Contusion

by Ofelia Martinez

  “Valentina Almonte, will you do me the honor of being my wife?”

  Thirteen Years Later

  Epilogue

  Thirteen Years Later

  The gym closes early on Sundays—by lunchtime, the place is dead. This is the one day a week I’ll allow Nayeli and Miles to train in the cage. I can focus all my attention on them.

  At ten-years-old, Nayeli towers over her eight-year-old brother. I try not to smile at how cute they are with their child-size gloves as they paw at each other like puppies with little strength. Miles struggles to put on his kid knuckle wraps, and Nayeli groans and protests, but in the end, she always helps him wrap so they can spar.

  She won’t let Miles win, though. I think not until he outgrows her will he have so much as a shot at winning, and even then, I don’t see it happening.

  Miles takes after Rory. He idolizes him and proclaimed years ago he was going to be a doctor just like him. He follows through, too, and spends most of his time hitting the books, ever since Rory told him that’s what it takes.

  For her part, Nayeli has no clue what she wants to do when she grows up, but she is physically gifted. I’ve never hinted at a career in sports—it needs to come from her—but nothing would make me prouder.

  I watch my foster children play on the mat with equal parts hope and dread. Rory and I have petitioned to adopt them, and we are awaiting our court date. I’m sure everything will work out okay, but there’s a little part of me gnawing at my insides with doubt, as if something could go wrong. It’s silly, though. Miles and Nayeli’s biological mom already lost custody. There’s no reason for the judge to rule against the adoption.

  They are my children. Before them, we had temporary foster placements, all children who were successfully reunited with their families, and I hope, doing well now. But the moment Nayeli and Miles came home two years ago, Rory and I looked at each other, and we both knew. I told him, “These are our children,” and all he said was, “I know.”

  “Mom! Mom!” Miles yells. “I tapped out. Make her stop!”

  “Nayeli, you know the rules. If your brother taps out, you have to stop.”

  Nayeli loses her chokehold’s grip around her brother and raises her arms in surrender as she stands. “Sorry,” she whines. “Mom, I really need to fight with someone my own age. The twerp is too weak.”

  “I am not weak!” Miles snaps.

  “Are too.”

  “Am not! You’re bigger. That’s all. Mom! Tell her.”

  “Stop teasing your brother, Nayeli. If you behave, we can look into getting you someone else to train with,” I say.

  I stifle a laugh when Miles sucker-punches his sister when she’s distracted. Serves her right, I think, but I don’t take sides with them.

  The front doorbell rings as it opens, and I walk over to help my next customer. “Play nice, you two,” I call after the brawling siblings.

  The first one to enter the gym is a little boy I know and love. “Tía!” my nephew yells and runs to me. I pick him up into my arms and embrace him as I carry him.

  “What are you doing here, love?”

  Pilar walks into the gym before he has a chance to answer me. “I’m so sorry, Tini,” she says.

  “For what?”

  “For telling me where to find you,” Dad’s voice hits me like a ton of bricks as he enters my gym, the place he swore he’d never set foot in.

  Mom and Dad didn’t show up at my wedding. They sent a gift and claimed they were too busy with business and couldn’t travel at the time. It was all horseshit, of course.

  It was Tom, Rory’s Dad, who walked me down the aisle that day. They’ve been a constant in our lives ever since. He and Lisa moved to Kansas City from Minnesota the minute they heard we would be fostering. They insisted they wanted to be a part of that with us. They are overjoyed at our adoption plans and already love Nayeli and Miles more than anything on this earth, dethroning even Rory from the number one spot. He is now third in their hearts—and okay with it.

  My parents weren’t quite so . . . graceful about it. When I told them over the phone, the roles reversed. Dad stayed quiet for the call, and Mom shouted. She couldn’t believe I would adopt someone else’s children. She yelled again at how stupid I was for not freezing my eggs so I could have a child of my blood. I hung up on them. I haven’t spoken to them since.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask Dad but then look at Pilar.

  Pilar mouths, “I’m sorry,” and I know she had little say in what happened.

  “Can I talk to you, Valentina?” Dad asks.

  “I don’t see what we have to talk about,” I say.

  “Please. It’s important.”

  It’s then I notice the thick legal envelope in his hands. “Here.” I hand Pilar her son, and she takes him over to the mat to play with Nayeli and Miles.

  “We can go into my office,” I say to Dad and lead him there. He takes a seat in front of me. I clasp my hands and lean back in my chair. “Well? What did you want to talk about?”

  “This.” He lets the envelope fall with a thud onto my desk. I take it.

  “What is it?” I say as I empty the contents.

  “Your dowry.”

  “My what?”

  “I am legally obligated to give you your dowry.”

  I scan the paperwork, at least the first couple of pages, and the pieces of paper confirm what he is saying, but nothing explains why I’m getting it now. I’ve been married over a decade.

  “Why now?”

  “Believe me, if it were up to me, you wouldn’t be getting it.”

  “Thanks? I guess . . .”

  “You can thank your great-grandma for that.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t understand.”

  “I never told you girls, for obvious reasons, that there were two pathways to getting the trust fund.”

  “Trust fund?”

