Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
TWO WEEKS LATER
I’m finally home and alone.
It took all of another week—six days, to be exact—to walk the length of the corridor for Dr. Wagner and to pass a few other tests before she signed my discharge papers, telling me I’d need to give it another week before I resumed normal activities, like work, which I still haven’t inquired about, even when Dana and a few of my team members texted to check in.
The temptation to know about the status of OhLaLove and Rafael made my fingers itch, but I was too “frail” (cowardly) to ask, so I updated them on my health and progress instead.
I’ll face the music on Monday—thirty-one days since I was last there—when I meet with Dana and see what’s next for me.
But I promised the doc I wouldn’t stress. Yet.
I have an entire weekend to settle back into my life without the incessant mothering of Gemma, who unsurprisingly roped Cristina into a twenty-four-hour-a-day mission to keep me comfortable and relaxed.
I was one of those things in the last week of being coddled and fed (and almost bathed, which only my vehement opposition prevented).
It’s from a good place, I had to remind myself every time they popped their heads into my bedroom with another bowl of soup or a cup of tea.
Still, I nearly hugged my door when it closed behind them earlier.
It’s finally quiet. No monitors or beeping.
No medical staff or hospital noises. No Gemma or Cristina.
Just silence. I soak it in as I settle at my kitchen counter, which is now cluttered with bouquets of flowers and boxes of chocolate and cookies—gifts from friends and coworkers.
A beautiful orchid from Charlene. A homemade card from Cristina’s granddaughter.
And to my shock, another gift from Rafael.
Mildly curious, I carefully unfold the note attached to it. #8—From Yours Truly. It’s nonsense in his scrawl. I crinkle my nose at his choice of sign-off. As if.
Reluctant, I open the package to discover Madrigal’s Magic Key to Spanish.
I flip through the pages, hoping another note will explain the meaning behind the gift.
I’ve tried to learn Spanish several times, and most of those times it was an attempt to start deciphering Rafael’s rapid-fire Spanish conversations.
If his “gift” is meant to taunt me, I’m only mildly annoyed by it (because I’m not allowed to feel anything but super relaxed).
When—and if—I decide to learn Spanish, I’ll do it on my own terms, thank you very much.
I ball up his note and drag myself to my bedroom, where I practically melt into my bed, into the down comforter and pillows, because—between a near-death experience, two weeks of being in a coma, and two more weeks in recovery—the post-coma exhaustion is real, and not that I’d admit it, I don’t think I’m completely fixed.
I press a hand to my chest.
Even though it wasn’t my heart that was hurt, it’s the part that feels the sorest, like it was pulled out of me, altered in a substantial way, and shoved back into my chest, where it doesn’t quite fit the same.
Like I lost a part of me I might never recover.
Nothing a good sleep won’t fix.
I wake up in a panic, my heart skittering against my rib cage. My phone tells me I’ve slept for six hours, yet somehow I feel worse than before I napped.
The gnawing sensation that was contained to my chest seems to have spread while I slept. I try to rub the sensation away. To breathe and relax.
When it doesn’t immediately happen, I go to the kitchen for a glass of water.
I gulp it down, pour another, and lean against the marble counter, nudging Rafael’s crumpled note with my elbow.
I set the glass down and smooth down the paper, imagining his tanned fingers and hand moving across the paper. Him smiling his insufferable smirk.
#8. Yours Truly.
He’s not the best with words, but this means nothing. A bunch of nonsense. A joke only he understands.
Number eight? What in the hell does that have to do with anything?
The Spanish guide stares at me from beside the note.
And it hits me, like a wrecking ball to the brain.
#8: Learn Spanish.
My bucket list. One that Rafael apparently knows about.
Taking a deep, deep breath, I try to think, think, think about how he could have gotten his backstabbing hands on it. Sure, I’ve crossed some boundaries in our rivalry, but my planner?
God! I could just … tear out his hair. He doesn’t even deserve those luscious locks. And when he runs his hands through his hair … watching me from across a dance floor, senior citizens around us, a tango playing in the background and my heart thumping to the beat …
I blink, confused by the images.
But there are others.
A man in a poncho lights candles in my living room.
People and food and music fill a backyard.
Rafael and I are standing oh-so-close in my guest bath.
In his apartment, pots and pans on the stove, Rafael is tasting soup while explaining the magic of chilis.
We’re wading in the lake in the middle of the night, playing truth or dare. My breathing stops. And ohmygod.
I sink to the kitchen floor with a thump.
I don’t think I hate Rafael Vela.
I’m glad for the ground beneath my ass, because my heart’s engaging in emotional Olympics.
Closing my eyes, I force my breathing to get it together.
One Mamma Mia.
I was a ghost (or a spirit—I never quite figured it out).
Two Mamma Mia.
I spent all those days with Rafael.
Three Mamma Mia.
And I fell for him.
Leaning my head against the island, I mentally pick apart each of the memories, or was it a dream?
But I wouldn’t have dreamt those days with Rafael.
Vivid nightmares in which he’s torturing me or sweet dreams where I torture him?
Yes. But imagining a reality where I wake up with him each day? Most certainly not my idea of a dream.
It was real, and I spent those days with him. Up until …
“I can count on myself more than I could ever count on you.” The words—my words—right before it ended, before I pushed him away.
