Page 134 of All Twerk, No Play

Grace spun away, using the back of her hand to wipe at her eyes, and Alex balanced the baby while wrapping an arm around her neck, pressing his lips to her forehead.

I turned away from their intimate moment, I thought Victoria just didn’t care enough. I thought she was rejecting me when, in reality, maybe she’d been trying toprotectherself.

I’d taught her self-defense … from everybody but me.

I swallowed hard, trying to digest everything Grace was saying. My blurry vision focused on the letter on the counter.You understand why I regretfully have to leave.

Bile rose in my throat. All the moments where Victoria pushed me away, where she shut down, where she let silence fill the space between us, they made more sense now.

I re-read Victoria’s letter, really paying attention this time: The careful wording, the loopholes left deliberately open. Maybe it wasn’t a Dear John letter.

Maybe it was a love letter disguised as a real estate contract.

A soft chuckle burst out of me. “Fuck I love her,” I murmured. They lifted their heads in unison. I gestured to the letter, the contract, everything. “She’s just so …”

Alex’s eyes softened, understanding exactly what I meant.

Grace wiped her eyes with a rag then tossed it over her shoulder, taking the baby to burp him. Jesus, this woman was resilient. “She needs someone to show up for her. Not as a savior, or somebody asking for a handout. Someone willing to prove that love doesn’t have to be conditional.”

Alex nodded, looking me in the eye. “You see her. Really see her, in a way most people never do. Most people see her as a spoiled rich girl. Her family sees her as a successor, meant to carry out their plans. Hell, I saw her as too much work and broke up with her instead of fighting for her. But you, Cruz … you’re the only one who treats her the way she deserves.”

***

Iwalkedhomeina fugue state. For the first time since she’d driven away, I knew exactly what to do.

I retrieved my guitar and took six flights upstairs, forcing myself to breathe as I let myself into her apartment, ignoring all the signs of her absence on my way to her office. I turned on her webcam, checked the levels on her mic, then looked directly into the lens.

Nobody has ever fought for Victoria …

Until now.

“HeyCobrecita,” I said into the camera, strumming over a G chord. “I saw you at work. You looked beautiful and powerful as hell. It got me thinking about the first song I ever heard you sing, before you even knew I existed. I think that’s the night I fell in love with you, but it took a while for my brain to catch up.”

I cleared my throat. ”We’re going to be apart for a while, and that’s ok. I’m here whenever you’re ready. Until then, this song can be a reminder of who you are and where you belong.”

I sang about my willingness to fight for her, to walk across fire if that’s what it took. I poured out my heart, using the lyrics to explain that I saw her demons and loved her anyway. Whenever she realized she was ready, I’d be waiting.

I finished the song, looked directly into the camera, and said the words I’d been dying to say for months, the words I’d been holding back to keep her from running, the words that might bring her home: “Stay strong,Cobrecita. I love you.”

Then I published the video to my YouTube channel.

"All I Want is You," U2

Victoria

TheForbescovershoot.For years, I’d imagined the accomplishment I would feel, but instead, hollowness gnawed inside my chest.

The artificial lights they’d brought into the Sinclair Larsson conference room beat down, and a PA wiped the sweat from my brow. Crew members bustling around—adjusting equipment, moving props, and setting up cameras.

The stylist held up a mirror for my approval: My off-the-shoulder Caroline Herrera midi dress looked classic, professional and chic. My chignon was perfect, not a strand out of place. My makeup was flawless, foundation to mask my freckles and thick concealer to disguise the undereye bags from sleepless nights.

But no styling could bring the spark to my eyes.

“Let’s see that dazzling smile,” the photographer Darius called from behind the rosewood table. My lips lifted in practiced movement, but through the lens, I caught his wince. “Try a serious expression. Lean against the windows to show Manhattan over your shoulder.”

I followed his instructions, tilting my shoulders and lifting my chin.

In her role as the Chief Marketing Officer, Margot suggested, “Maybe turn to look over the city." The photographer moved to capture a new angle. “Hand on the window like you’re touching the clouds.”

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