  “Yeah. We called it a dowry to ensure you and Pilar made acceptable matches, but marriage wasn’t the only way to get the money. If my grandfather had his way, and I had my way, it would be the only way, but my grandmother felt differently. Most of the family money came from her side of the family, so she had significant control over its destiny.”

  “I don’t understand,” I repeat. None of this makes sense.

  “She felt that a woman could start a good life either in marriage or in business. My grandfather insisted that with the marriage clause, the father had to approve. Grandma only conceded that the clause could be overturned if the recipient of the funds started a business. She felt a woman should have success in either married life or business life and that the funds would ensure that either way.”

  “Oh,” I say, realization hitting me. I opened up my gym this year. Rory and I saved for nearly a decade to start this business. He wanted my dreams to come true as well, and we’ve skimped but have finally gotten here. His salary as a doctor helped loads, and I coached during that time. “My gym,” I say finally.

  “Yes. Your gym made you eligible for the funds.”

  “Dad, we don’t need anything. We’re doing fine.”

  “I know,” he says. “But it’s not about that. Your grandmother protected you and any daughters you have and their daughters. I can’t do anything about it. Legally, she left that to you.”

  “I guess I can finally pay Pilar what’s left of my debt to her,” I say.

  “She won’t care about that.”

  “I know.”

  “Have your lawyers look over the documents. You’ll want to give them account information so that the money can be wired. There’s also preliminary paperwork for your children’s trust funds.”

  “What?”

  “You adopted them, right?”

  “We are in the process.”

  “Well, they’re your children once adopted. That makes them eligible for family trust funds.”

  “Let me guess. Grandma protected an adoption classification for this?”

  “It wa
sn’t grandpa,” Dad says and smiles. “Listen, I’m sorry about how your Mom reacted. She doesn’t understand what you’re doing here. With all this . . .” he trails off and whirls his hand in the air, motioning to the space around us. “I don’t think I fully do either, but I know it’s a good thing. I can’t promise I’ll see them as my grandchildren, but I want to try.”

  “You do?”

  Dad’s shoulders relax, and I see the walls he’s put up between us start to crumble. “I do. You think I could meet them?”

  “They’d love that,” I say. “But not today. I have to speak with Rory first. You understand?”

  “I do. I’m here until Tuesday. I would love to meet them before I leave.”

  “I’m sure I can make that happen.”

  We stand, and for a moment, neither of us knows what to do. I clear my throat and offer him my hand.

  Dad laughs and pushes it away. He takes me into his arms. “I know I don’t understand you. But I do love you.”

  This is probably the first hug he’s offered since I was sick, and the only ‘I love you’ I’ve ever gotten from him that I can remember. I sniffle into his shirt. “Love you too, Dad.”

  Pilar and Dad are gone by the time Rory picks the kids and me up at the gym. Nayeli and Miles run up to him the second they see him.

  “Dad! Dad!” Miles squeals. “I got Nayeli! Just the once. But it counts.”

  “Bet it does, buddy.” He musses Miles’s hair and hunches down to hug him.

  “I was distracted,” says Nayeli.

  “Sure you were,” Rory says, and Nayeli wraps her arms around his middle. “Anybody up for some ice cream? Maybe we can go to the park afterward?”

  Both kids bounce with excitement, and both scream, “Yes!”

  “Let me just lock up,” I say. “Wait in the car.”

  We get our ice cream, then head over to the park. Nayeli and Miles go straight for the playground, and Rory and I sit on a bench where I fill him in on everything that happened that day.

  When I’m done, he says, “Wish I could’ve been there.”

  I’m still dazed as I try to process everything Dad said. “Me too. Well?” I ask. “Are you okay with Dad getting to know the kids?”

  He shifts in his seat and faces me. “Maybe,” he says. “Only if he’s serious. I don’t want to introduce anyone into their lives who doesn’t plan on being there for the long haul.”

  “I don’t think Mom will ever get on board, but I have to say, Dad looked sincere. I get the sense he has some regrets in life.”

  “Let me talk to him. We can go from there. But if he is serious, I have no problem with the kids knowing their other grandpa.”

  I squeeze Rory’s hand. “Thank you,” I say.

  Rory scoots over to wrap an arm around me. He still uses the same aftershave from when we first met, and I take in the comforting smell of sandalwood and suede. My husband hasn’t changed much over the years. He started working out more when I opened the gym to spend time with me, and he has bulked up a little. The hints of wrinkles barely begin to play around his beautiful green eyes, and he is not allowed to shave his beard. He is as handsome as he has ever been.

  And he is a fantastic father. Because he is involved with our local foster care agency, he understands how slim adoption chances get the longer a child stays in the system—that’s why he wants Nayeli and Miles. The older they get, the fewer chances they have to be adopted. They took to calling him Dad fairly quickly, not that it was a contest. It would have been a contest if they’d called me Mom first, but they didn’t. Rory doesn’t let me forget that.

  Our kids didn’t laugh when they first got to us. It broke our hearts. We watch them now when they play, and all the laughter they can’t help but let out, and I know both our hearts are soaring.

