Sometimes, the hardest equations to solve are the ones that involve people.
Over two days pass without a word from Damian. His phone goes to voicemail every time I call him, and he’s MIA on campus; he isn’t going to his classes, and he’s not at his dorm—I waited outside both and even cornered a few of his classmates, who confirmed it.
I’m at a loss for where else to look. I’m sure he’s hiding somewhere, licking his wounds, too ashamed and heartbroken to surface, and while part of me wants to be mad at him for ghosting me again, I know he’s only doing it because he’s hurting, not because of anything I’ve done. Because something so important to him is about to be ripped away. Perhaps, on some level, he’s embarrassed to face me after all the work we both put into the proposal, but that’s the least of my concerns right now. All I care about is finding him, so I can be there forhim the way he was there for me with my mom. If nothing else, I wish he would tell me he’s okay.
Ronnie and Andie joined in on the hunt, and once we exhausted every available option, we decided it was time to rip a page out of Damian’s book. When Damian and I first made our agreement, he had flirted my address out of Meredith, one of the older ladies working in the administration office at Conwick. I might not be a handsome smooth-talking billionaire, but Idohave Ronnie, who could make even the most heterosexual person second-guess their preferences.
Unfortunately, Meredith turned out to be a much more crafty adversary than we were prepared for, completely immune to Ronnie’s charms. Fortunately, Andie noticed something Ronnie and I didn’t—the abundance of eighties paraphernalia decorating Meredith’s desk space. Using that as her opening, Andie jumped in, stating that I needed Damian’s home address so I could go have my John Cusack boombox moment (a reference that was entirely lost on me and her cousin). In response, Meredith’s gaze had softened, and smiling at me, she scribbled the address on a Post-It, handed it to me, and muttered with a wink, “You go get your man, girl.”
Which is how I ended up here: at the domineering gate to the Navarros’ Jamestown home on a Saturday afternoon, a Conwick tote bag tucked under one arm, and the Post-It clutched tight in my hand.
Swallowing, I scrunch up the small square of paper and jam the wad inside my coat pocket, then lift a finger to the intercom button on the keypad mounted on the stone gatepost.
A melodic chime, not unlike a doorbell, rings softly from the speaker. Licking my lips, I adjust my glasses before moving my fingers to the necklace Damian gave me, pinching the pi symbol for courage as I stare up into the camera staring down from its perch on the pillar. One moment passes. Then two. Then three.
I shuffle my feet, preparing myself for defeat, when a woman’s voice emits from the intercom, freezing me in my tracks just as I’m about to turn and leave. “Yes?”
That one word is too curt for me to discern if the person speaking to me is Lenore. I hedge my bets, assuming not.
“Um, hi.” I swallow again, clearing my throat. “I’d like to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Navarro. Please.”
“We don’t accept cold callers,” the voice retorts. “If this is about charity?—”
“It isn’t,” I interrupt. Though, I suppose that’s not entirely true since I’m relying on the Navarros being charitable enough to actually see me. “My name is Alexandria Dornan. I’m Damian’s girlfriend.”
There’s a pregnant pause, and then a loud buzz shatters the silence, and the gate begins to slowly swing inward. Goosebumps rise across every inch of my skin as I readjust my grip on the strap of my bag, and follow the long drive to the Navarros’ front door where an older woman with graying hair waits for me at the threshold. Her expression is unreadable as she leads me inside, and gestures down a corridor on my right.
“The second door on the left,” is all she says before she turns and walks away.
With a shaking breath, I creep down the silent passage, my eyes drifting along the sculpted cornices and paneled walls, which strangely lack any photographs of the Navarro family together.
And, more notably, any pictures of Damian’s brother.
A shudder runs through me at how empty and hollow the house feels. No wonder Damian felt the need to act out all these years. It’s as if his parents are pretending Jamie never existed, erasing every trace of him, as if refusing to acknowledge the tragedy could somehow make it disappear.
My stomach twists as another thought occurs to me.
Will they erase Damian, too?
I clench my fingers into fists to keep from touching my glasses when I turn into the second room on the left as the housekeeper instructed. The room I step into is bright, with a plush carpet that matches the cream-colored walls, and a three-piece sofa set arranged around a cobalt blue ottoman coffee table. Mr. and Mrs. Navarro sit on opposite ends of the sofa, each sipping out of intricately detailed mugs with gold handles that probably cost a fortune. Two matching pots—along with a small creamer pitcher and sugar bowl—are on a wooden tray on the ottoman.
“Miss Dornan,” Hector says by way of greeting when I enter the room. The lingering look he gives me borders on a glare, and though Lenore’s expression is less harsh than her husband’s, it lacks all the warmth I saw in it at the Hallazgo Christmas party.
Neither of them stand to greet me, and I hazard a silent guess that they don’t plan on offering me a coffee or tea from the tray. Not that I expect them to. This isn’t a social call, and they sure as hell don’t look happy to see me.
“I…apologize for showing up like this at your home,” I stammer, “but it’s imperative I speak with you.”
Hector arches a brow. “About the money you took from us?”
I flinch at the bite in his voice, though I’m not entirely surprised by it. From what little I gleaned from my brief call with Damian, his parents didn’t take the discovery of our agreement very well. And while I can’t blame them for being mad that we lied, or that Damian sent me large sums of money that, in all fairness, was likely theirs, I amfumingthat it’s all they seem to be focused on instead of the deeper issue at play here.
My face tenses into a glower as I hold Hector’s gaze. “About yourson.”
With a sigh, he sets his mug down on the tray, and gestures for me to sit in one of the chairs. “Have a seat.”
I opt for the armchair nearest the door, though I don’t remove my bag or coat. I won’t be staying long.
“Firstly,” I begin, sitting ram-rod straight on the edge of the seat, “I am sorry for deceiving you regarding my relationship status with Damian. It was never my intention to hurt anyone. I just wanted to help my mom.”