I feel sick.
I went for the kill, and he wants nothing to do with me. No emails, no texts—not even ones to taunt me. The evidence is all there.
And can I blame him? Not even a little. I was cruel and selfish. If he never wants to see me again, I deserve it. If we’re back to being rivals, I earned that.
Liar! My heart snaps. I could never hate him again. I never hated him to begin with. And I can’t let him think I meant any of it. I wish I could get a do-over and take it all back (just kidding, Great-Aunt Julia!).
All I know is I can’t live with Rafael cutting me out of his life. Because turns out, I want to be in his. Not as a coworker. Not as a ghost with unresolved feelings. But as me, flesh and flaws and all.
The threads of a plan—the craziest, most reckless one—begin to weave together. My checklists until now were written with a specific goal in mind: moving ahead in the world. I was ensuring my future, ensuring that I never went back to survival mode. That I never felt vulnerable again.
My next checklist doesn’t guarantee any of that. Because I’m going to tell him.
Teetering on the verge of passing out or doing a dance, I push from the floor and find my phone. My fingers wobble as I unlock it and tap on Gemma’s name.
She’s beaten me to the texting game.
Gemma: Are you okay? (Sent 9:18 PM)
Gemma: I hope you’re not answering because you’re sleeping. (Sent 9:20 PM)
Gemma: You have ten minutes to text me before I head over. (Sent 9:25 PM)
I groan aloud.
Me: I was sleeping. I’m alive and well and fed. I promise.
Three dots dance on the screen, but the text never comes because Gemma’s face pops up on the screen as it buzzes. Steeling myself, I answer.
“Are you okay?” She sounds breathless.
“I’m fine.” A lie. I’m the opposite of fine until I find Rafael and talk to him, after which I might permanently reside in the opposite of fine zip code.
“You know I’ve known you too long to believe that.”
I start pacing. “Physically, I’m fine,” I amend. “But I need you to tell me about the day before I woke up … or the day I did. What happened?”
“Hard to explain,” Gemma says carefully. “One moment you were burning up, and the next, the doctors came in. There was chaos—alarms and scrambling. They kicked me out of there … and then, after what seemed like ages, you started stabilizing.”
I try to think back to that moment. “Margot was there,” I breathe, piecing it together.
Gemma’s quiet. “Yes,” she says reluctantly, like’s she’s not quite sure how I know …
and one day, when I process it all, I’ll tell her.
“I went looking for her,” she adds quickly.
“And I know you’re going to hate me for it, because I should have known better, but I thought she should know.
That if …” Gemma hesitates. “If you didn’t make it, she should know.
But she decided she was going to come along because she was your mother, and that’s when I knew I had fucked up. ”
“I don’t hate you,” I interject. “And you did what you thought was right.”
“Still, I felt like a turd. A big turd,” Gemma says. “Especially when she showed up, acting like a doting mother, demanding the doctors take you off all the medication because it was unnatural—that it was prolonging the inevitable.”
I stop pacing, needing to know. “And?”
“She tried to strong-arm the team, started screaming about being next of kin, about not wanting you to live like that,” Gemma says.
“It was bad. So bad that eventually the doctors told her to step back, but she only kept escalating, so they asked her to leave, and when she refused, they had her removed. And during all that, all your vitals were through the roof.”
“And that’s it?” I ask, not connecting the dots.
“I mean, that’s the summary of it,” she says.
“In the end, your vitals—they stabilized. Quickly. Unnaturally, almost.” She has no idea.
“They tapered the sedation, and you did well on your own.” There’s a smile and relief in her voice.
“And that improved until you could be weaned off of it entirely. Until you could come back.”
I have so many questions. I ask the loudest one. “And Rafael?”
All I hear is the hum of the road in the background. “Are you sure it’s a good time to talk about Raf? You know Dr. Wagner said you need to—”
“Relax. I got it, Mama Bear. I promise this has nothing to do with work or anything stress inducing.”
“Raf? Not stress inducing?”
“Gem!”
“Okay, I’ll bite. He’s fine. He’s doing his thing.”
“His thing?” I hope thing isn’t code for a person.
“Well, I don’t know if this is a big ol’ secret or not, but he quit Media Lab. He’s making tequila now.” La Clandestina! The bar. His business with Lupe. More memories click into place. “Anyway, he’s good. In fact, tonight is the launch of La Cla—his bar.”
A knot tightens in my belly. Of course it’s the night of his launch. Of course he’s moved on with his life. Of course I’m here being a fool who thinks she can track him down and explain everything.
“Evie?” Gemma’s tone turns panicky.
“Yes, I’m here.” But I’m thinking about Rafael and where to go from here. I could schedule a time to chat, like normal people who have lives and friends and people who love them. Or not.
The thought of waiting makes me restless, and I stride into my closet and flip on the light. Rows of color-coded clothing and shoes line each of the walls. “Gem?”
“Yes?”
“I want to go to the launch.” A surge of adrenaline makes me dizzy.
“Um. Do you—”
“And I’m going to need you to be a little less Mama Bear Gemma and a lot more Ladies’ Night at the Club Gem. Okay?” My tone leaves little room for her to argue.
“I don’t think …”
“No thinking involved,” I say to the both of us. “Not tonight.”