Saving Cruz (The Moran Family)

by Alexis James

  “I need to go.” Face buried in her neck, I breathe in the intoxicating scent of her exotic perfume.

  “It’s early. Let me at least make you some coffee.”

  “Another time.” Dropping a hard kiss on her lips, I slide out of bed and go in search of my clothes.

  It’s barely light out and while the idea of lingering around in bed with her is incredibly enticing, we both know I need to get into the office. I refrain from asking about her plans with her parents, not because I’m disinterested, but because I fully believe she’ll see a question as a reason to hope.

  Mia tosses the sheet aside and gets to her feet, and for a moment I can only stand there and watch her naked perfection drift around the room, gathering up her clothes, going in search of a robe. Exasperated, I adjust the erection that flares to life and remind myself silently that there’s no time for another round.

  She snickers as she moves toward me, reaching out to fasten the buttons on my shirt. “You could stay.”

  Pulling her body against mine, I growl, “Stop it. You know I want to.”

  Her hips wiggle against mine. “Ah yeah, I can see that you do. Or rather, I can feel that you do.”

  Nuzzling her neck, I help myself to handfuls of her delectable breasts. “You’re a bad, bad girl.”

  She grins up at me and pats my chest. “You’re welcome.”

  With a hard swat on her ass, I disentangle myself from her arms and finish dressing. Then hand in hand, we stroll downstairs, where she quips a good morning to Grant. I shoot her a befuddled look, take my keys, and move toward the door, pulling her close once again.

  “Have fun this weekend.”

  “I will.” Her small, white teeth gnaw on her bottom lip. “Can I call you?”

  “Of course you can. But I’ll understand if you don’t.” My hands grasp her face. “I’ll see you Monday.”

  She blinks rapidly, as if to ward off the tears. “Okay.”

  We share one more slow, lazy kiss and then before she can entice me to change my mind, I say goodbye and step out into the hall.

  And that’s when the pain hits. It hits hard and fast and it’s oddly similar to the pain I feel whenever I think about Dani. It’s centered right in my chest, squeezing my heart uncomfortably, so much so that I’m struggling to breathe as I step into the elevator. An odd sense of foreboding comes over me, and I fear that I’m making a grave mistake by withholding this part of myself from Mia and not allowing us to take this next step.

  By the time I arrive home to shower and change for work, my stomach rolls with nausea. I can’t begin to understand this visceral reaction I’ve had and any attempt to decipher it just leaves me more confused. So I ask myself, what is it I want from this relationship with Mia? Do I want to date her, sleep with her exclusively? Do I want something long term, a future to build toward? Can I imagine her in my life years from now, possibly living with me?

  The answers are swirling wildly in my head and by the time I’m headed back into the city, I know only one thing: I’m as confused about my situation with Mia as I was the first time I held her in my arms. Nothing about us is easy. Not my past, not our work situation, and certainly not the future. My refusal to meet her family draws a fine line between what she hopes will happen between us and what I’m willing to allow to happen. Insisting on keeping that distance will eventually bite me in the ass; I know it without a doubt. Mia is not a fly-by-night girl and while she happily allows me to drift in and out of her bed now, I doubt she’s going to be satisfied with that forever. I sure as hell can’t blame her. She deserves so much more. She deserves someone who is not so afraid to take a step forward but rather someone who leaps off the cliff, arms and eyes wide open, welcoming the freedom fully.

  Her words from Atlanta—words I’ve muddled over hundreds of time—come flowing over me like a wave. “I’m so blessed to have had the years with her that I did. No one can ever take that away from me.” And while I do believe I was blessed to have the years I had with Dani, the years that she’s been hanging over me have been anything but blessed. No one will ever be able to take away from me all she gave me, but I also fully believe no one will truly be able to understand the void that was left when she and our child died. When I let them die. Finding that balance, finding the peace between the past, present, and future, is more difficult than I ever anticipated it would be. Filling that abyss has taken time, a lot of time. And even though Mia has done a good job of satisfying the emptiness, the void sometimes feels destined to remain there forever.

