by Alexis James
“Sophia,” she says by way of understanding.
I snicker and we move through the crowded airport. “Do you have luggage?”
She shakes her head. “No, I didn’t have time to pack. I left class, threw a few things in my backpack, and headed to the airport.”
All the pieces are suddenly starting to click into place. The last minute plane flight, the pain-filled eyes, Cruz’s almost manic behavior … something terrible has happened to their family. “I’d be happy to pick up some things for you, or you’re welcome to borrow any of my clothes.”
Her eyes fill with tears. “Thanks, Mia.”
Forcing aside my worry about the entire Moran family, I lead her outside to my car and hand her an unopened bottle of water and some tissues once she’s seated, give her a moment to pull herself together.
“I’m sorry,” she says, sniffling in between sips.
“You don’t need to apologize.” I give her hand a hard squeeze. “Now tell me where to you’d like me to drop you off.”
I’m not surprised when she rattles off the name of the closest hospital; I think I knew something terrible on that level had happened the moment I looked into Cruz’s eyes. But as I drive toward our destination, and attempt to console the weeping girl next to me, I can’t help but assume the worst. I can’t even bring myself to ask what happened, for fear of making things more difficult on her.
She doesn’t speak again until we’re parked and stepping out of the vehicle. Turning teary brown eyes my direction, she says softly, “Nobody will tell me anything, except that Papa collapsed. Do you know what happened?”
Shaking my head, I grip her hand again and loop my bag and her backpack over my shoulder. “No, I don’t. But we’re going to find out, okay?”
Sophia nods and swipes at the tears on her face. “Cruz said to head to ICU.”
My stomach rolls violently. “Okay.”
I’m shaking almost as much as she is when we step into the small waiting room, and every Moran member turns to look at us. Sophia falls into her mother’s arms and starts to sob, and the only other woman in the room—another sister, I presume, if the resemblance holds true—starts to cry too. Roman, who is seated next to her, wraps his arm around her and lets her cry against his chest. His eyes meet mine briefly and the look we exchange tells me everything.
Cruz gets to his feet and slowly moves in my direction, his white face a hard mask of non-emotion. “Thank you for picking her up.”
Reaching into my bag, I extract his phone charger and hand it over. “I thought you might need this.”
An odd expression crosses his face briefly before he looks away and shoves the cord into his pocket. “Thanks. You can go now.”
And here’s where timid Mia and suddenly strong Mia start to argue with one another. My head tells me to run, run fast … but my gut—and yes, my heart—says I’m not leaving. Ever. “I’d like to stay. Help out if I can.”
He glares at me, grasps my upper arm, and moves us out into the hall and away from all the curious eyes. Leaning down, he speaks in a clipped, low tone that sends shivers of fear down my spine. “I don’t want you here.”
Sure, I could turn tail and run, and the Mia of old would have done that by now. But the Mia I am when I’m with him, the Mia I’ve become since I first started working for him, is now somewhat gutsy, strong, and no longer afraid to show I’m pissed when he acts like an ass. I’m not about to bow down because of a few insulting words.
So I do the unthinkable: I reach out and take his hand in mine. In that instant the cold, icy shell fully dissolves and in its place is the terrified, broken man he is. “Please, Cruz, let me stay here. Let me help you,” I whisper.
Minutes go by, a lifetime really, in which we stand there with our fingers entwined and listen to one another breathe. Noises surround us and people scurry by, and still he refuses to look directly at me. He also refuses to walk away, which I happily acknowledge to myself. I’m careful to not move an inch, to not give him any reason to change his mind about this brief space in time where we’re all of a sudden just two regular, normal people.
When his eyes finally drift to mine, I see in them a resolve I’ve never seen before, an acceptance perhaps. This isn’t huge, by any stretch of the imagination, but it is a step forward and it is a sign he’s starting to accept me as a possible friend. For now at least.
His fingers slowly fall away from mine. “We could really use some coffee.”
I nod and hand over Sophia’s backpack. “Of course. Anything else?”
