Page 50 of The Enforcer

21Zoe

Fifty stepsaway from Alfonso’s parents’ house, I realize that I’m going to have to reach out to Tyrone and Kevin eventually. At the height of my anger, I wanted to just disappear from their lives, the ultimate fuck you to them for breaking my heart, but I don’t think I can do that. I don’t have anything to apologize for. I don’t want to get back with them. But they do deserve to hear why, as clearly as I can manage. I’d told them during our last night together, but it’s so easy not to hear anything when you’re yelling. Unfortunately, this realization doesn’t help me figure out how to express what I’m feeling in concise words, and I hate being at a loss for the right thing to say.

I’m trying to compose my thoughts into an email in my brain. That’s what I’m thinking about when Alfonso tries to get me to expend some emotional labor on him. I will not. Been there, done that; got my heart broken too many times before. I’m good. Gently breaking up for real with my exes back home is all the energy I have for this season in my life — maybe more than I have. Once I do that, I can figure out how to get my foolish sister and cousin the fuck out of this country, and then I can take a real vacation. I deserve it. Soothing Alfonso’s negative perceptions of himself isn’t in the cards for me, fake fiancée or not.

When he unlocks the outer gate, I rush into the garden. I groan at one more flight of stairs. I walk determinedly — but slowly — up to the other house. I’m so tired and hot and sweaty that I plan to sleep for a week. I even think I’ll manage not to be annoyed at the tiny shower stall. But when he lets me into the house, Alfonso’s hand settles on the small of my back.

I try and squirm out of his grip. I’m hot and sweaty, and my dress is soaked through, but he holds on tight and leads me away to the other side of the house, where I guess he slept last night.

Alfonso leads me into the bedroom. I’m surprised to find his bed neatly made, but I look away. None of my business. We move through the room and through another doorway to a bathroom, tiled from the floor up to the ceiling. I see a shower head in a corner but no small stall.

“This wet room is bigger than Ugo’s. I need lots of space. You can shower in here,” he says and then turns from the room.

Should anyone be so happy to take a comfortable shower? Yes, and the next time someone tries to tell me that I’m doing too much with my spa time, I plan to punch them. Full stop. If I’ve learned nothing else from the past two days, it’s that a good shower is self-care. Or something equally worthy of being an inspirational quote in a Live, Laugh, Love kind of daily planner.

I have a second wind now. I rush across the house to my bedroom, passing Alfonso in the kitchen, putting away the piles of food his mother sent back with us. I grab all of my toiletries from the bathroom and dig in my suitcase for my emergency spa pack, which I keep always on hand just for moments like this. Well, not ‘just like,’ but near enough.

When I rush past the kitchen again, Alfonso is leaning against the counter, eating an apple, waiting for me. There’s a smile on his face. He waves, and I’m so happy that I wave back.

I shut the bathroom door and decide to take my time.

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