  There’s something about spending time with my parents that immediately makes me feel like a kid again. Maybe it’s the way my dad constantly hugs me close and kisses the top of my head. Or it could be something as simple as the two of them paying for every meal out, every trinket I show interest in when we’re window shopping. Whatever the case, given my current state of inner chaos, I’m thankful to have my very predictable, very loving parents doting on me for a few days.

  I will admit that I miss Cruz and as the hours pass and the chances of him showing up out of the blue to meet my family grow slimmer, I start to doubt everything about him: his supposed ‘care’ for me, his truthful words about his past, and his intentions about where he sees us heading. It’s not like I expect a marriage proposal or anything, but his continued silence throughout the weekend reaffirms what I’ve always believed. He has no intention of fully committing to me. Ever.

  Get a grip, Mia, I chide myself silently. It’s not like he promised he’d show up. In truth, he so much as said he wouldn’t with his “see you Monday” remark. Still, I’m hopeful. And I’ve been hopeful since the moment my parents arrived. I want to believe that he’ll move past his own shit and for a moment trust that our future together is something to build on. I want to believe that he’ll somehow figure out how to put his painful past to rest, to silence those ghosts that linger, the same ones who still occasionally wake him in the middle of the night.

  Pain is a living, breathing entity for Cruz, and while I fully commend him for the strides he’s made in trusting me, trusting us, trusting this, I have my doubts about whether or not he’ll ever be able to fully shed the grief that has lingered so long. The grief is a part of him, a tangible being he’s carried around for so long now it must feel like an old friend. Letting it go may only cause him more pain.

  “What’s bothering you, sweet girl?” my mom asks, threading her fingers through mine. We’re seated out on the balcony having a midafternoon cocktail before we head off to dinner. My dad has chosen to forego the cocktail hour in lieu of a nap on the couch.

  With a shrug I glance down at my too-quiet phone and reply, “Nothing really. Just have a lot on my mind.”

  Her inquisitive brown eyes settle on mine. “A man, perhaps?”

  Swiping my finger across the screen, I quickly pull up one of the images of Cruz and me that was taken in New Orleans. “Yes, this man. The man, actually.” I inhale a shaky breath. “He’s also my boss.”

  She nods but appears unshaken by the news that I’m involved with the man I work for. “He’s very handsome.” She gives me a hard, knowing look. “Is he good to you, Mia? Does he care for you like he should?”

  Tears fill my eyes. “I think he wants to believe he cares for me, but he’s had some things happen in his life. Things that make it difficult for him to love.” Without hesitating, I launch into the story of Cruz’s painful past, his love affair with Dani, the car accident, the baby. I leave out the sex for hire details, because after all she is still my mother.

  By the time I finish my story, I’m openly crying and sputtering through my tale of woe. “I love him, Mom, but I’m afraid he’s never going to feel the same.” Swiping at the tears, I stare out across the neighborhood. “I wanted him to meet you guys. But he said he couldn’t.”

  The understanding in her voice and on her face leaves me to wonder if maybe I’m the only one not seeing the entire picture here. “That’s a big step for someone like him,
Mia. You need to give him some time.”

  “Yeah, I know. That’s what he said too.” Glancing down at our images, I smile. “He’s such a wonderful man, Mom. Equal parts intense and sweet and stubborn and endearing.”

  She sends me a broad grin and squeezes my hand. “I look forward to meeting him someday.”

  “I look forward to that too.” I spend a few moments telling her all about Cruz’s siblings, his parents, and giving her an update on Amita. By the time Dad wakes from his nap, we’re back to laughing together like we always do.

  “Let’s go, girls. This man needs to eat,” my dad says eagerly, rubbing his hands together.

  Mom rolls her eyes. “Eat and sleep. Eat and sleep. That’s all you ever do.”