  For our part, Rory and I have a wonderful, healthy marriage. We could live our lives afraid of Rory’s heart patch giving out or of my cancer coming back, but instead, each morning we wake up and choose to cherish each other and our time together like the privilege the gift of time is.

  “So,” Rory says, breaking my thoughts. “You’re a millionaire? And so are the kids?”

  I burst out laughing, and he joins me with his own laughter. “Yeah. Guess we are. And so are you, Dr. Dennis.”

  The End

  If you are not ready to let go of the characters in the Heartland Metro Hospital series, join my reader club and get a free steamy romance novella.

  * * *

  In the meantime, are you ready for Sofia’s story?

  Keep reading for the first three chapters of Hiding in the Smoke. Be warned, Sofia’s story is very high-heat!

  Also by Ofelia Martinez

  The Heartland Metro Hospital Series

  Carolina & Hector’s Story: Remission

  Valentina & Rory’s Story: Contusion

  Izel & Logan’s Story: Incision (Novella)

  * * *

  The Industrial November on Tour Series

  Sofia & Bren’s Story: Hiding in the Smoke

  Lola & Karl’s Story: Running from the Blaze

  Hiding in the Smoke

  One: Sofia

  On most days, it’s feast or famine at La Oficina—my bar. But tonight is surprisingly steady and mellow, so I can’t hide a face-splitting grin when my two best friends show up with one of their coworkers from the hospital, and I actually get to hang out with them.

  I don’t even go over to greet them before heading to the kitchen to put in their order that I know by heart. My best cook, Martín, glances at the order and his own grin grows wide. “Carolina is here?” he asks.

  I nod. “So is Sara,” I say.

  “¿La comelona?”

  I laugh, but nod again. “You know what that means.”

  “You need the salsa,” he says all businesslike.

  The Salsa is Carolina’s mom’s recipe and a fan favorite on the menu, which means we run out on most days. Martín always hides a secret stash for when Sara comes by because she sulks if we’re out and don’t save her any.

  I head to the table where I can already tell from Carolina’s furrowed brows—and from Sara looking everywhere but at her friends—that they are arguing about something with their coworker Mandy.

  “How about you, Sofia? Are you free tomorrow night?” Mandy asks with hope in her eyes. She presses her palms together in front of her chest like a prayer and juts her lower lip into a pout.

  “Oh, no. I don’t know what you three are fighting about, but I know I don’t want to be dragged into it. I just came to see what you want to drink.”

  Carolina and Sara call out their drinks, and I repeat them to make a mental note of the order. “A beer and a Horsefeather. Coming right up. You, Mandy?”

  Mandy relaxes her shoulders and shakes her head. “No, I’m fine. Thank you.”

  Joe, my bartender and manager, is busy, so I go behind the bar to pour the drinks myself. When I get back to the table holding a tray of food and drinks, they eye me with conspiratorial smiles spreading across their faces.

  Oh, no. This can’t be good. Carolina, Sara, and I have been best friends for a while now. Ever since Carolina, a doctor, helped me without charging me when I needed stitches. We became instant friends. Sara was a bonus—a sort of package deal—since she’s practically attached at the hip to Carolina. She is a nurse at the same hospital, Heartland Metro.

  My bar sits conveniently in front of their emergency room entrance, so I see them quite often. And when those two women get together and look at me like they are looking at me now, I know they have something up their sleeves. Something I’m not going to like.

  I set the platter, filled with zucchini blossom quesadillas fanned out into the shape of a flower, in the middle of the table. My cooks, Rubén and Martín, are artists, and they didn’t forget the salsa. Sara nearly starts drooling and is the first to dive in, followed shortly by Mandy and Carolina.

  “What?” I ask and take a seat next to them.

/>   “We think you should go with Mandy,” Carolina says, chewing on a bite of quesadilla, her thick, black brows shooting up along with her smile.

  “You should totally go,” Sara adds in her signature bubbly voice that has grown on me over the years.

  “Go where? I have no idea what you three are talking about.”

  “Mandy has tickets to the Industrial November concert tomorrow night,” Carolina says, turning her attention to Mandy, who is flashing me a toothy grin.

  “I do! I called the radio station and got front row tickets and backstage passes. Can you believe it? I never win anything. I’m still on a high from it. But I have no one to go with me, and I really don’t want to go alone.”

  I blink at Mandy. I barely know her through Carolina. Mandy is her research assistant at the hospital and a kick-ass artist, but we’ve never really socialized on our own. I’m not sure we have much in common. To be perfectly honest, I’ve avoided her. Mandy is super-hot, but she is also Carolina’s favorite research assistant, so I never dared spend time with her alone. Carolina would never forgive me if I did a number on Mandy.

  “What about your cousins?” I ask. I know she is close friends with her two cousins.

  “Tlali and Izel both have to work tomorrow. They get out way too late to make it to the concert.”

  “I’m sorry, Mandy. Wish I could. But Friday nights are the busiest around here. It will be hard to get away.”

  “Come on,” Carolina says. “You’re too much of a workaholic. When was the last time you took a night off?”

  “Are you calling the kettle black there, Dr. Ramirez?” I ask Carolina. Her brows furrow because she hates it when I call her by her professional title.