Love Turns With Twisted Fates 2

by Caleigh Hernandez

  Lito and Baz got here the quickest. I gave Sebastian the biggest hug and I sat in the arms of Lito for hours. He rested my head on his lap and rubbed my back. “Izzy, mi bella preciosa,” he cooed. Then he sang to me “Cielito Lindo.”

  “Ay, ay, ay, ay,” his voice was soft, but I could hear the sadness in it. “Canta y no llores.” Sing and don’t cry. “Porque cantando se alegran, cielito lindo, los corazones.” Because singing makes happy, pretty little heaven, the hearts.

  Mazzy followed a few days later. And she cried with me in my bed. I still didn’t have the voice, but she held me while I fell apart. With a tear-streaked face, Mazzy promised me things would get better. That when it was time, fate or “whoever else is in charge” would give me the family she knew I deserved.

  A couple of days after Mazzy’s arrival, Diego went back to work. Apparently, he’d been home with me every day for almost a month. Every day since that day. I overheard him telling his agent that it was “strictly practices and games. Izzy is still not one hundred percent and she’s my top fucking priority. Nope.” He must’ve paused for whatever his agent was asking. “Not even for Sasha. Don’t care,” he answered back. “Yes,” he barks. “Have them drop it off here.”

  I feel a dip in the couch in the space beside me. “Bella,” Diego coos. I must have dozed off.

  When I open my eyes, I’m overwhelmed with the need to speak. “Diego,” I croak, my voice cracking from the lack of use. His shock at hearing my voice hurts. The tears I see pooling in the corner of his eyes breaks me all over again.

  I reach up to swipe away the one tear that got loose with my thumb. With my hand pressed to his face, he leans in to deepen the connection. His eyes close and as much as I want to talk, I can’t get it to work. I struggle with my unvoiced apology. He must sense my frustration, because he opens his eyes and they’re full of sympathy. “Don’t worry, Izzy. I know.”

  But he doesn’t.

  I stare into his dulled russet brown eyes. He doesn’t know that I’m sorry I blamed him. That when I woke up from that mess that night the only thing I could think of was that he wasn’t there for me. The one person that was always supposed to be there for me wasn’t. That, through the haze of bright lights, stark white walls, and the beeps and ticks of machines, I felt utterly and helplessly alone. Unsure of what was happening, I was scared. I blamed him. He looks so apologetic and it breaks my heart and the dam holding back the tears.

  He doesn’t know that I’m sorry I wasn’t strong enough to not fall apart. A heart-wrenching sob shakes me, but I don’t tear my gaze from his. He doesn’t know that in my inability to accept the fate we’d been handed, I lost my fight. I let this loss take away my voice and used sleep to escape the pain. He doesn’t know that sleep was where I saw her. Still, sometimes see her. Where I got to hold her and watch her grow. He doesn’t know that almost every time I open my eyes, I wish for nothing less than a permanent sleep where I never have to say goodbye to her. I beg for sleep in my pain, because there, she is with me.

  He doesn’t know that this emptiness inside of me feels permanent. Like the pain hollowed out a space in my heart where happiness goes to die.

  He doesn’t know that I hate how pathetic I am.

  Cradled in his arms, he doesn’t know.

  Chapter Twenty-Two:

  Thief of Hearts

  November 2006

  “I don’t give a flying fuck who approved this,” the venom in Diego’s voice startles me from my sleep. I must’ve dozed off again. “This,” he hisses, “is not the article I agreed to do.” Something slams to the tabletop with his ire. I’m only hearing one side of this conversation. I can only assume he’s on the phone. “FIX. THIS,” he spits out. Following those final words is a crash of glass and the crack of splintering wood.

  “Diego,” I hear Lito scold. “Mijo, calmate.” He’s urging Diego to calm down.

  “¡Lito, no me digas que me calme! Izzy no va a comprender cuando vea este des madre. No va a mantenese calmada.”

  I hate the way he’s talking to his grandfather. But what am I not going to understand? What is going to make me lose my calm? Although, I can’t imagine that would be something I’d say I have much of these days.