  He shoots her a wink and playfully pats her butt. “That’s not all.”

  “Man, can you guys refrain?” I give them the token nasty face I know they expect, when in actuality it thrills me to know that my parents, who’ve been married for thirty years, are still incredibly attracted to one another. The adult woman in me is jealous; the only child, slightly grossed out.

  I take them to my favorite restaurant down by the water and while we share an appetizer and have some cocktails, I give my parents the rundown on Cruz’s company and what I do for him. Dad asks a slew of questions; some I answer with a knowledge that makes me proud, others I promise to get the answer. I know secretly that if Cruz were here, he’d enjoy talking about all the inner-workings of his beloved company. He is so very proud of all he’s built.

  During dessert my phone buzzes, signaling a text message, and although I’m anxious to see whether or not it’s him, I refuse to rush around and reply. Sure, I suppose that’s petty, but I’m not feeling particularly charitable toward him at this moment. I miss him, and even though I saw him yesterday morning, the silence between us since then leaves me wondering what to expect next.

  By the time I drop my folks off at their hotel and head for home, I have half a mind to drive out to Key Biscayne and knock on his door. Thankfully, my head is making more sense than my heart, and I turn the car toward my apartment.

  I wait to pull the phone out of my purse until I’m locked inside and seated on the couch. With a shaky breath, I swipe my finger across the glass, noting there are two messages. The first one is from Amita, confirming a time for breakfast in the morning with my parents. The other one is from Cruz, and with a pounding heart, I say a quick prayer and read his message.

  Hope you are having a nice visit with your family. See you Monday.

  Tears spring to my eyes and I stubbornly blink them away. You’d have to be an idiot not to read between those lines. He has no intention of changing his mind, nor does he plan on seeing me until I show up at work. And even though I’m well aware I shouldn’t be hurt, pain settles over me.

  Responding to his message is a waste of time. Although since I did ask if I could text him, I’m not about to play the coward now. So after much pacing and a few trial runs with Grant, I quickly type:

  Very nice visit, thank you. See you then.

  Good job, Mia. Direct. To the point. So why do I feel like I’ve somehow let him down? And like I’ve let myself down just a bit too.

  Like a two year old, I stomp loudly up the stairs to my bedroom, tug my clothes off and slide naked beneath the crisp, cool sheets. Breathing in deeply, I can still smell the faint scent of his cologne on the pillow, still smell us on the sheets themselves. My entire body reacts, warming and tingling all over.

  When I compare what Darren and I used to do to what Cruz and I do now, it’s almost impossible to make a true comparison. I’d rarely, if ever, orgasm with Darren; with Cruz it’s not if … it’s how many. I have to consider that all we have between us is a really intense physical connection. Maybe I have mistaken what I thought of as love as nothing more than a once in a lifetime sexual chemistry. Once in a lifetime for me anyway. I won’t begin to assume it’s the same for him. After all, he did spend the better part of his adult life screwing women who were paid to perform.

  When I think about me and Cruz, I have to believe there’s more to us than just sex. Sure, that part of it is truly amazing—amazing in every sense of the word—but I do believe there are real feelings between us; whatever they are remain a mystery. Could it be that I have no clue what real love is? It’s highly possible, especially since I have no real way to measure what the real thing looks or feels like. I do watch my parents, the way they interact with one another, the subtle looks no one can understand but the two of them, the simple touches that relay words without speaking. To me, that is what real love is, what it should look like and feel like. Granted, if this is real love I feel for Cruz, it’s so very new; chances are the stuff my parents take for granted will develop over time.

  Rolling to my side, I pull the other pillow—his pillow—close to my chest. I wonder if he’s home right now, in bed, thinking of me. Chances are he’s most likely doing anything but that. Chances are he’s out with Marco, having some drinks and talking business. Or he’s at home, working out in that kick-ass room of his. Chances are the last person he’s thinking of is me.

