attention to the seething Spaniard slowly getting to his feet to face off with me, I hesitate briefly. Taking him on, today of all days, is not my smartest idea, but we’re both itching for a fight—a fight spurred on by the hugging and hand holding, the brief but life-altering kiss in the elevator.
“What the hell is your problem?” I repeat.
“Not here,” he growls, glancing at our audience.
“Why not?” I dare, stepping forward. “Don’t you want them to hear about what a jerk you’ve been to me or how you’re acting like a jealous fool when you have no right?”
Grasping my arm, he tugs me out of the room and down the hall, pulling me into a tiny supply closet and locking the door behind us. Then he’s turning, shoving me into the wall, looming above me with a hard, dark glare.
“I have been a dick to you. Don’t you think I know that?” He takes another step closer, aligning our bodies so clos
ely that I can feel the heat from his skin. “I’m acting like a jealous fool because that’s exactly what I am.” Tipping his head down, he speaks into my ear, the feel of his breath on my skin causing goose bumps to appear all over my entire body. “Are you back together with him?”
“Why do you even care? You left. You walked away. Remember?”
His hand slides up, grasping my neck. “How could I forget? My decision haunts me every single day.” Huh? What? What the hell is this? Mind-fuck Amita day? “Please tell me. Are you back with Vic? If you are, I’ll step away and leave you alone.”
“And if I’m not, what then?”
He inhales through gritted teeth, blue-green eyes rolling over me as he takes one more step closer and our bodies mesh together a little too easily. “If you’re not, then I’m going to do everything in my power to make you understand why I fucked things up.” His lips trace a path over my cheek. “I want a second chance, babe.”
Shoving at his chest, I scoot out from his embrace, hand on the doorknob. “You can’t say stuff like that to me. Not here. Not now.”
He leans against the wall, arms pulled tight across his chest. “Why not?”
“B-because … um … b-because …” We both know I have no retaliation.
“Because the idea of us trying again scares you?” I shrug, hesitate, then nod. “And because you don’t trust me anymore?” Shrugging again, I look over this man who has taken my life and made it his. I may not trust him with my heart, but I sure as hell trust him with my life. “That’s okay. I know I’ve gotta earn that back. I’m a patient man. I’ll wait.”
“I … I … c-c-can’t … I … I d-don’t …”
Marco grins, melting me with that cocky smile. “You’re having a bit of trouble speaking, sweet cheeks. Anything I can do for you?”
“What? No!” Turning, I twist the knob and take off down the hall, tossing open the waiting room door and searching wildly for my best friend. “Where’s Mia?”