  “D,” it’s Sebastian pleading this time through the rustling of glass and whatever crashed with it. “Come on, bro.”

  “Mazzy?” he says her name through gritted teeth. “Care to weigh in?” There’s more venom.

  “Ha,” she scoffs, “and let you tear me to shreds like you have your grandfather? I don’t think so Tweedle D. But from the looks of it, Tweedle Dumb here might be up for being your punching bag.”

  “Seriously, Mazzy,” his voice is more somber, where there was venom there’s now desperation.

  “Just be honest, D. She was there. She knows what you said. Izzy isn’t new to the world of publicity and media. When shit like this happens, you just gotta treat it like a Band-Aid that needs to be pulled off. Grip it and rip it, then deal with the pain that follows. You can’t hide it from her.”

  “FUCK,” he roars.

  No longer able to listen in the shadows, I pull myself from my spot on the couch and take to the stairs. The third stair from the top gives me away when it creaks. Their murmured conversation and scurrying stops. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear the room of my loved ones just held their breaths.

  “Diego,” I plead, breaking the silence my appearance has caused. Their eyes go wide hearing my voice. “Why are you yelling at—” I don’t finish my question as the room comes into view. My beautiful kitchen is filled with glass and wood. The spot where our hutch once stood is bare, its contents mixed into the mess on the floor.

  “Izzy,” Diego shouts as I reach the last step. “Don’t come down here!” Before I can react to his harsh words and angry tone, he bounds to meet me. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “There’s glass all over and you’re barefoot.”

  “What’s going on, D?”

  The sag of his shoulders says he was hoping I wouldn’t ask just yet. When he looks to the rest of the room for an answer, I catch collective nods and sympathetic faces. I see Lito place something in a large manila envelope and hand it to Diego. “We’ll take care of this, mijo.”

  He grabs the envelope as if it burns to touch it. “Come on,” he turns me around with his hand on the small of my back. Diego flips a couple of switches on our way to the living room from the stairs. He walks us past the big couch and leads me to the chaise near the fireplace.

  “Diego,” I interrupt his silence. We’ve been sitting here for an excruciatingly long time. I know whatever it is he has to tell me is difficult and that he needs the time to find the words, but the silence freaks me out more. “Diego,” I urge when he doesn’t answer. He just continues to stare at the envelope in his hands.

  I open my mouth to say his name again, but I’m stopped when he hands me the envelope. The reluctance is obvious in his inability to let it go. “I didn’t know,” was all he said.

  Nervous about what I’ll find on the inside, I inspect the outside. The logo in the top corner says On the Pitch. Excitement flutters in my belly when I realize this must be the issue that Diego is going to be on the cover of and we did the photo shoot for, but as quickly as the excitement comes, it’s dashed away by what I overheard. Izzy’s not going to understand this.

  Those words haunt my actions. I can’t open this fast enough or slow enough. I remember Mazzy’s Band-Aid analogy and I tear it open.

  “Gah,” the gasp for air that came with the sound feels like I swallowed glass. The magazine falls to the floor in front of us.

  There on the cover of the most circulated sports magazine in the United Kingdom is my husband and Sasha Strafford. The article teaser reads: The Man, the Myth, the Saint, and the Woman Behind Him.

  My jaw falls slack at the audacity of that title. The implications alone…

  “What the fuck, Diego?” I pick it up and tear through the pages to his feature arti
cle. By now, my jaw has to look like it’s come unhinged. These aren’t Diego’s words. These are some of Diego’s words twisted into lies with sensationalism.

  “I know this shit isn’t about me. I know this. But where are the photos of us? Or just one photo?” Skimming through the article there’s not one mention about me. “Diego, this doesn’t even mention your wife. Or the fact that I managed you!

  “THIS IS FUCKING BULLSHIT! This isn’t even your story. This is someone else’s version of your story.” Unable to contain my spite for him not handling this shit better or for ignoring my warnings, I toss the magazine in his lap. “This is her version of your story. So fucking convenient for her that you don’t have a wife in her version.”

