Cuarenta
I felt at home lying on his chest and was so comfortable spread out on his pillow-top mattress, lying under his blue blanket, that I slept for twelve hours.
I was so fucking cozy that I convinced myself that the monsters wouldn’t be able to find me in his bed.
And if they did, I trusted him to protect me.
I trusted this man so fucking much that I left my blade in my clothes.
It’s the first time in a fucking decade that I haven’t slept with my girl.
He was gone when I woke up, and I swallowed down my instant panic with the water on his nightstand. It had a yellow Post-it note on it that read, Bébeme, Drink m e, and it made me fucking laugh; I love it that he keeps using Google Translate to look up words. Es… dulce. It’s… sweet.
I had pulled the Post-it off the bottle and sat up to drink it when I noticed just how many he had left for me. I literally wondered if he used every fucking Post-it in the house. I found that shit so fucking cute when I saw one sitting on a foiled-up grilled cheese.
That one said, Monstruo del queso, Cheese Monster. I carefully sealed it behind the water bottle note after killing that plate of food.
I ended up with nine of them and stapled them together with the stapler on his desk to keep them safe. I swear to mis diosas, this man is making me all sentimental with his sweetness. It’s why I’m sitting here wearing not one, but two, pieces of his clothing.
He left me a long-sleeved shirt that looks fucking identical to the one that I wore the other day, along with a note that said, The baseball shirt is garbage. This is yours now.
Then I found the note on the black crewneck that had the number three embroidered on it with black thread. That note said, My favorite number, on my favorite girl.
It made me fucking believe with my whole fucking heart that mis diosas, especialmente Hécate, my goddesses, especially Hecate, who sends out her signs in threes, are telling me to embrace all this lovey-dovey shit that he’s throwing at me.
Even my horoscope today was encouraging me to go all in.
You may find that the walls you’ve built to protect your independence are softer than you thought, dear Aquarius.
You’re ready to let someone who understands your need for freedom, yet still offers steady devotion.
Love will feel lighter when you stop questioning whether you deserve it and instead allow it to unfold naturally.
This is a day to embrace acceptance–both from yourself and others.
Let that acceptance be your anchor and your joy.
So here I am, sitting at the front desk in tattoo guy’s shop, working a job that I didn’t ask for, while wearing my man’s clothes, and looking over the love notes that he left me while I wait for his stupid-ass game to be over.
He said he’d be here by midnight, and for his sake, I really fucking hope that he is.
I need to fucking talk to him. I have to show him the screenshot that I took of Payton’s social media post and her story from his game, so that he can explain to me why his name is in her mouth like that.
She went on and on about players that are most likely to go on to play in the NHL.
I don’t know how that works, but what I do know is that she said his name three fucking times and looked more and more psychotic every time that she said Hunter Wilton.
I meant it yesterday when I told him that I don’t like crowds like that.
From her videos, I can tell that the place he plays at looks fucking packed.
There’s no fucking way that I would’ve been able to go.
All those people and only a few ways to get out?
Yeah, no. That’s literally one of my nightmares.
According to her most recent story post, his team won their game, which means that he should be here soon. Good. I don’t fucking like her in the same place that he is. I also don’t like that I haven’t seen him in almost four hours.
One of the nine Post-It notes that he left me earlier had his schedule on it; he had an early morning practice, which I didn’t even hear him get up for, a team breakfast meeting to watch something called game tape, rest time with my name in parentheses next to it, a team dinner, and then the game.
He wrote, Espérame, Ed, no te vayas. Wait for me, Ed, don’t leave, and because it’s getting harder and harder to say no to him, I stayed. It also helped that he left me the WiFi password.
I kept busy while he was gone and did some solid-ass research on X members and their prison time. I made a color-coded spreadsheet to track who was in and for how long.
I found info on several of those motherfuckers, but there was nothing on Gabe. It made me so fucking panicky that I threw Hunter’s blue blanket over my head and hid in the dark for a while.
When I got up to use the bathroom, I found a note on the mirror telling me that he had cleaned up the bathroom and put out clean towels for me. I took the hottest and longest fucking shower of my life. Standing under the spray, I relived every fucking moment that we had in there yesterday.
