Page 74 of The Road Sometimes Taken

“She said it was urgent, and she named you and Mr. Augusto by full names when she used the family and friends card. She said your sister sent her. I called Mr. Augusto to confirm and he said she was right. I’m sorry, sir, it seemed important,” Lucia rambles.

I pinch the bridge of my nose; at the same time, I comb my loose curls back and shake my head. “It’s okay, Lucia. Thank you. Just bring her in whenever she gets here. I’ll look at the file in a minute,” I add.

Another thing that I learned from Cara? Patience. You never know what someone is going through; sometimes you just need to be a little patient and have some empathy for that person. Then, anything everyone does starts to feel less and less annoying.

I walk to the desk to look at the folder, thinking about how crazy it is that I went on that trip supposedly to take Cara from one place to another—but what actually happened was that I ended up finding myself instead. Even if we didn’t end up together, I will always be thankful for every moment we spent together.

I drag my hand over the cold glass of my desk and open the folder when there’s a knock on the door. I look up to see the last person I was expecting.

“Your four o’ clock, sir,” Lucia announces as she lets Cara in. She walks toward me, stealing my breath and catching me by surprise. She’s wearing a tight little gray skirt with a soft pink button-down shirt tucked in, showing every single curve. She’s wearing high heels and dark tights making her legs look a mile long and she has a giant bag over her shoulder.

“Thank you, Lucia. Close the door please and you’re good to go. Have a good night,” I stammer, trying to keep my voice calm. Lucia nods as she walks through the door, shutting it behind her and leaving me to face Cara.

“Cara,” I say sharply trying to hide how my heart almost leapt from my chest when I saw her.

“Manuel.” She walks closer to me, crossing her legs one in front of the other, accentuating every step as if she has a sole purpose in life and that purpose is to kill me. Her hair is styled in loose waves that bounce with every step she takes and her smile—her damn smile—could light up the whole building.

“How can I help you?” I ask her, trying to stay professional. I tuck my hands to my pockets, the only place I can keep them so I don’t run around this desk and pull her to me. Actually, so I don’t bend her over this desk and fuck some sense back into her. How do I make her see that I just need her to let me love her the way I know I can and the way I know she should? I just need the chance to show her, nothing else.

“I need help with something and I think you’re the only person who can do it. Did you look at the folder?” she asks, pointing to the folder on top of my desk. I opened it right when she walked in but I didn’t even see what’s in it. The minute my eyes landed on Cara, I couldn’t think about anything else but her.

I see a picture of a beautiful farmhouse with a classic gable roof and what seems like weather-resistant siding. The front porch wraps around the side, complete with rocking chairs framing a soft yellow door with a label that says ‘like sunshine and lemons’. Now that I’m paying attention, there are labels in different parts of the photograph. The porch has one that says, ‘for stargazing’ and the front yard says ‘for dancing under the stars’.

I turn the page and find more pictures. One of an open-concept living space that feels warm and inviting with a label that reads ‘for family dinners.’ I can almost see myself sitting by the cozy fireplace, surrounded by exactly that—friends and family. Surrounded by her ‘bestie girls’ as she calls them, or a double date dinner with Allie and Jake. The kitchen catches my eyes, with sleek stainless steel appliances, a farmhouse sink, and a spacious island with a label that says, ‘for all chicken nugget dinners and whatever salad you want to eat.’

My heart is pounding hard against my chest as I continue through the pages, looking at different parts of the house with labels that are too close to what I would like my house to be. What I would like my house withherto be. The last page has the master bedroom, a spacious room with a California king bed in the middle and a label that reads ‘too much room just for me.’ That’s the last page in this packet so when I turn it over and upside down to make sure I didn’t miss something I look up to find Cara with tears in her eyes and a soft smile.

“You see, Manny, I found the perfect home but it has two big issues. One, every place in that house is perfect to do something that I want but it’s also perfect to do something I enjoyed doing with you. Every inch of that house is exactly as what I pictured I wanted for myself and a family one day.”

“Okay and how is that a problem? I can look at your finances and advise,” I reply, trying desperately to appear unphased.

“Well, the problem is that it’s too big and, although every space in it is exactly what I want, it feels entirely wrong without you in the picture.”

I look into her eyes, searching for something. I don’t want to assume anything. I want her to tell me with her words exactly what she means.

“ I—”

“Let me finish. I heard you, now I want you to hear me.Ineedyou to hear me. I’ve been house hunting for weeks now and every house I find has an and, if, or a but. But then I realized why. It’s because it’s a house I’m not sharing with you. And yes, I know how crazy this looks and how this sounds but, Manny, I think I want more than those three weeks with you, and I sure as hell don’t want any of these three weeks, I’ve spent without you. I want to make more memories with you. I want to share more moments. I want them all. If you’ll have me that is.”

The moment her words hit me, everything inside me stops. It’s like the world freezes—no ticking clocks, no buzzing phones, no noise at all. Just her voice, soft and tentative, weaving through the thick air between us. I can’t even process what she’s said at first. I just...feelit.

I want more than those three weeks with you.

God, she wants more. The fear that had gnawed at me for weeks—the fear that it all was too much, too soon—dissolves in the heat of her words. And yet, I can’t breathe.

A second. A full minute of silence stretches between us. My pulse is louder than anything else. I feel the heat of her gaze on me, steady and uncertain, like she’s waiting for me to say something—anything—but my tongue feels thick, my thoughts tangled in the mess of this moment. I just... I want to saysomething—anything to keep her from second-guessing herself. From walking away thinking she misread me. But I don’t trust my voice. I said how I felt once and then it all fell apart.

Instead, I step forward. I don’t think, I just move. One step, then another, until I’m standing right in front of her, so close I can feel the heat of her breath. I look at her—really look at her—willing myself to take this in, to memorize the way her eyes flicker nervously, how her lips part just slightly like she’s about to say something but doesn’t. It’s like my heart is pumpingfaster in my chest, but my body can’t keep up with the speed of my emotions.

“If it’s too late, I understand,” Cara mutters before continuing, “but I’m not leaving here without a fight, Manny. I want more than just your time now. I want all of you. All of it. I want to know the quiet parts of you, the ones you keep tucked away. I want to share days and nights where we don’t have to rush, where we don’t have to hide behindjustthe moments that pass by too quickly. I want to show you how much I love you, Manny. How much I fell for you in those three weeks, even if that sounds crazy. I want to prove that I can be enough for you.”

Then, she pulls out another folder from her bag and hands it to me.

The gesture feels so...her—like it’s the most vulnerable thing in the world. I stare at it, confused. She’s always so put together, always the one who has everything in line, and here she is, handing me something that looks like it belongs in a school supply closet. I look at the letterhead—apples, hearts, Ms. Thompson.

“What is this?” I ask, opening it, not sure if I’m supposed to laugh or take it seriously.

“A contract.” She says it casually, like it’s no big deal. Like she’s offering me a cup of coffee instead of... this.

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