  I’m two steps from where I sat with Diego when a gripping pain in my abdomen pulls me to the floor. Apparently, losing my baby isn’t enough. I still get to experience the after effects of having a child with a sudden, painful, and cruel reminder of what I lost.

  Diego is at my side before I make contact with the ground. He scoops me up and places me down on the chaise. He’s attempting to soothe me by rubbing circles on my back. “Diego, I am very much aware that that article is not your doing, but right now, I’m just pissed. I’m pissed because I knew she was after you and you thought I was just being overprotective. Pissing on what’s mine, as you said.”

  “How’s the investigation into the message and your phone going, Diego?” He flinches at the spiteful tone.

  “Sasha’s security—”

  “HA! You’re joking, right? Are you really going to start that sentence with her name and expect me to listen?” I quirk up my eyebrows in a challenge. He stays quiet. “After that fucking mess, yooouuu really want to mention her name? As if she couldn’t possibly be the one behind that as well?”

  I’m so tired of seeing shock on his face, I’m relieved when I see his shoulders slump and his head lower with a shake. Clearly, his desire to trust those claiming to be trustworthy clouds his vision. I see his desire to reject the notion, but his body tells me that he knows that what I say has a distinct possibility of being the truth.

  “Izzy?” It’s just my name but I can hear the plea, the question.

  “Diego, right now I’m mad. I’m mad because that shit is beeeeyond fucking ridiculous. I’m mad because I can’t storm off right now. And I’m mad because I was right when I wanted nothing more than to be wrong.”

  The creak on the third step from the top of the stairs from the kitchen announces the approaching interruption.

  “None of this,” gesturing to the magazine on the floor, “is going to get resolved tonight. So,” I pause when Mazzy walks into the room, “tonight, I’m going to stay mad. You don’t get to ease your own guilt in this by comforting me.”

  This time when I get up to leave, I don’t do it so quickly that I cramp up. With each step up the stairs to the bedrooms, I imagine walking off in a huff, stomping my way past our room to the floor above where Mazzy and Lito are staying.

  While I don’t push myself to stomp, I do continue past our room and make my way to Mazzy’s. The pseudo distance from Diego, if only separated by a floor, allows me to hold on to the anger.

  Sleep comes quick once I’m lying in the bed, my subconscious all too eager to find my happy place. But tonight, my happy place doesn’t exist. Instead, my mind flashes the images and text from the magazine cover and article.

  The last image I see before falling into a deep sleep is that of Sasha with my Diego. She’s pawing at him, fixing his collar, tousling his hair. She’s looking at him like the sun rises and sets with him. She’s looking at him as if he’s hers. Then, she turns and smiles as if looking right at me.

  Chapter Twenty-Three:

  Don’t Speak

  December 2006

  We spent the first week of December dealing with the magazine and the article inside it. However, daunting and arduous the task was, we won, but not without a whole lot of threats and twice as many, favors owed. They’ll be using the original cover and article they had set before other parties got involved. Unfortunately, there were some copies that could not be recovered and the tabloids got a hold of it, but On the Pitch printed an apology with the approved cover and article claiming they were looking into the matter and identifying those responsible for the erroneous article.

  Christmas passed with little fanfare. Diego wanted decorations and a tree to help bring some cheer back. Sucker punched by life, I didn’t have it in me to celebrate, but Baz and Lito made a wonderful dinner and I got to spend the holiday with my loves. Lito left right after Christmas to visit friends in Italy for the New Year. He promised to be back in a couple of weeks.

  It’s New Year’s Eve and Diego and I have the place to ourselves. Mazzy is partying it up with Jay in France; Baz is doing his thing with some friends locally. This is the first time Diego and I made plans to be alone since the incident. I wouldn’t say that we’ve avoided it specifically, but I think we both have appreciated the roadblock that our family has been.

  There’s a bit of awkwardness hanging between us. I’m sure I’m harboring some blame for him not being there when our world was ripped apart. At least, that’s what the grief counselor says. And I know I’m still pissed about the magazine situation. I don’t feel that justice was served and I have daydreams about serving it to the wretched bitch myself.

