Saving Cruz (The Moran Family)

by Alexis James

  “You look like crap,” he growls, earning him a stern look from his wife.

  “We were just watching some videos of when you kids were young. I found them when I was cleaning out the closet earlier. ” She gives me a wistful look. “I can’t believe how fast time goes by.”

  On the screen I see myself as a young man, maybe seventeen or eighteen, throwing the football around with my younger siblings and some friends from the neighborhood. Sophia, as usual, is darting from person to person, complaining that she never gets the ball. Roman, the little shit, keeps shoving her down and blaming it on Marco. On the sidelines are Isabella … and Dani.

  My stomach jolts painfully as I watch the camera zero in on her, cheering at the game, then running over to me and jumping into my arms. We were so young then, so free to simply be ourselves. A deep wave of melancholy brings tears to my eyes. I see myself hug her tightly, and when she wraps her legs around my waist, we share a nose rub and a brief kiss.

  That person on the screen, the smiling, happy, free man I once was is a stranger to me. It makes me realize how very much I’ve changed. Sure, I’m taller now, more filled out than the scrawny kid on film, but I can’t remember smiling that broadly since … well, since back then. Dani and my child may have died years ago, but in reality so did I. This person I am now is a creation of desperation, guilt, and more grief than any eighteen-year-old kid should ever have to live with. This cold, hard, unfeeling man I am now is an insult to her memory and to the memory of the person I was way back then.

  Turning on my heel, I stalk down the hallway, through the den and out onto the deck. I continue walking, down the stone pavers and out onto the dock where Papa keeps his boat, until I can finally breathe again and I don’t feel like I’m being strangled by memories.

  I have no idea how long I stand there—could be minutes, could be hours—but eventually I hear footsteps behind me and Mama’s soft voice asking, “Are you all right, Niño?”

  “I just need a minute, Mama.”

  “I’m sorry you had to see that. I did not realize Daniella was on that video.”

  Offering her a shrug, I reply, “Don’t apologize. This is my issue, not yours.”

  Her arms slide around my waist, and she rests her head against my back. “You used to be so happy. I miss that person.”

  “So do I,” I say softly, my voice cracking with emotion.

  She’s silent for a few long moments, keeping her hold on me the entire time. When she finally speaks, it’s with equal parts resolution and love. “You need to let her go, my son. It’s time for you to be happy again.”

  Letting go is really not the problem, I think to myself as I grasp her small hands in mine. I was forced to let go of Dani years ago. The problem is, in doing so I allowed the guilt to engulf me and now it’s so much a part of my life I can’t imagine not feeling it. I own that guilt, I deserve to carry the weight of it, and to be reminded every single day that I was responsible for her death and for the death of our child.

  “I’ve invited Mia to join us tonight,” she states, releasing me from her hold and stepping up next to me.

  And the hits keep on coming. “Why?”

  She smiles up at me. “Because Papa and I want to thank her for all she’s done for us.” Her grin widens. “And because I think she’s good for you.”

  I throw her an eye roll. “She’s my assistant, Mama. You need to remember that.” Biting back a curse, I grumble, “It’s not right for her to be here.”

  She prattles off her irritation with me in quick-fire Spanish then spins on her heel and stomps back into the house. Feeling dressed down by my own mother, as if I was nothing more than a child, I swear under my breath and shove my hands deep into the pockets of my trousers.

  How the fuck am I supposed to carry on a cordial conversation with Mia when she can’t even bring herself to look at me anymore? Are we supposed to simply pretend that things between us are normal? And why the hell would she even agree to this when she has to know I’ll be here and she’ll be forced to make nice even though she hates me?

  It’s becoming clearer and clearer to me each and every day that I’m going to have to let her go—for both our sakes. Of course, knowing Mia, even if I do she’ll remain close with my family, especially Marco. Somehow, someway, she’s managed to insert herself into every part of my life, and no matter where I turn, there she is.