“Not now.” I start to turn away, and he quietly says, “Mia, wait.” When I face him again, for once there’s no animosity, no anger. “Thank you for being here. For insisting on being here.”
Tongue-tied, I can only smile and nod and move off down the hall.
Holding court in a hospital waiting room is rather like getting your arm reset after a break or your tooth drilled. It’s a pain like no other; dull and constant, it exhausts you and leaves you spent.
It’s midmorning the following day, and so far we’ve learned a whole lot of nothing, other than the fact that Mr. Moran had a ‘severe cardiac episode’ and is scheduled for surgery as soon as they can get him stabilized.
Cruz’s family has been resilient, rallying around Mrs. Moran and providing constant support and love. Cruz, always the leader, has been the point person to deal with the nurses and doctors. Me … well, I bring coffee and tissues and the occasional sandwich if I can convince them to eat. I’m also the token listener, letting each person tell me some childhood story, something funny about their dad—anything and everything to fill the waiting time with something other than pain.
We all have our set places in the room, now that its command central for just our—this—family. Mrs. Moran and Sophia remain connected constantly, holding hands, consoling one another, and whispering together like only mothers and daughters can. It’s obvious this baby of the family is still a mama’s girl, whereas her older sister is just the opposite: miss independence and almost as tough and as strong-willed as her eldest brother.
I’ve learned in the past few hours that Isabella is a nurse here at the hospital and one of the first people to see her father when they brought him in the day before. She’s since been pulled off duty but is still wearing the dark blue scrubs she had on the day before, because as she tells me, it helps to have some clout when you’re dealing with doctors and nurses.
The brothers spend a lot of time talking in hush whispers, leaving Cruz and me stuck in a corner with a small table between us that I’ve been using for a makeshift office. Ironically, he didn’t seem the least bit surprised when I informed him I’d rearranged his entire schedule for the upcoming week. He also didn’t seem surprised when I pulled out the files and tried to fill the silence with work, although he mostly sat there and stared off into a never-never land, lost in his own world of pain and fear.
My phone buzzes loudly, vibrating on the table next to me, and I quickly apologize and head out into the hall. “Hello?”
“Sister friend, where the hell are you?”
The sound of Amita’s voice makes me long for her; that quick wit of hers will certainly help ease some of the tension. “Oh man, I forgot to call you.”
“You think? Are you standing me up?”
“Yeah, I guess I am.” I move further down the hallway. “I’m at the hospital. Cruz’s father had a heart attack.”
“Ah, Mia, I’m sorry. What can I do for you?”
This is just one of the many reasons I love this girl so much: her unwavering devotion and willingness to drop everything to help. “Nothing right now.”
“How’s Cruz doing?”
My eyes fill, recalling the lost expression on his face, the anguish he tries so hard to hide. “Not good.”
“You’ll call me … if I can help?”
“I will.”
She makes kissy noises into the phone. “Love you, Mia. Call if you need me.”
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nbsp; “Will do. Love you too.” The minute I disconnect the call, I look up to find a stone-faced Cruz glaring at me. “Sorry. Did you need something?”
He gives me one more hard, hateful look then swears under his breath and slams through the doorway leading to the stairwell. I follow after him, practically running down the flights in order to keep up with his long, hurried stride.
Finally, when he reaches the bottom floor, he turns to face me, watching me intently as my steps slow as I get closer and closer. I swear I can feel the hatred coming off him in waves, and I suppose if I was thinking clearly I’d turn tail and run. Instead, I come to a grinding halt when I reach the last stair, gazing up into his hostile eyes.
“What’s the matter? Is it your dad?”
He looks at the floor, swears again, and shoves his hands in his pockets. “No.”
“Then what?” We’re inches apart, but we might as well be on different continents. He’s shut down, silent and unmoving, and for a brief moment I consider that maybe I’ve done something wrong. Because that’s what I do … doubt myself, feel insecure. But something has changed since I started working for him. Something inside of me that’s suddenly flared to life and is no longer content to sit back and watch the world go by. And it’s that girl who breaks the tense silence, that girl that dares to challenge him.