  Diego is overly gentle. I’m sure he feels like he has to tiptoe around me as if he’s walking on eggshells. He continues to be over cautious as well as over explanatory. The guilt is etched into his brow. He refuses to see a grief counselor outside of our joint sessions. I know him well enough to know he’s thinking he doesn’t deserve to grieve or be rid of the guilt.

  Consciously, I don’t blame him for what happened with the magazine, but I do think he’s given his trust to the wrong person or persons. I’m not sure who was involved, but I know Diego has some idea. I can see it in his guarded expressions when I bring up finding those responsible. Maybe he’s afraid of what I might do to Little Miss Owner’s Daughter.

  “Hey, Iz,” Diego calls from the other room. “Where did Alfred put the champagne glasses?”

  “Flutes,” I correct him. He chuckles. We had to replace them since they came down when Diego destroyed the hutch. “Check the cabinet below the breakfast bar.”

  The ding on the computer alerts me to a new email. It’s New Year’s Eve, so it can’t be that important. I continue to play solitaire as I wait for Diego to set up his surprise. There’s another ding and another. Curiosity gets the better of me and I switch out to open my email.

  There are three emails all with the same sender and subject.

  From: Concerned Acquaintance

  Subject: How well do you know him?

  Certain that this is spam, I go to close the email program. The noise from my phone alerts me to a new text.

  You really should check your email.

  The message is from an unknown number. I don’t reply. Someone is trying to goad me. I’m not one to take the bait, but my annoyance is starting to crack my resolve with the next message.

  Your choice. Figured you’d want to see it before it shows up on newsstands on Tues.

  “What the fuck?” The words are past my lips before I can censor myself. They were barely audible, but in the silence of this office, they were practically deafening.

  With the follow up text messages, I’m fairly certain that it’s not a virus of the computer variety. I’m sure whatever the email contains will be just as toxic.

  With a sigh, I reluctantly open the most recent email.

  What I see knocks the wind out of me and I’m gasping for air.

  On the cover of what appears to be Glamour Magazine is my husband in the middle of making out with a faceless blonde. The small picture overlapping it in the corner is the ridiculous cover of the On the Pitch of Diego and…Sasha!

  My eyes flash back up to the main picture on the cover of the tabloid magazine.

  I
collect moments like these, moments that rip my soul out. At least, it feels that way.

  I am compelled to witness the earth shattering whether good or bad.

  This is bad.

  I've read about pain like this in books, heard it in countless songs. My heart clenches, wrapped in the clutches of this moment, reducing anything and everything to what he says next. The idea that this moment could be my ending stills my breath.

  This can't be my reality.

  When we committed to death do us part, I certainly didn't expect for things to go like this. The walls are closing in. We are the Beauty and the Saint…People would tell us, “They write stories about love like yours.” Really? This doesn't seem very love story worthy. It’s hell. Yup, that's what this is. Hell.

  What the fuck happened?

  I can't help it; our time together runs as a montage through my mind.

  Oh my god, it hurts.

  The looping reel of memories is a gut punch, an excruciating reminder that after all we've been through those moments may have to last me a lifetime. Gaining control of myself mid-gag, I fight the urge to expel what I haven't eaten.

  Help me. It’s a silent plea.

  I thought we could survive anything.

  Fuuuck. We had.

  But then again, nothing could have prepared us for this. A piece of us lost forever. We’re both so broken. Lost in the reality that single twist of fate stuck us in. The music diminuendo, our song descending into the darkness where absence of light and sound is commonplace, the norm. The walls continuing to close in as song and sound fade.

  He sucks in a breath, a momentary break in the impending silence and then nothing.

  In an instant, my world was void. In the next, the silence deafening. His loss for words speaking volumes, screeching the noiseless answers to my painful inquiries.

  “I’m so sorry, Izzy,” the pain and regret hanging from his words.

  Those four words the confession I was desperately hoping didn’t exist. The bottom of my world dropped out and the air filled with an ear-splitting cry. The resonating pain in surround sound.