All I know is this sharp pang in my chest makes me feel like shit. More than I already did. I’ve hurt her, unintentionally, and maybe even irrevocably. I don’t know how to make things better or how to make this all go away.
30
An end date to us
EVA
The lost boy I still desperately love stands before me.
Yes, still, I love him despite it all.
Yet lies stand between us. So many horrible lies have wreaked havoc with our lives. Mutilated our relationship and obliterated trust.
“Have you ever wondered if our love would have lasted?” I’ve mulled this question over for way too long and it nags at me.
He sucks in a jagged breath. My question is a potent mixture of loss and hope, and it’s like a bomb detonating between us. Everything hurts.
Speechless, his lips press tightly and unshed tears glisten in his warm penetrating gaze. He looks away, and his mouth slackens, as if in defeat.
“Why won’t you answer?” I’m insistent, pushing down my irritation at not only his silence but at life and the raw deal we were handed.
“No, I haven’t.” He releases a rough sound. “I’ve never questioned our love. I’ve never wondered if there was an end date to us.”
His hands rise to my face, cradling my jaw in his palms. His touch hurts—I want him to both stop and never let go.
“Eva, of all the things I’ve second-guessed and wondered about in my life, our love has never been one of them. You—and our love—are the only things I’ve ever counted on.”
Shaking my head, tears spill down my face, hitting his fingers, and an almost silent “no” slips past my lips.
“No, what?”
“This second chance might have been a mistake. Not us, but now.” I latch onto his strong wrists, squeezing before pulling his hands from my face.
I slide my feet into my flip-flops, brushing past him on my way to the door.
“What are you saying?” A frown pulls at the corners of his mouth.
“I’ll always love you, but maybe what we had was all we were ever meant to have. And maybe we didn’t stand a chance the second time around.”
“Eva.” His hands reach for me, but I step aside, opening the door to the hallway.
“Jared, I just…” My words are shaky, tears winning the battle as they fall fast and free. “The lies and betrayal of my family and now this…I just don’t know. What happened is in your past, and I won’t hold that against you.” I stare up at him, his beautiful face twisted and blurry. “But with Bianca…she may never admit it, and I don’t need her truth to know that, on some level, she planned it.”
“What?” He isn’t surprised, more upset.
“Yes. This pains me to say it but I can’t forgive her. And I don’t think she wants or needs my forgiveness. She’s no longer my sister. And as for my father and Miguel, I want nothing to do with them.”
“And what about us?”
I don’t have an answer for him. Or the answer he wants to hear.
“I left Spain for a new start, and at the time, I thought I’d find it here. Even without knowing about you. And now, I’m not so sure. Maybe I’ll stay or settle down somewhere else in the States or Europe. I’m not sure.”
“And us?” He pushes for an answer.
“I am no longer sure there is an us.” I walk through the door, my back to him, wiping at my tears.
“Eva, please.” The raw vulnerability in his voice causes my breath to catch in my throat, slicing through my chest and stabbing my heart.
31
Slay all the dragons
JARED
Stupefied and reeling from Eva’s verbal face punch, I somehow make it to the ground floor. She isn’t fighting for us. She’s walking away.
With my hand in my pocket, I search for a guitar pick and come up empty. Fuck.
I always have one on me. It helps to soothe the pain, stop the bleeding. Then I remember it’s in my jacket, which is in my car. Dammit.
Quint’s in the lobby, waiting by the elevator, and he dips his chin the second he sees me.
I have a hard time holding his stare. “What are you doing here? How’d you know I was here?”
“Silas called and I checked your car GPS.” His expression is sheepish, and as much as I want to rail at him and then blast Silas for not minding his own business, I can’t.
They care.
They are my family.
“Wait for me in the car.” I don’t intend to sound like an asshole but do.
“J, that isn’t a good idea.” He steps toward me, scowl firmly etched into his dark features.
He scans the large space, people milling around, always assessing the surroundings for any potential problems. “You can’t just stand around here. It won’t take long for someone to recognize you.”
I appreciate his vigilance. He’s only doing his job, but the thought of going back to my place depresses me. Eva is all I can think about, and I don’t want to be far from her. Not now when I may have lost her.
No, I’m not giving up. She may think this is over, but I need time and maybe that’s all she needs too.
“Quint, you work for me, not the other way around. Wait in the car.”
I turn on my heel, ambling toward a small crowd gathered at the entrance to the hotel bar. A few heads turn in my direction and I make my way into the dimly lit room.
As I sit my ass on a leather stool, Quint’s thwarted attempt to save me from myself is a dull pang in my chest. A voice in my head yells for me to leave, to go home and go to bed. I haven’t slept in days, and a bar is the last place I should be. The last place for an addict when they are down on life.
Alcohol isn’t my drug of choice. Coke. Narcotics. Yes, please. But as any addict will tell you, it’s a slippery slope with other addictive substances. In a pinch, anything will do.
The shitty thing is, I started using as a way to deal with losing Eva. To shut out the never-ending misery and unbearable pain. Now she’s alive, I shouldn’t need to numb my feelings, yet here I am, desperately seeking an escape.
If she wants out, to turn her back on me…can I walk away? I’ll always fight for her. Always.
But if I’m the only thing standing between her and her happiness, I can’t hurt her…I can’t deny her that. Fuck, I’d sooner bow out, even if it kills me.
“Good morning.” The young bartender, in a crisp white shirt and black dress pants, smiles at me. “What can I get you?”
It doesn’t matter to him we’re just shy of noon. The state of California keeps the alcohol flowing almost around the clock.
“Whiskey. Neat.”
“Any preference?” He raises his hand to the array of bottles to choose from.
“Give me your best.” I barely give the selection a glance.
“Sure thing.” He sets a bowl of peanuts down in front of me before turning his back.
My fingers tap out the rhythm to the latest song I’m writing. Despite my turmoil, my muse started talking to me in New York and she hasn’t stopped.