  Maybe I’m the one who needs to think about relocating. But the minute I consider the thought, the next minute I realize how immature that decision would be. If I’ve learned nothing else in the past fifteen years, I’ve learned that you can’t run from what haunts you. It follows you wherever you go. And I have a hunch that like Dani, Mia is going to haunt me for a good, long time.

  Marco glances over at me as he pulls the car to a stop in front of his parents’ house. “You look nervous.”

  No kidding. I’ve been a bundle of nerves ever since Camilla called me the day before and asked me to join the family in a celebration dinner. I fully believe Tom, Papa as he insists I call him, deserves to be celebrated now that he’s home and recovering so well, but the last thing I want to do is spend any more time with the man who clearly hates everything about me.

  I can remember a time when I’d wake up excited to go to work and hopeful about the day ahead. Now when I open my eyes, I get this sick feeling of dread in my stomach that won’t go away until I walk out of the office each night. The hateful tension between us brings me to tears at least once a day, but I will say that I’ve perfected the cold persona Cruz wears so well. I’m sickened that I’ve been reduced to this, and lately I’ve even considered not showing up at all. It’s not like he’d miss me. Hell, he’d probably be relieved.

  “Mia, it’s going to be fine. You’re getting yourself all worked up for nothing.” He pats my hand. “Come on, Mama is really looking forward to seeing you.”

  I glance at my friend and force a smile. “Oh, all right.”

  “That’s my girl,” he replies, stepping out of the car and coming around to help me out. Once again I have to ask myself why I can’t be attracted to him instead of his brother. He’s so kind to me and always keeps me laughing, not to mention that he really seems to enjoy hanging out with me. It’s a nice change from all the girl talk I share with Amita, especially because Marco hardly ever mentions Cruz. He simply allows me to be myself, and if on any given day I happen to be reeling with pain, he’s quick to offer a smile and a shoulder to cry on.

  How is it possible for these brothers to have been raised identically, but for Cruz to be so unlike any of the other members of his family? Granted, I did see a glimpse of the warm, caring man he hides beneath that cool façade, which is why facing him today is so incredibly difficult. Part of me wants to throttle him, beg him to let me in, to let me close like he did for that very, very brief time. But the other part is quick to remind me that Cruz doesn’t let anyone in. He prefers being alone.

  I follow Marco into the large, Spanish-style home, complete with terracotta tile on the floor and brightly colored decorations on each wall. It’s clear that Camilla’s heritage has influenced the entire space, and as I slowly take in each and every item, I’m filled with warmth to see the similarities to my own family home. Granted, the cultures are different, but like my mom, Camilla has made certain that it remains a source of pride and remembrance throughout the entire space.

  Marco greets his mother and Isabella in perfectly-spoken Spanish while I stand there like a dummy and try to pick through the few words that I know. Whatever is being said, Camilla is not happy about it. Her pointed finger and stern expression are easy enough to read without understanding one word. Isabella snickers at their exchange, shares a firm hug with me, and offers me something to drink.

  Camilla shoots her son another stern look and immediately turns toward me with a broad smile, pulling me into her embrace. “Buenas tardes, Mia. We are so happy to have you here.”

  “Thank you, Camilla.” I hand her t
he large bouquet of flowers that I made Marco stop for along the way.

  She hands off the flowers to her daughter then takes me by the hand and pulls me into the large family room, chattering on about some of the mementos passed down from generation to generation, then commenting on one or two pictures. I notice out of the corner of my eye that Cruz is outside on the long dock, just standing at the end by the boat, unmoving and staring off into space. I’m certain he’s not thrilled about me being here today, but at least he made an appearance. I really didn’t expect him to.

  Roman strolls in a few minutes later, pulls me into a hug, and swings me around like he hasn’t seen me in months instead of the few days it’s been. The group gathers back in the kitchen, and while Camilla flits around getting the food ready, I offer to set the table. While I set out brightly colored plates and bowls, pull glasses from the china cabinet, and fold linen napkins, my eyes constantly stray to the lonely, beautiful man who remains lost in his own world. My heart aches when I remember how he was with me that day in my apartment, unguarded, willing to allow me in. We are so far from that now I can’t believe we can ever go back. I need to accept that he’ll never be mine and get on with my life.