“What the hell is wrong? Talk to me!”
His eyes dart to mine, and I find myself holding back a snicker when I see the look of shock there. But in true Cruz Moran form, it’s gone instantly and that mask he’s perfected is now firmly back in place. “Was that your boyfriend?”
I’d imagined all types of things coming out of his mouth, but never those words. Never something so personal. Now I’m the shocked one, staring at him with an open mouth, blinking repeatedly to get my bearings.
His large hands come up, grasping my arms firmly but gently. “Was that your boyfriend?”
I refrain from laughing out loud. Darren and I haven’t spoken since the night we argued. I suppose I will have to contact him and officially put an end to our relationship. Leaving things hanging as they have been isn’t good … for either of us.
Shaking my head, I reply, “No. My best friend Amita. I was supposed to meet her at the gym.” I glance down at his big hand gripping my arm. “What’s this all about?”
Relief slides across his face, but he masks that quickly too, pro that he is, and once more shoves his hands into his pockets. “Nothing. I’m just tired. I apologize for snapping at you.”
Okay, this is new. The man I’ve come to know would never, ever apologize for shooting his mouth off. He’d expect me to take it, to keep my mouth shut and move on.
“Cruz, why don’t you go home for a while, take a nap, have a shower. I’ll call you if anything changes.”
Blue-green eyes fill with warmth and without warning his hands come up again, this time framing my face gently. His touch is warm, welcoming, and does a whole host of crazy things to my stomach. It’s as if he’s allowing me to finally see him as he is: tormented by ghosts, broken by grief. The gentle soul that lies beneath allowed to peek out for the very first time.
Done thinking, I can only react. Moving slightly forward and sliding my hands around his waist, my head rests on his muscled chest. He wraps me up fully in his arms, holding me tightly, protectively. We stand there together, embracing, my toes teetering on the edge of the stair as I absorb the feel of his arms around me and the spicy, male scent of his cologne. Chances are this is a once in a lifetime hug, and greedy little ol’ me is going to enjoy and catalog every single second.
I try to imagine what he must be thinking right now, and I wish we were in that easy place with one another where I could ask and not be concerned about being ignored or igniting a fight. But the truth is I believe he’s simply reacting—because of the situation with his father, because he’s stressed beyond belief and exhausted. Chances are if this were a regular day, he wouldn’t even consider spending a few moments holding me in his arms.
What does that say about me that I’m thrilled this day is anything but ordinary?
The moment I feel his body tense around me is when I know he suddenly realizes what we’re doing and how very wrong, in his eyes at least, it is. His arms fall to the side and he takes a step back, running his hands through his wayward hair and uttering, “Jesus, I’m sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” I reply, stepping down onto the concrete floor.
His wary expression reminds me of the one I usually wear. “That was wrong and I was out of line.”
“I hugged you, remember?” Lowering myself to sitting, I pick at a thread on my jeans and avoid looking at him anymore. Seeing regret on his face hurts in ways I can’t describe. “So you’ll go home, get some rest?”
“I can’t. Not yet. But I do need to get back upstairs.”
Scooting to the side, I allow him room to pass. “Sure thing.”
Each footstep he takes is like one more punch to the heart, and for a brief moment I consider leaving this place, going home, staying far away from this man who turns me inside out with his hot and cold moods. I know I should be giving him a pass, today of all days. After all, he is in a certain kind of hell I can’t begin to imagine. But that doesn’t help the pain I feel, at having had him—the real him—and having to let him go once again. I’m such a fool. Why the hell I’ve ever held on to this stupid crush is beyond me.
I’ve officially lost my mind.
What the hell was I thinking, stomping around all jealous-like and letting her fall into my arms so easily? I’ve done a lot of really stupid things in my life, but I’ve never been this crazed by a woman. Not even Dani, God rest her soul, could intrigue me and frustrate me like Mia does.
