Chapter 22 #2
I don’t move or breathe as Art Betton, owner of Betton Sporting Goods, saunters across the parking lot toward Rafael and me—toward Rafael, because Art can’t see me.
For the first time, I really wish Rafael couldn’t see me either, because right now, with Art heading toward us, the past—Rafael’s betrayal—hits me like a semitruck, painful and completely unexpected.
“Art.” Rafael takes Art’s proffered hand and shakes it once before dropping it.
Art, who is somewhere in his mid-fifties, is short, stocky, and chock-full of cockiness. “It’s been a while,” Art says. “What—two years?”
Rafael nods, but he’s tense.
I wonder if he’s remembering his betrayal—the epic fallout that happened soon after. The day I learned I was kicked off the account, I pulled him into an office and let him have it with enough fire it would put his chilis to shame. I didn’t hold back, and the rest is history.
“I hope there were no hard feelings.” Art grins, his stained teeth broadly displayed. I can almost smell his cigar-tainted breath.
“None,” Rafael says, his tone as rigid as his posture. He shuts the trunk with a thunk that matches the one in my chest.
“It was nothing personal. I simply had something else in mind for Betton Sporting Goods.”
“I understand.” Rafael, his discomfort palpable, walks to the driver’s side. Art follows.
I can’t help watching and listening and thinking about how much I cried that night.
It had nothing to do with losing the account but everything to do with how much it hurt to have seen Rafael’s true colors, to have had my friend betray me after we’d spent years working alongside each other, getting to know each other and leaning on each other to learn the ropes.
“Whatever happened to your coworker? Evie, was it?”
Rafael goes whiter than I’ve ever seen him. “Yes.”
“Would have probably stayed at Media Lab if she was on my account, though.” Art’s sly chuckle sends a shiver of disgust through me. “Had to keep her for yourself. Can’t say I blame you.”
His words are so shocking I’m surprised I haven’t been catapulted back into my body. I watch in disbelief as he pats Rafael’s shoulder.
“Please don’t touch me,” Rafael says.
Art drops his hand with a confused chuckle. “Didn’t mean to offend.”
“I have to go.” Rafael opens the truck door, his eyes finally connecting with mine. There’s an apology in them as he climbs into the truck. I follow, sitting rigidly in the seat. Art mutters a goodbye, but Rafael has already closed the door.
We sit quietly for the span of several seconds.
“What was that?” I ask, attempting to keep my tone even and unaffected.
Rafael shifts so he can face me, the leather creaking beneath his weight. He scrubs a hand down his face and takes a deep breath. On the inside, my thoughts are so erratic no amount of ABBA will help.
“I wasn’t completely honest with you, Evie,” he says, making me feel like I’ve been hit by a car all over again.
Whereas a few days ago I could have handled the hurt, I don’t know how to now. I’ve been too busy wanting him—aching for things I swear I didn’t need—to hold on to his betrayal. I let my guard down.
And I’m paying for it.
“Clearly.” I swallow, unprepared for any of this—the last five minutes and the next.
Rafael’s face contorts like he’s eaten a package of chilis.
“The truth is that Art Betton wanted you on his account because you were hot. A hot piece of ass, to phrase it his way.” Rafael winces and his throat bobs.
My stomach bottoms out. “He saw you as a conquest, and I just couldn’t let him think he was entitled to that kind of behavior, so I told Dana that I didn’t need you on the account. That I could handle it myself.”
I stare at him, feeling like I’ve had the rug ripped from beneath me. Again and again.
One Mamma Mia.
Two Mamma Mia.
When I catch my breath, I ask, “Why not tell me the truth?”
“Because I knew how much you’d thrown yourself into getting the account, and I didn’t want you to think it had anything to do with you.
You were … amazing, and Art was—is—a dirty scumbag, who was going to bring Media Lab a lot of money, but I couldn’t let him near you like that.
” Rafael’s tone is thick with emotion. “I’m sorry I made that call for you, and I’m sorry I lied about it after.
I thought I was protecting you … and I fucked up. ”
It’s hard to think of words I can string together in response.
He didn’t steal the account with the intent to beat me.
He did it to protect me.
Do I believe him? When he’s pretended for so long?
No, Pre-Coma Evie shouts at me. This is Rafael Vela, the person I’ve spent the last two years trying to thwart and beat.
I know more about Rafael than I know about most other people, including Gemma and my mother.
This new information is paradigm-shifting.
“Evie?” His tone is low, tentative.
I release a shaky breath. “This entire time, you kept that to yourself?” My voice comes out even and hard, even though my heart is engaging in emotional acrobatics. I don’t let him answer. “It made me hate you.”
There’s an almost imperceptible sag to his shoulders.
“You can keep hating me. I wouldn’t blame you for it.
It shouldn’t have been my decision to make, but I couldn’t fathom the thought of you being in meetings or at dinners with him when I knew what he wanted.
And I could have—should have—gone to Dana, but I thought I was making the right choice for Media Lab and for you.
All I can say is … I’m sorry.” He sighs. “Lo siento.”
My chest aches and I can’t talk yet, not when I feel like roadkill all over again.
I spent so many years believing a lie and feeling betrayed. I invested so much of my energy in hating him when I could have spent it … not hating him, feeling more of what I’ve been feeling these last few days.
My throat closes up to the point where all I can say is, “We can go now.”