Chapter 63
sixty-three
TWO MONTHS LATER
“Alley Cat,” Tris whistles, leaning into my doorjamb. “Hot damn.”
After adjusting the fit of the front of my dress, I toss a glower at my roommate. “Tris. We talked about this.”
Her winning smile only grows. “Yes. Right. Absolutely. My bad, Alice.”
It took two months of therapy before I finally worked up the courage to tell my best friend how much I hate her nickname for me. About the same amount of time it took for me to find the nerve to tell my mother that I would no longer be taking her calls.
Suffice it to say, the first conversation went a lot better than the second.
But the thing is… I still had them. Because, as my counselor loves to remind me, I can do hard things. And I deserve to be heard and understood just as much as anyone else.
My weekly sessions are one of many gifts from Marco that I halfheartedly refused, only to give in and accept, eventually.
In the initial weeks after I woke up, he surprised me almost daily. Boxes of exotic tea. Books. Flowers. Silky pajamas. And—my favorite—handwritten letters.
At first, I groused over everything, except for those. Somehow, I couldn’t be exasperated by papers full of his messy, masculine scribbles.
They’re so personal. Long and honest, and full of the innermost thoughts I only got to see behind his eyes, ordinarily.
Each time I huffed over a present, he merely chuckled and—occasionally—offered a spanking for my brattiness.
But he never stopped.
In fact, he outright insisted I take his offer of therapy.
He wrote that it was keeping him up at night, worrying about the psychological effects of Pierce’s actions, and asked me to please accept the sessions.
I relented because I hated the thought of him torturing himself almost as much as I hated the trauma I had endured.
Dr. Laura also sees Ella and Grayson, though we never mention them. Slow and steady, she helped me unpack everything that happened since that fateful day when Marco and I connected in the coffee shop.
We’ve discussed how I never genuinely believed he would be interested in me, and how that only made it more devastating when I thought I’d found out that he really wasn’t.
Now, though?
Well, some days—the good ones—I open my door to whatever trinket he’s left for me, along with his daily letter, and I think, surely, he must love me.
Why else would he spend months diligently trying to prove as much? He’s a free man. And a practical one. I doubt he would carry on for months under some misplaced sense of obligation or guilt or even gratitude.
After all, his mother has firmly taken care of the gratitude thing.
She now shows up on my doorstep every Sunday morning with piles of Colombian delicacies, courtesy of herself and Abuelita.
She bustles her way into our apartment, never once commenting on how small my kitchen is, and sets to work, preparing feasts for us to enjoy together.
I’m not actually sure how it happened. All I know is that she shows up, fussing over me as a proper mom might, and I allow it.
We never speak of Marco. Instead, she tells me old stories about her late husband, her childhood in Colombia, her colorful mother.
Sometimes, she tries to teach me Spanish, remarking that I’m a much better natural student than some people—though I don’t know if she’s alluding to Marco or Graham Everett and his infamously terrible accent.
Every week, before she leaves, Esme snaps me into a fiercely maternal hug and coos over some part of me she thinks looks particularly pretty that day.
Her Spanglish compliments leave me with a goofy smile on my face as I close the door behind her, already wondering what she’ll turn up with next time.
Tris jokes that she gets spoiled by the Amirs just as much as I do, considering Esme leaves more food than I can eat by myself—and Marco always makes sure to include treats for my grubbing roomie whenever he sends something edible.
Her hazel eyes trail down over the soft pink sundress I’ve chosen for today’s event. Her gaze sits on my boobs just a beat too long before she flashes a salacious grin. “Looks great!”
My shoes are partially hidden under my bed, still in their box. I snatch the lid off and grab them, sitting on the edge of my mattress, tying the ribbon-like straps of the heeled sandals over my ankles in a crisscross pattern.
I cast one last look in my mirror, smiling. The blush dress really does bring out my blue eyes. And I love my curly hair even more now that it has grown longer.
The air in the room suddenly feels tight. Tris’s smile fades from her face. “So… you ready?”
My stomach drops. My mind spins through the dozens of details I need to see to as soon as I get to the venue. It’s a huge, modern loft—completely blank, the perfect canvas for all the extravagant fixtures we rented to fill it.
Tonight, we’ll have Ella and Grayson’s rehearsal dinner.
And tomorrow, my biggest wedding ever.
Plus, I owe Marco an answer. The man has been waiting for the last two months, reminding me daily of his offer to share his apartment with me.
I want to. More than anything. But despite all the work I’ve done for myself, I still can’t shake the fear that he’ll disappear as soon as this wedding is over. When the only thing holding him to me is…
Well. Me.
A dart of pain brings me back to earth. I look down and realized I’ve chewed my thumb to the quick again. My lips flit up when I imagine the way Marco will scowl at my abused fingers. I also notice a bit of yellow paint on my pinky nail that will make him smile.
“I don’t know,” I murmur to Tris.
Maybe we never feel totally ready. Maybe all of this is just a leap of faith.
Maybe it’s time for me to jump.
Her eyes glow with understanding. Her voice sounds thicker than usual. “For what it’s worth, babe, I’m proud of you.” A sly smile splits her serious expression. “I mean, I obviously knew you could do this, but still. You were brave. And look what happened.”
With that unexpectedly poignant thought, she saunters away. I let her words sink in for way too long before I notice the time.
Scurrying to gather up my things, I kick the now-empty espadrille box under my bed. It hits something blocking its path, and I reach down absently, plucking out the other item.
Oh.
My embarrassing box of high school hopes, all wrapped in pink-heart paper. I stuffed it back into its hiding place the day Marco helped me move home from the hospital, not wanting him to see it or get curious about its contents.
It was probably monumentally stupid for me to bring it to his apartment in the first place. But back when we didn’t understand the danger facing us, when he said to take everything essential with me… I just couldn’t leave it behind.
Now, I wonder if I need to burn it before moving in with the man of my dreams or simply find a new hiding place.
Lord only knows what I put in this thing.
Cringing, I lift the lid to peek inside.
And it’s all Marco.
The bouquet I loved so much on our first real date. A few magazine photos of intimate rooftop meals. One of a bedroom lit with candles and sprinkled with rose petals.
New horror dawns on me in a slow roll.
Oh my God. He found my box. And looked in it.
Did he read the articles? Or, God forbid, my mortifying lists? If he did, why the hell didn’t he run away screaming?
He must think I am the most pathetic person who has ever lived. Did he do all those things out of pity? Oh my God, I will die. I can’t see him ever again. I need to leave the country. Oh my Goddddd.
Across the room, my phone alarm chimes.
I want to have a nervous breakdown, but there isn’t time. It will have to wait until after I do everything in my power to avoid Marco for the entire evening…
A goal that might be impossible when I open my front door and find one single white rose, laid across our welcome mat, along with his shortest note to date.
I’ll see you soon, sweet girl.