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I shake my head as I think about the possibilities.
I’m engaged to bemarried. I’m supposed to be solidifying the family bonds for our family by marriage. The rules are clear.
If I do what Iwantto—if I rescue Eden the way I want to, if I do anything even close to romance—I’ll not only push her away but screw my family.
And family’s everything.
“God, what a fucking mess,” I say on a sigh.
“For real. And Sergio… listen… Dude, I need you to make me a promise. But first, you have to tell me you won’t shoot the messenger.”
“Mario,” I say warningly.
“I’m driving this fucking car, Sergio. Don’t do anything that would make me crash us.”
“Who do you think I am?”
He winces. “The toughest brawler I’ve ever met in my life. The man with a fist of steel. I love you, brother, but you made me practically wet the bed when I was a kid, and I haven’t totally outgrown that shit.”
I snort but don’t deny it. I won’t apologize for who I am.
What the fuck is he gonna tell me?
“Go on.”
“Promise me first.”
“Jesus,” I mutter under my breath. “Okay, fine, I promise I won’t kill the messenger. Not while he’s driving anyway. Go on.”
“Well, Gloria also looked into your… betrothed,” he says with a forced smile. “She’s, uh… got quite the reputation.”
Oh fucking hell I already regret making the promise. I grit my teeth. “Oh, does she? How so?”
“Apparently, she’s taken out twelve credit cards in her name and run up fifty grand in debt.”
I sigh. Alright, so she’s a spender. I’ve got money and if all it’ll take to make her happy is some plastic—
“Whatever. Anything else?”
“She’s got her goddamn face plastered all over social media. Loves to be in the public eye.”
That could be a problem. God.
“I just don’t know if she’s—”
It happens so fast I barely have time to process.
An eighteen-wheeler jumps the guardrail, heading straight for us.
Mario curses and swerves but we’re too small and the truck’s coming way too fast.
I never knew until that moment what it meant to have your life flash before your eyes.
It has to be seconds, or even fractions of a second. I see everything as if it were a vision, like someone’s playing a recording in my mind’s eye on fast-forward.
My father and mother, pouring wine at a birthday party. I can see the white and blue icing on the cake we got from the bakery. I’m blowing out candles—four of them.
I’m in high school walking across the stage on the football field where it was set up, stifling hot in a suit covered by a cap and gown, without a breeze or speck of shade in sight. I can see Principal Wallace, his face ruddy as he holds the diploma out, handing it to me.
