I don’t love her, but now Iwant to.
I’m full of naïve hope, and it’s going to fuck me up worse than almost anything else ever has.
The pale, warm light of early morning is spilling through the white, lace curtains and casting Elle’s sleeping face in a gentle sunbeam. Hours ago, I slipped between the sheets with her and pulled her to sleep in my arms with her back against my bare chest. She stayed there all night. All night, her breathing matched mine, and our hearts seemed to beat as one. All night, the fictional anecdotes about our fictional relationship ran through my mind to the point that, on some level, I started to believe they were real; to the point that her sleeping in my arms feels real, too.
I’m high on naïve hope that there’s actually a possibility that when we return to the city, this could become a reality. But actual reality reminds me that will never happen.
I said so many things last night that I shouldn’t have. I can’t decide if I hope she forgets them as the alcohol leaves her system or that she remembers them and miraculously changes how I know she actually feels about me. Elle doesn’t like me. I solidified that by the way I’ve treated her for six months. It’s not going to change just because we had drunken sex.
And yet, there’s the stupid, naïvehope.
Hope has just as much potential to kill me as Archer’s prolific drug use has the potential to kill him.
Elle draws in a deep breath, and as she exhales a long, sleepy sigh, she nestles her face closer to my shoulder, which she used as a pillow. I trace my fingertips down the length of her arm. Her skin is so soft that it makes mehurt.
Oh, the things that could’ve been.
The one good thing I could’ve had in my shitty life.
If only everything had been different.
Two hours later, Elle is still sleeping soundly. It’s approaching nine in the morning, and the main task of this weekend is on the docket for today, so I need to get started.
I reluctantly and carefully slip my arm out from underneath her head. She stirs, wrapping the sheet tighter around her, but remains asleep. She’s pretty when she sleeps. The fact that I’m now acquainted with the knowledge that she’s pretty when she sleeps is going to fuck me up as much as the rest of this.
I drink in the sight of her for another second before slipping into the bathroom and starting the shower.
She’s still asleep after I’ve cleaned up and dressed, so I’m going to let her sleep while I go prime the main task.
The main house is bustling with activity as caterers and decorators and florists fly back and forth with preparations for the engagement party later this afternoon. Fortuna is legendary for the parties and events she hosts, and the engagement of their eldest daughter is no exception. Despite the fact that the marriage between Malachi and Isla was already arranged and the engagement made official, the party that is being held this weekend is what is traditionally referred to asLa Pedida,or the Father’s Approval. Traditionally—and when you’renota multibillionaire family—La Pedidais not such a spectacle. The father’s approval is obtained in more casual circumstances. But because the Reyes family is who they are, Fortuna and Ernesto have turned it into a formal event. Later today, there will be a ceremony during which Malachi and his parents will request Isla’s hand in marriage, and the wedding date will be officially announced. It’s essentially a wedding before the wedding, because if either Malachi or Isla called the whole thing off, there would be hell to pay.
I slip into the dining room to find Fortuna, Ernesto, Graciela, and Auggie chatting casually at the table. Joaquin is standing at the buffet, filling a plate with chilaquiles and eggs, wearing a pair of limo-tinted shades and a complexion that’s far more pallid than usual.
He’s clearly hungover, and I have to give him shit.
I slide up to the buffet next to him and pick up a china coffee cup. “How ya feeling, Joaquin?”
“Fuckyooouuu…” he mumbles, dumping an extra ladle-full of queso fresco on top of the chilaquiles.
I fill the cup with coffee and gesture at his plate. “Does that work well for hangovers?”
“It always does for me.”
I slap his back, jarring him. “Good to know.”
Carrying the cup of coffee to the table, I take a seat at one end that puts me within conversational distance of Ernesto, and then nod at him and Fortuna. “Morning.”
Fortuna reaches across the table to pat my hand. “Good morning,cariño. How did you sleep?”
“Very well as always.” I turn to Ernesto with my palm extended. “Ernesto, good to see you. Sorry to have missed you yesterday.”
“Naah, naah…” Ernesto claps my hand for a firm shake while he holds my shoulder. “You didn’t miss me. I just got in from Miami about an hour ago.” He pats my back before retracting his hand and rubbing his eyes. “I’ve been up since four AM. I’m going to need asiestabefore thefiesta.”
“Pobrecito.” Fortuna chuckles and leans across to kiss his cheek. “You do that. I have everything under control.”
I smile amiably as I sip the coffee and then gesture casually. “How’s the Cessna treating you these days?”
Ernesto offers a sage nod. “She’s still doing all right for her age.”