  I’m just nodding off when the phone springs to life, the glow from the screen lighting the dark room. Cruz’s name flashes across the screen and my heart tightens with happiness. Scooting upright, I take a moment to contain my excitement, and swipe my finger across the screen.

  “This is a nice surprise.”

  “I’m sorry to bother you so late.” His voice is curt, to the point, setting the tone for what I fear will be another conversation that will leave me with more questions than answers.

  “No need to apologize. I wasn’t asleep.”

  “I wanted you to know that I won’t be in the office Monday morning. I’ve got to be in Tampa for meetings.”

  Disappointment flows over me. “Oh, okay. When do you leave?”

  “In the morning.”

  So much for hoping he’d want to stop by and maybe stay the night. “Okay. Anything you need me to handle while you’re away?”

  We spend a few moments going over work to-dos. Then the line goes quiet and a weird uneasiness begins to brew in my stomach. Cruz is not a big talker, but there’s a definite coldness in the business-like way he’s treating me. I wish I could say it was unexpected, but since I’ve gotten used to his hot and cold routine, I’m no longer surprised. Now it just irritates me.

  “Is there anything else? I’m pretty tired.”

  “No, that’s all. I’ll touch base with you from the road. See you Tuesday.”

  “Sounds good.”

  I disconnect before I can blurt out something stupid or worse … start to cry. I’m done being weepy over him. I love the man, but at some point I have got to stop being his verbal punching bag. What’s most confusing about all this is a few hours ago, he sent me that text. Not exactly lovey-dovey but not exactly business related either. Then he has the nerve to call here and act like …

  Like what, Mia? Like he’s your boss?

  Swearing loudly into the darkness, I toss his pillow onto the floor and pull my knees to my chest, stomach churning with anxiety. I wish I had the nerve to drive out to his house and demand some answers, demand that he either chooses to be with me or lets me go for good. I’m done being the understanding one, making excuses for his behavior and allowing him to treat me like this simply because he has a painful past. While I’ll never know the extent of his love for Dani, I firmly believe he’s holding onto the grief of what he’s done for far too long. At what point does he stop becoming the anguish-filled boyfriend of the dead girl and start being the bitter martyr?

  I doubt Cruz would ever see himself as a martyr and maybe that’s an unfair label to put on him. He has this deep sense of self-loathing for what he feels he’s done, and for some unknown reason he’s unable to accept what has happened and move on. Sadly, I’m beginning to believe he might never fully move on. I’m going to have to decide if that will be enough for me or if this beauti
ful, heartbroken man is truly unable to love again.

  By the time I arrive at the office Tuesday morning the only conclusion I’ve reached about this situation is that Cruz and I need to sit down and really talk. The few brief exchanges we’ve had in the past few days have been business related only, with the one exception being his brief inquiry as to whether my parents made it home safely on Sunday. I hate to think he simply wants confirmation they are no longer a threat to his solitary life.

  He’s seated behind his desk, bent over a stack of papers and scribbling furiously across them, when I peek my head inside his office. His hair is wildly tousled, like he’s spent too much time running his hands through it, and even from this distance I can see the deep scowl lining his brow.

  “Good morning. Coffee?”

  He doesn’t break stride, doesn’t look at me at all. “No thanks.”

  Don’t take this personally, Mia, the man is busy. “Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “No thanks.”

  I nod, even though I’m fully aware he’s not looking at me. “Buzz me if you need anything.”

  This time he doesn’t even acknowledge my comment. Holding back the anger that washes over me takes considerable strength. I want to scream, cry, yell … do anything to get a reaction from him. But then I have to ask myself, what would I hope to accomplish by doing that? He’s obviously distracted with work and has been for the past few days. Pushing him into a corner now will only piss him off.

  Pulling the door closed, I settle behind my desk and prop my elbows on the desk, thumbs circling my temples. I don’t hear the footsteps as they near my desk, too submersed in my own hell to even notice another person standing in my vicinity.

  “You will never be enough for someone like Cruz.”