I don’t need this shit right now. Worrying about my father is tough enough. Worrying about the rest of my family as well, especially Mama, is almost more than I can handle. Then Mia appears out of nowhere, stubbornly inserting herself into our lives with an ease that still astounds me. Sure, I could have sent her away if I really wanted to, but I suppose that’s the bigger issue at hand. I really wanted her to stay.
I have to admit, having her here has been a blessing in disguise. She so fluidly handles everything we throw at her: bustling around getting drinks and food, running to the pharmacy to get Mama’s medicine so none of us have to leave. And on top of all that, if she’s not dozing off and on, she’s working keeping the office running efficiently, even though it’s the weekend and chances are there’s nothing so pressing it can’t wait until Monday.
“Where’ve you been?” Marco inquires, the minute I step into the waiting room.
“I needed to make a phone call. Is everything okay?” The lie rolls effortlessly off my tongue, which only serves to remind me what an ass I am.
He shrugs. “They’re taking Papa in for surgery.”
Nodding, I resume my seat and glance around the room. “Where is everyone?”
“Mama and Soph are in with him. Bella is talking to the nurses, and Roman ran home to shower and change.”
Running my hands through my hair, I reply, “I could use a shower.” And clean clothes, and a good night’s sleep. And another hug.
“You should go home. The nurse said there won’t be any news for hours.”
“I’ll stick around for a bit.” Besides, I think to myself, I really want to know if Mia is coming back or if my psycho behavior in the stairwell sent her running away for good.
Marco and I are worrying together in silence when the others start to trickle in a short while later. I spend a few minutes with Mama, who is teary eyed and anxious, spouting nonsense in Spanish which thankfully I understand. She has a right to be terrified, at least if what Bella has told me is true, but I can’t give in to the fear now. I have to be strong for my family, because it’s what they expect of me. Because it’s what I expect from myself more than anything.
Two hours later Mia comes strolling into the room with coffees for everyone and
a variety of snacks and pastries. She greets my mother with a firm hug and a gentle smile, whispering words of encouragement as she coaxes her to eat a bite or two.
She eventually moves past me without a word and the fresh tropical scent of her perfume lingers in the air as she fires up the computer while carrying on a conversation with Roman. She’s so at ease with my family, conversing easily, laughing and sharing stories and affectionately helping each one without ever having to be asked. But when we speak, there’s this thick band of tension between us, words unspoken that I can’t name. I know only that whatever it is it feels wrong and too damn tempting. She’s too damn tempting.
Twenty-four hours later we are all strung tight with worry, exhausted and lacking sleep, and I’m certain my ass is permanently numb from this uncomfortable chair. It’s late and I’m grateful we were finally able to convince Mama to go home for the night. Sophia elected to drive her, leaving the rest of us to hold down the fort and keep a watchful eye out for any changes.
There’s been a whole host of changes, actually. The surgery took many hours longer than they anticipated, and since then it’s been mostly touch and go. I know that he’s being watched carefully, and only Mama is being allowed to see him for now. His status changes hour by hour, minute by minute, but thankfully in the past few hours he’s held steady and stable.
I can’t think about what might happen or how we’ll deal with it if things should take a turn for the worse. Hell, I can’t even think about tomorrow at this point. Imagining a world without my father in it is impossible, and yet as each day passes it’s becoming more of a reality.
“Cruz?” Roman whispers. I’m too exhausted to answer, so I give him a raised eyebrow look from across the room. “Look at Mia.”
I’ve avoided looking at Mia as much as possible, though given these tight surroundings it’s mostly impossible. She’s been relentless in her quest to see that none of us has to ask for a thing and in doing so has worn herself out. She’s curled up in her chair, legs pulled up to her chest, head resting on her arms, fast asleep. It makes me hurt just looking at her, and without my brother saying another word, I slide into the chair next to her and wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her against my chest. She mumbles something in her sleep and immediately sighs contentedly and wraps her hand around my neck, fingers splayed in my hair.