  Tears burn my eyes, but I quickly blink them away as Tom walks slowly into the room, aided by his trusty cane. We greet one another warmly, and just as my grandpa would do, he presses his palm against my face and kisses me on the forehead. Now the ache inside my chest feels like it’s doubled in size. If life worked like it does in the movies, this amazing family would be mine. But sadly, real life is nothing like it appears on screen. Real life is messy and painful, and nine times out of ten you never get what you most hope for. Real life, I’m finding out all too well, is about getting by, getting through, and putting on a good front.

  Cruz doesn’t make an appearance until we’re sitting down at the table. He nods a greeting to me and takes the seat to his father’s right—the furthest seat he could take from me, I notice. I shove the pain aside, force a smile, and let Marco lead me into a conversation, all the while watching Cruz out of the corner of my eye. He looks exhausted … battered … like the weight he carries around is suddenly too much to bear anymore. Seeing him this defeated makes me want to pull him into my arms and never let go, except I know that’s the last thing he wants.

  I tip my gaze down and blink furiously, swallowing repeatedly to hold back the sob that is yearning to get out. Marco shoots me a worried look and reaches for my hand under the table, giving it a firm squeeze of support while poor Camilla turns worried eyes to her eldest son. The uneasiness around the table is so heavy you can reach out and gather it in your hands. And for the first time since I walked into that hospital waiting room and they embraced me as one of their own, I suddenly feel like an outcast—like being here is nothing more than a perfectly-crafted lie.

  “Hey, what movie did you guys see?” Roman asks, glancing over at me and Marco. I’m certain this is his way of attempting to ease the tension, but sadly it has the opposite effect.

  Marco must answer him, but I can’t be sure because all I can focus on is the hateful sneer coming my way from the end of the table. I’d say it’s jealousy if I didn’t know better, but a man like Cruz Moran doesn’t get jealous. He’s not invested enough to even warrant the emotion.

  The look gets darker and darker the more Marco continues to talk about the movie we just came from, until I swear I can feel his hatred for me penetrating my skin and breaking the bones underneath. And try as I might, I just can’t stop the tear that spills out and rolls slowly down my face.

  There’s a flurry of activity all of a sudden … the scrape of a chair, a few whispered words in Spanish, and before I can blink Cruz is slamming the front door shut and I’m nothing but a blubbery mess in front of his entire shocked family.

  Camilla gently takes me by the arm and urges me upright, coaxing me through the shuttered doors and out into the warm summer sun. She walks me to a covered lounger that swings back and forth in the breeze, patting my hand in hers and quietly waiting for the tears to dry up.

  “I’m so sorry,” I sob. “I should be the one leaving, not him.”

  “Oh, my dear, please do not cry. You make my heart hurt when you cry like this.”

  It takes a few long moments for me to pull myself together and start to breathe normally again. But when I’m finally able to speak, I’m almost sick with embarrassment over what I allowed to happen. I knew when I agreed to come here that it was a bad idea. Hard to believe I trusted in him enough to think he’d set our issues aside for a day.

  “I should head for home. I have a resignation letter to write.”

  Camilla shakes her head and gives me her best ‘mom’ look. “No letter. You have to talk to him.”

  “He won’t talk to me, Camilla.” My breath stutters and tears threaten again. “He hates me.”

  She pulls me close, wrapping her arm around my shoulders. “Oh, sweet girl, he does not hate you. He hates himself.”

  My heart stutters to a stop. “Why would he hate himself?”

  There’s a long, painful pause. “He believes he deserves it.”

  There is so much more to the story than she’s willing to convey, and in my heart I believe the girl in the picture I found has something to do with it. While I admire his mother for keeping his secrets, being on the receiving end of so much hate leaves me sorely lacking in patience or decorum.

  Sitting upright and swiping at my face, I snap, “Why won’t anyone tell me what’s going on with him?”

  Camilla doesn’t even blink at my snarky tone, pro-mama that she is. “Because it’s his place to tell you, not ours.”

