Chapter 32
sofía
“Put it over there,” I say, hiking up the skirt of my dress and tiptoeing in my heels, careful to avoid where the rugs snag over the carpet.
I’m grateful for the chaos, the last-minute snags before guests and fans and family members arrive.
In the end, we sold out six of the theaters to show the first episode of Jett’s docuseries.
The caterers plate hors d’oeuvres. The bartenders lug in backup bottles of liquor.
The venue staff cover the high-top tables with tablecloths and tea lights.
It’s been so busy, I haven’t had a moment to think or breathe or stew in my anxiety.
No overthinking the words I’ve prepared and practiced a million times the last two weeks.
We’ve been texting. Mostly about work. I sent him a cat video to test the waters.
I got a thumbs-up, and it broke my heart.
My phone chimes from my purse, and I read the message, a flurry of anticipation taking flight in my stomach.
Charlie: We’re on our way. Be there in twenty.
I go through my last-minute checklist, organizing staff to check in the guests, ensuring the photographer and photo booth are both ready to go, and then chug a passionfruit martini for liquid courage. There’s nothing left to do, so I run laps around the space, searching for anything to distract me.
They have the first episode running in one theater, testing it before the full viewing, and I slip inside, slumping into a seat.
I’ve watched it a dozen times, but it’s nothing short of incredible.
Funny, informative, exciting. Jett and Doug did a masterful job of cutting and editing and adding in all the small interviews they did.
I’m so proud of him.
Another chime sounds, and that’s my cue. I straighten out my dress, readjust my boobs, and tuck my hair behind my ear.
Showtime.
Charlie appears in the lobby, and she gasps when she sees me. “Holy shit, you look smoking hot.”
A blush hits my cheeks. “Think so?”
“He’s going to lose his mind. Spent the whole car ride talking about you.” She winks. “He bought my dress. Amy’s, also.”
She spins, showing off the long gown, a deep teal covered in intricate beadwork. Long sleeves made of gossamer cover the majority of her scars, but her hair is pulled back into a loose bun of curls.
“It’s gorgeous,” I tell her. “You look beautiful.”
I haven’t forgotten he bought dresses for my sisters and mom as well.
“Are you ready?” Amy asks, gripping Charlie by the shoulders. She yelps, and Amy laughs. “The boys are coming in now.”
One by one, Mateo, Oliver, and Jett enter the lobby, each with varying expressions.
Mateo spots his girlfriend and lights up, sliding beside her and resting his hand protectively on her hip.
Oliver cautiously stands beside Amy, and she steels her shoulders, taking a deep breath before offering him a bland smile.
But it’s Jett’s reaction I study. He scans the space and lands on me, his throat bobbing as he tugs at the cuff of his blazer.
It’s now or never.
In twenty minutes, he’ll be surrounded by fans and guests and won’t have time to talk.
“En el amor, el que se duerme, se pierde,” Mateo says.
I wave a hand at him and his philosophical “if you do nothing in love, you lose” bullshit. Sounds like my abuela when she would yell at the characters of her telenovela when we visited her in Monterey as children.
“Hike those tits up, and go get ’em, girl,” Amy cheers.
That’s a much better pep talk.
I intercept him halfway between the door and our small group. The panic on his face is another slice to my heart.
“C-can I talk to you for a minute?” His eyes flicker around, likely looking for an escape or a barrier or someone to mediate. “Please? For a minute.”
He nods, and I scurry out the back door, propped open to help the air flow.
The noise fades, and then it’s him in his suit, me in my dress.
A girl standing in front of a guy, ready to tell him she’s fallen in love with him.
The knowledge from the phone call spurs me on, gives me the courage I need to do this, but a lot can change in a few weeks.
“Is everything okay? Is there an issue with the media file?”
I wring my hands together, fingers stiff with nerves. “No, I-I wanted to talk to you.” I rip off the bandage. “You never asked me my deepest, darkest secret,” I say, my heartbeat in my throat.
I’ve imagined this a million times—what I would say, how he would respond. Every scenario played out in my mind. The good, bad, and heartbreaking. I’m prepared for it all.
But no matter how terrifying the potential outcomes, he’s worth the risk.
“Sofía, I—”
“Ask me,” I demand.
Please ask me.
