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I’d figure something out.
I finished browsing and took a breath, squeezing my eyes shut.
“You’re going to be OK,” I whispered. “You’re going to be OK.” I repeated it over and over again. It helped a little.
I took several deep breaths then rose from the sofa and walked back to my bedroom. Each step was heavier than the last. How had it come to this? When I’d been younger, in high school, I’d had so much hope for the future. I’d truly believe that I’d make it big, no matter what the cost. No matter what odds had been stacked against me.
I’d been a fool.
I reached my closet, opened it, and brought down a box of old crap from the top shelf.
This box contained memories from high school. I opened it and took out the photo album on top. It was filled with pictures of Emilia and me. At our graduation, the prom, the day before I’d left to go pursue my career dreams. There were ones at Christmas and even a few where Matt had been caught in the background, looking wan and unhappy.
I closed the album and set it aside. I brushed past the other memories. Things I’d collected in passing and stowed away, attaching relevance that I couldn’t quite remember now. In the bottom corner lay a pile of letters, strung together with ribbon.
They were the letters I’d never sent to Matt. The ones my nineteen-year-old self had penned to get the weight off my chest.
I stripped off the ribbon and opened the letter on top.
Matthew,
You’ll probably never read this because I won’t have the guts to send it, but I needed you to know how I felt.
What we did wasn’t right, and I’m sure you agree when it comes to that, but I can’t stop thinking about you. I know nothing can ever happen between us, but I need you to know how I feel about you. I think I’m in love with you.
God, even writing that down makes me feel like an idiot. Maybe I just am one.
The letter continued, an outpouring of grief and fear and desire. Good lord, I’d been desperate for him. But writing these had helped.
I stared at the words scrawled across the page, shaking my head.
So much had changed, but this was the same. Matt brought out all the fears and desires I’d wanted to hide forever. And now, he wanted nothing to do with me.
I pressed my teeth together. That was fine. He didn’t have to want me. It was our child that needed to be his focus.
“Get it together, woman.” I packed everything up hurriedly and went back to the living room. I lay down on the sofa and put a movie on the laptop, forcing myself to rest, to take my mind off the pressure of what had happened.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Matt
I called her number for the fifth time in a row, sitting in the back of my Porsche Cayenne, my driver silent. The phone went to voicemail again, and my frustration swelled. Ever since Emilia had stormed into my office and claimed that Summer needed my help, I’d been unable to scrape the worry away.
And she still hadn’t picked up her damn phone. What kind of trouble was this? Why wasn’t she answering? Had Emilia been able to get ahold of her?
It couldn’t be anything to do with Cruz. His operation had been squashed like a bug under the FBI’s pointed heel.
Unless… what if he’d had another contact? Someone who might’ve…
Shit.
I typed out a text. “Em, send me Summer’s home address, please. I can’t reach her on the phone.”
The answer blipped through a couple minutes later. “Neither can I.” The reply was followed by Summer’s home address. An apartment building in South Miami. I gave the address to my driver then sat back, pressure building in my mind.
What if she was in danger? Real danger.
I clenched my jaw.
The protective side of me had gone into overdrive once before over her, and it was the same now. I wanted nothing more than to run up to her damn apartment, break the door down, and save her from whatever it was that had threatened her.
Whether it was financial, physical, or emotional.
You can’t want her like this.
But I did. I wanted her in more than just a physical way, and coming to terms with that wasn’t easy. How long had I denied those feelings for her? Christ, for years now. For more than a decade.
You’re not going to change anything. Just help her and leave.
But would this be it?
I would be forever caught in this cycle of thinking about her, wanting her, worrying about her, until one day I was on my deathbed looking back on a life I’d dreamed of but never lived.
There’s no guarantee that she’ll want you. You fucked up.
