Page 214 of Ricardo

He pauses.

Then, quieter, “But with you, I had somewhere that didn’t come with all of that.”

I grip the water bottle harder.

“You still do.”

His eyes cut to mine. “Do I?”

When I don’t answer, he turns back to the window.

I cannot fix this in the back of a car.

I cannot fix weeks of silence, a punch that split Ricardo’s mouth, and everything that Dante thinks is different now with one conversation.

So I tell him the only thing I can.

“I’m still the same person,” I say quietly. “I let my last relationship change who I was, change us. I won’t do that again.”

Dante’s gaze returns to me slowly.

For a moment, he only looks at me. The anger is still there. So is the hurt. But beneath both, I see the part of him that knows exactly what I mean.

“I hope that’s true,” he says.

The words should sound harsh.

“It is,” I say with conviction.

I lean back against the seat, suddenly exhausted. My body aches from standing in heels, smiling at donors, holding myself together under my father’s stare, Dante’s coldness, Ricardo’s worry, and the knowledge that Evan Rusk is still somewhere behind us being dealt with.

“I’m tired,” I say, mostly to myself.

Dante turns his head.

For one wild, half-conscious second, I think he might call me Jules.

He does not.

“Almost there,” he says.

I close my eyes for a moment.

The car is warm. The mint lingers on my tongue. My stomach settles, then flips lightly again. I press one hand over it and tell myself I need food, sleep, and a morning without schedules and lists and charts.

Beside me, Dante shifts.

When I open my eyes, he is watching my hand.

“What?”

“You sure you’re okay?”

There is something different in his voice now.

Concern, stripped of anger now.

I nod. “I think I just need to eat something.”