  “He won’t tell me anything!” I bawl. “I really thought we’d been getting closer … and he kissed me … and now he won’t even look at me.” I’m past the point of being embarrassed about what I’m spewing from my mouth. “I don’t deserve to be treated like this.”

  “No, sweetheart, you do not. But you must know that underneath all the hate, lies a man with a very fragile heart. A kind, sweet, caring man. The man I believe you have allowed yourself to love.”

  I turn to face her with tears streaming down my face once again. “That hardly matters now.”

  She shakes her head and shoots me another stern look. “Love always matters, my dear. That is why you are so heartbroken. That is also why my boy shot out of here earlier.”

  I feel like she’s talking in circles, not that it really matters. I adore her, but nothing she says on his behalf will change the fact that the man can’t even look at me without glaring at me.

  If I’m being fair—and really, I don’t feel like being fair to him—I’ve not exactly been trying either. I’ve avoided looking or talking to him, though I’ve done so not because I want to but to protect myself. Clearly that’s backfired right in my face.

  Slumping against the cushion, I whisper, “I don’t know how long I can keep doing this. I … I … care about Cruz … a lot. But I don’t think he’s ever going to feel the same way.”

  Camilla smiles and pats my hand. “Oh, my dear, that’s part of the problem. He does feel the same way and it terrifies him. He hasn’t loved in a very long time.”

  I want so badly to drive to his house, shove my way in and jump into his arms. And if I thought I had a ghost of a chance I’d do it in a heartbeat. But timid, shy, insecure Mia has had more than enough rejection for one lifetime. There’s a time to fight and then there’s a time to cry uncle, wave that white flag, and walk away for good. After all that’s happened today, I’d say my only option is to walk far, far away.

  Unable to face him or anyone else for that matter, I shoot off a text early Monday morning and say I’m sick. It’s not a lie. I am sick … sick of all the hate and tension, sick of all the uncertainty. I’m sick of wanting someone I can’t have, sick to death at myself for being such a weak, desperate female.

  So my answer to this sickness is my favorite cotton pajamas, the fuzzy blanket my mom gave m
e last Valentine’s Day with pink and red hearts all over it, and a big calorie-laden mug of hot chocolate.

  And an entire bag of mini-marshmallows.

  And my favorite movie: An Affair to Remember.

  And of course, some tissues. Lots and lots of tissues.

  I’ve ignored my phone. In fact, it’s stowed away upstairs so I’ll keep my grubby hands from calling him and apologizing. I have nothing to apologize for. Well, not to him anyway. His family … well, no amount of apologies will make up for what happened yesterday, but I did manage to do my best when Marco drove me home. For once he stayed silent, letting me wallow in my own crap, giving me a sorry-you-made such-a-fool-of-yourself smile before driving away and leaving me standing there on the sidewalk crying once again.

  Ugh. I am such a baby. I hate that side of myself more than I hate what Cruz is doing to me. More than I hate the idea of never seeing him again. I’ve got to grow some lady balls, as Amita would so eloquently tell me, and you know what? She’s right. I’ve got to toughen up if I want to keep this job. This once in a lifetime job with killer benefits and amazing take-home pay. Suck it up, she’d tell me, and she’d be right.

  Balls and sucking it up. Got it.

  Really? Because your weepy butt on this couch says otherwise.

  My eyes stray to the screen as the movie begins, and I wonder if we women haven’t been led astray somehow. Real men aren’t like Cary Grant: well-spoken, smooth and kind. Real men are coldhearted jerks, who take what they want and leave you with the crumbs. Real men don’t wait for hours on end at the top floor of the Empire State Building. Real men leave you crying like a fool in front of their entire family.

  Ugh … enough already.

  Slurping down some of the chocolaty wonder, I have to admit that I did this to myself. I could have been a good assistant—yes sir, no sir, right away sir—continued to date Darren—gag—and go on with my life. But no, I chose to have the hots for my boss. Then I chose to believe he felt the same way, when obviously I didn’t even turn him on.