Page 111 of All Twerk, No Play

“Yeah, but you also had the world’s shittiest weekend.” Cruz exhaled, his voice low and rough. “I thought bringing you here would help, but it just added another awful surprise to the shitshow.”

“Not an awful surprise. Your family—” I brought a fist to my mouth, fending off the wave of longing for the way they loved, loud and messy and unconditional. … and resentment that I'd never had that. “They’re incredible, Cruz.”

My mother’s absence pressed against my ribs, heavy and suffocating. Cruz must have seen it on my face—or maybe his grief for his stepdad resonated on the same frequency— because his fingers tightened, rough calluses against my palm.

“I used to love surprises,” I admitted hoarsely. “Growing up, my mom planned five for my birthday every year. Broadway matinees, tea at the American Girl store, a night in the Eloise Room at the Plaza … They both took the day off, and that was the best gift that two workaholics could give.”

Cruz leaned into my shoulder. His gaze tracked down the block where a couple argued in rapid Spanish, but I could tell he wasn’t watching them.

“Oh my god. That’s why you don’t want to open a gym, isn’t it?” I asked. His breath hitched, but he didn't answer.

I recognized that silence. I’d lived years in that silence—when the tension between grief and anger left you breathless.

“It’s a damn good reason,” I said. “I’ll stop pressuring you.”

His shoulders sagged in relief, and I slouched enough to rest my head on his shoulder.

I don’t know how long we sat on that stoop, my French tips interlaced with his calloused hand. The city buzzed on with the comforting white noise of cabs honking and friends hollering, but on that small concrete slab, we’d found a stillness within the noise.

Then he cleared his throat. “I have one more confession, since we’re doing this.”

I tensed. But as much as the truth hurt, I preferred honesty. “I’m ready.”

“Before I met you, I heard you singing in your shower.”

“Youwhat?” I screeched, twisting to stare.

His free hand flew up in surrender. “I wasn’t watching! Your voice carried through the vents.”

I couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up and burst out. “The vents?Really?What song?”

He leaned closer, his voice thick. “You’re not the only one who’s had to walk across fire.”

“Oh my god, that’s so embarrassing.”

“No, it was hot. Trust me, I was dying to get a look at the woman with that sexy voice. And then when it was you? The woman I’d been dreaming about for a month? Unbelievable.”

I rubbed my forehead. “That’s how you knew to sing Melissa Etheridge.”

“I’m ballsy, but even I wouldn’t sing a 30-year-old song without a hint,” he said, shooting me that irresistible smile. “I think it worked out, didn’t it?”

I kissed him, reveling in his warm breath and soft lips, the bristle of the missing beard he’d let me shave off without complaint. Overflowing with gratitude for this man, who saw through the perfect appearance I hid behind.

“So you want me to call you Cruz?” I asked.

“Yeah, just Cruz,” he said. “What about you? You’re myCobrecita… but did you ever want to be somebody else?”

I chewed my lip. I’d escaped my identity as Vickie Sinclair Larsson, reinventing myself as Victoria Blackstone. Had I gone too far in crafting the perfect image and lost what made me … me?

Could I be a woman who follows her heart and plays piano for joy?

“Is it too late to be Tori?”

“It’s never too late to start over.” The countdown timer on his watch beeped. “Ready to go home, Tori?”

He pulled me up to standing, interlaced our fingers and walked back inside, where his family lingered in the kitchen looking guilty.

Three hours ago, we’d escaped Richard's birthday party early and barely anybody cared. But when he left, his family would ache with missing him.

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