I thought about him the whole time that he was gone, and I honestly don’t know if I was more excited to see him or the cheeseburger meal that he brought me when he came back to the room.
That big-ass lunch put me right into a food coma, and I had no problem falling asleep when he insisted that I turn off my brain and nap with him for his scheduled rest time.
When we woke up, we stayed in bed for an hour, kissing and talking. I swear to my goddesses that I have no fucking idea what this life is right now, and I’m so afraid that it’s all gonna go away, or I’m gonna wake up and it would’ve all been a dream.
He played with my hair and asked me how I got to Havenwood. I’ve never talked about it before, and hearing the story out loud wasn’t easy for me.
“How did you end up here?” He asked while massaging my scalp.
“My high school guidance counselor, Ms. Santos, went there, and it looked nice. She knew what was going on in my life and helped me escape.” That’s the short answer.
She grew up like I did and knew that I had to run.
She once told me that she had someone help her and that she wanted to pay it forward.
I hope that one day I can do the same for a girl who needs it.
“Edison Santos. You took her last name?” His fingers kept running through my hair, and it felt good while I was telling him such a sad fucking story.
“And Edison for Thomas Edison, you know, the inventor? He was my favorite,” I offered, and he smiled sweetly at me.
“Yeah, Ed, I know who he is, smartypants.”
“I wanted to reinvent myself and start over fresh. I left everything behind in New York. I never thought I’d have to fucking be Valentine Garcia again.” Admitting this out loud is fucking hard for me to hear, even though it is one hundred percent the truth.
“You don’t have to be Valentine unless you want to be.” He kissed my forehead when he said this, and that’s seriously becoming one of my new favorite things that he does. “You’re still my Ed, Ed.”
"Valentine needs to stay dead so that Edison can keep living.” I’ve thought about this a hundred times since Payton found me. Valentine Garcia needs to remain a ghost.
“Good, because I want to give Ed a good life.” This man and the shit he says. He’s turning me into one of those fucking girls who like this shit.
“You talk crazy, you know that? You act like… I don’t even know.” I told him and shook my head. He’s such a fucking surprise, I swear.
“Like I love you.” If this is what it’s like to be loved by him, then I never want it to stop. “Now say it back to me.”
“I love you, too, cabrón .” Y lo hago. And I do.
“No, tell me in Spanish. I loved it when you said it like that before. Say it again for me.”
“ Te amo, pendejo. ”
I didn’t leave his room until we left together for him to go play his game and for me to go to tattoo guy’s shop for this random-ass job that I now have.
He told me that I could leave my stuff in his room, and I made sure to lock all my shit up in his bathroom before he locked his bedroom door. He promised me that his brother would lock up the house and even showed me a text that he sent to him as a reminder to double-check the front door.
I think he also texted his friends something about me being there in the house; I didn’t hear or see anyone the entire time I was in that room. I mean, if I really had to get out, I’d use his window, but I also don’t think I would’ve seen any of his roommates if I walked out like I came in.
At one point, I thought about texting Evie, but didn’t. He said it was fine, and I’m sure it is, but I don’t like feeling like I’m somehow being a bad friend to one of the two that I have. But then again, Sloane is with the other brother, so maybe it really is okay? Aye, wey. I don’t fucking know.
When I asked if she was in the house, he said that they were at her place. And that opened up this entire fucking conversation about why I never moved in there. I couldn’t. I don’t want to bring any of my shit to their doorstep. What kind of friend would I fucking be then? A shitty one.
And yet, here I am, holed up with her brother in his nice-ass room, acting like I’m at a five-star hotel for a vacation or some shit.
Because that’s what this man feels like to me.
And if the fucking baggage that I have ruins this once-in-a-lifetime experience that I’m having, then I’ll fucking swallow the shit I have at the bottom of my stolen bag that's securely on my shoulder.
There was no fucking way I was leaving there without some of my shit. I have a small list of things that are non-negotiable and automatically go where I go. And today, they went inside my zippered Halloween bag that I stole last year from a grocery store.