His throat bobs, and he glances at the theater entrance, laughter and music playing as guests arrive and mingle. He should be in there, greeting people, talking up his docuseries, but he’s out here because I asked him.
This is the last place he wants to be right now.
“I don’t know how to do this with you,” he says in a strained voice. “I don’t know if I can pretend that it was a fun fling. It meant something to me. I can’t forget that.”
My heart cracks. He spins away, and I panic, grabbing his hand.
“I don’t want you to forget. Ask me my secret, Jett.”
Hazel eyes meet mine, swimming in sadness. But behind it, there’s a sliver of something else, an emotion I cling to desperately. I witness the moment his resolve wavers, shoulders deflating as he asks, “What’s your deepest, darkest secret, Sofía?”
With every ounce of strength and courage I possess, I whisper, “I fell madly in love with my boss.”
“What?” His hand slackens in mine. “What did you say?”
“I’ve done a lot since we left Australia. But mostly, I’ve thought of you. All the time.”
I can barely breathe beneath the intensity of his stare, the rapid rise and fall of his chest. I’ve never done this—laid out every emotion like it’s a hand of cards.
“Never in my life has someone consumed my thoughts the way you have. It’s debilitating.
You are the first person I think about every day, and it has hurt being away from you.
I think you’re my best friend. Not in the way you told me we were, but in the way where I could spend every waking moment with you and never need time alone.
And I know we’re so different, and in another world, we would never work, but I don’t think any of that matters because I love you. ”
“You love me?” he asks, the words barely a whisper.
“I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you, like it’s the easiest, most natural thing I’ll ever do.
I didn’t even realize it had happened until you walked away in the airport and it was like my heart ripped from my chest.” I release his hand, wrapping my arms around myself.
“And I know it might be selfish to tell you now, but I don’t think I could live with keeping it to myself, even if you don’t feel the same. ”
Time suspends between us, and he stares, wide-eyed, blinking, mute. Sharp disappointment presses between my ribs. The dismissal is an ache I won’t shake, but I steel my shoulders. I prepared for this. Knew the potential outcomes, the risks of telling him before the premiere, of waiting these weeks.
So I offer him a smile, though it falls flat.
When the night is over and I’m at home, I’ll cry.
I’ll allow the wave of emotions to sweep me under and mourn the loss.
If I were braver, if I hadn’t let him walk away in the airport, then maybe it would be different.
I missed my chance, and I’ll learn to live with that.
Two things can be true: He can confess he loves me to his friends and still decide he doesn’t want to try again.
“I’m sorry to spring this on you before your speech,” I croak, reaching out to readjust his bow tie, allowing myself to touch him one last time. “I’ll give you some space.”
Pulling away wrings my heart, but he covers my hand with his palm, pressed over his heart. The pounding is erratic, quick. I snap my gaze to his, and my knees buckle from the weight of it.
I’m not convinced he’s ever going to speak, but he finally asks, “Do I need to fire you to kiss you again?”
All I can offer is a stunned shake of my head before his lips are on mine as he grips my hips tight like he’s afraid I’ll disappear.
My fingers dig at the nape of his neck, ruining the neat bun. I clamp down on the hope that grows when he breaks the kiss and his forehead falls against mine, joyous noise from the theater filling the space between us.
“This is real?” he asks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
A smile forms on his lips, which graze against mine in another kiss.
“Very real,” I confirm. “I’m sorry I froze in the airport.
I’m sorry I was too chicken to chase you down.
And I’m sorry I made you feel like you weren’t enough for me.
It couldn’t be farther from the truth.” After a moment of composure, I launch into the rest of my practiced speech.
“I don’t know what to do now. I can quit.
Find a new job. We could go on a real date.
Start over and do it right. I’ve thought of a few plans, if you want to give this a chance. ”
I pull the folded piece of paper from my bra, unfolding it. He plucks it away and rips it to shreds. Mouth agape, I blink down at the wreckage.
Well, I did not expect that.
“Or we could do none of that.” He takes my hands. His are steady. Mine tremble like an earthquake. “No quitting. No new job. No starting over.”
“What’s your idea, then?”
“For starters, this.”
He cups my jaw and kisses me again. Deep. Slow. Greedy. I’m weightless when he releases me, far enough to stand, but I remain in his grip like he’s afraid I’ll flutter away.