Page 101 of Shadow Dance

Was Lucky right? Was I too much of a trainwreck back then to handle something like this? What would seeing Cruz have been like? I imagine it would’ve been wonderful, but maybe it would’ve been difficult, too. Seeing him and then having to leave. Knowing we couldn’t safely see each other again. I was still being investigated at the time, andhe was right in the thick of it from the other side. We were both recovering from terrible physical injuries.

Still, I’ll have to talk to my oldest brother. I know Tristan’s right, that Lucky has a lot of responsibilities and that he does things from a place of love, but I also know that avoidance is his preferred method of handling emotional things. He almost ran Bria off with his bullshit, for God’s sake, keeping her at a distance while pining over her like a martyr.

Tristan’s always worn his heart on his sleeve, though. He’s still at the table when I finally go back inside, scrolling on his phone. Bending over him, I slip my arms around his neck and rest my chin on his shoulder. “I don’t deserve you,” I whisper. “Thank you.”

Chapter 32

Cruz

Leaving my backpack and sandy chanclas in the entryway, I shut the door and make a beeline for the fridge. I need water, preferably cold. And maybe a beer. Summertime in Puerto Rico is hot af. Humid, too.

Draining the water in two gulps, I set down the empty glass and sag against the counter in relief. I’ve been on the water since eight this morning. It’s three o’clock now, and I’m exhausted. Tío Mando, my mother’s oldest brother, invites me fishing whenever he goes. He’s a retired cop, too, but he worked for the Carolina Police for the full twenty-five years. He doesn’t begrudge me my early retirement, though.

“And everybody in this family calls me the unhinged one,” he’d said when I told him some of the crazier stories from the past few years. He’s seen some stuff too, but these days he lives a calm life, fishing and gardening and spoiling his second wife, Dalia. They live inland, in a rural area that allows for lots of peace and quiet.

I’m on the coast of Carolina, in a duplex belonging to my cousin. It’s a good fit for me. The beach is close and there are bars, restaurants, and stores nearby. Most of my mom’s family live around here, and the ones that don’t are in San Juan, which is maybe twenty minutes away.

I’ve been down here for almost two months now. The last time I visited I was in the eleventh grade, so it’s nice to be back as an adult. As aresident. Maybe not forever, but for right now—I’m trying not to live too far in the future. I have a lot of extended family here, so there was an automatic sense of community when I moved down. It’s always someone’s birthday or anniversary. I’m always at someone’s house for dinner, or they’re bringing it to me, leaving plastic containers full of food so good I had to start working out again to burn it off.

My shirt smells like salt and sweat, my hands calloused from holding a rod all day. I didn’t catch much—just a few small snapper to Mando’s cooler of mahi and grouper—but it was good to spend time with him.

Some of my favorite childhood memories happened within miles of here. Swimming at Playa Piñones with my grandmother and her sister, then hitting up the chinchorros until our bellies were stuffed. Long drives across the island to visit friends. Afternoons spent shooting cans and targets in the countryside with my cousins. Fishing with Tío Mando, who was working back then but still spent his days off on the boat.

I know I’m in the honeymoon stage, that life on island isn’t as idyllic as I’m making it out to be, but whatever. I’ll ride this wave until I can figure out my next step.

Heading for the shower, I strip off my clothes as I walk through the tiny living room. The duplex is modest but cozy, with comfortable, worn furniture that’s at least twenty years old and tons of family photos on the wall.

After a shower and a shave, I heat up the arroz con gandules that Dalia sent for me and settle in front of the TV to zone out. After years of hypervigilance and constant surveillance, of pretending and risking my life and then fucking falling for someone I could never have, I’m exhausted in every sense of the word. It goes bone deep. Besides family stuff, I haven’t really gone out. I have no desire to go clubbing or bar hopping. I just want to relax.

The only problem with that is the overthinking. Now that my brain doesn’t have a million things to juggle, it keeps going back to the one thing it should just leave alone: Maeve Kelly. I finally sent her a postcard a couple of weeks ago, after my cousin and I drove over that big bridge in Naranjito. I grabbed the postcard when we stopped for gas and sent it to Tristan’s gym in Boston before I could change my mind.

I still haven’t heard anything back. I hope I got the address right.Sometimes I’m tempted to write again and give her my phone number, or maybe ask for hers since the old one doesn’t work, but I don’t. I’ve made the first move, and now the ball is in her court. If she wants to connect, she will.

Waiting to hear from her sucks, but that’s what I get for waiting so long to send the damn postcard in the first place. I kept trying to move on with my life, telling myself I was giving her time to heal too, but in the end, I had to at least try. These feelings I have for her aren’t going anywhere.

I flip through channels mindlessly, not really seeing what’s on the screen. My mind keeps wandering back to Maeve, to her smile, her teasing, the way she lit up when she talked about ballet or her nephew. The way she felt when I kissed her, when I was inside her.

I have to prepare myself for the possibility that she might not want to go there with me again, though. And could I blame her? It was high drama the entire time we knew each other. Our last days together were especially hectic, and in the end, I know she felt betrayed by my revelations. She said she loved me, and maybe she did, but the fact is that I lied to her a lot, and for a long time. It doesn’t matter why.

Part of me hopes Maeve doesn’t respond because it’ll stir up everything I’ve been trying to tamp down. In my more generous moments, I even wonder if she should move on with someone who isn’t tainted by the lies and danger that defined our relationship. Someone uncomplicated, someone safe.

Yeah, right. If she does move on, I don’t want to know about it. Just the thought of her with another man makes me feel like breaking something.

I don’t want her to avoid me. I’m selfish, and I’d do anything for proof that the connection between us still exists. I’d do anything to see her face, hear her voice. To touch her.

The wind kicks up, blowing a fresh, cleansing breeze through the louvered windows. That usually means rain. I glance out the window and sure enough, the sky’s gone a silvery gray. Seconds later, I hear the sharp staccato of raindrops against the roof. It intensifies, filling the house until there’s nothing but the scent and sound of rain. It’s the kind of downpour that makes you want to stay in bed and nap.

The kind that makes you wish you weren’t alone.

Swinginginto the post office parking lot, I park beneath the row of trees at the back and jog inside. My box is, as usual, almost empty—the only bills I have are for my phone and utilities, and those come to my email. There is something from Lewis, though. He’s the only member of the old team that knows where I am.

Looks like he’s getting married next year, and I’m invited. I smile, knowing I won’t be going back to the West Coast anytime soon. Nice of him to reach out, though. He’s been worried about me, even though I couldn’t have picked a safer place.

Ignoring the small pang of disappointment that comes with every fruitless visit to the post office, I get back into the truck and make my way home, drumming my fingers absently over the wheel. It’s warm and sunny, a good day for the beach. Every day is a good day for the beach down here, especially when you’re living like a tourist. I had a decent amount of savings when I moved here, so coupled with my severance pay, I’m doing all right. I can’t do nothing forever, but after doing so much for years and years, I’m learning to relax.

I pull up to the duplex and park, collecting my bag of groceries and Lewis’ wedding invitation before getting out.

“Cruz?”

---