Page 62 of Tension
“Hola, mi amor,” he greets me, voice warm and filled with happiness. “I just spoke to the doctor again. My mother is improving. They think she’ll be released from the hospital next week.”
Relief floods my tone, even though my stomach twists. “That’s wonderful news.”
“I’m going to stay a little longer, help her get settled, but after that...” A pause. “I may be able to meet you in Paris.” The words land like a bucket of cold water.
He means well, he always has, and I should be happy. This is my husband, the man who stood beside me through the highest and lowest moments of my career. The man who never once blamed me when my ankle shattered both our dreams, but I’m not happy.
I force a small laugh. “That would be beautiful. We haven’t been to Paris together in years.”
“Too long. Remember that night under the Eiffel Tower? We were so young, and we danced like we were invincible.”
“We were,” I whisper. But now? Now I’m not sure what we are.
He launches into memories, telling me he wants to recreate that moment. He says he’ll bring the old playlist, the one we used to practice with. That he wants to hold me again like before, andI tell him yes. I let the fantasy unfold because it’s easier than facing the truth. I want him to be happy.
“I’ll pack a sexy lingerie,” I tease lightly, my voice strained.
He chuckles. “Then I’ll definitely find a flight.”
We hang up soon after, and I lower the phone to the counter. The room is too quiet, and the truth is loud in my chest.
I don’t want to think about Paris with Gerardo, or about kissing him beneath the Eiffel Tower, or curling up beside him in a hotel suite with silk sheets. I haven’t imagined his hands on my body or his mouth on my skin in a long time, but I’ve imagined all of that with someone else, and that someone is off-limits in every way that matters.
I cross to the windows once more and watch the activity below. The sky has deepened, the lights of the city flickering to life like stars. I tell myself to focus. To pack. To be a good wife. But when I close my eyes, I don’t see Gerardo.
I see Mateo.
MATEO
The heavy front door creaks shut behind me, muffling the last murmurs of tonight’s NA meeting. The scent of burnt coffee and peppermint breath mints still lingers in my nose as I step into the cool night air. It’s quiet and serene. The kind of stillness that makes you feel your heartbeat in your ears.
I spot Roger’s SUV idling at the curb, headlights illuminating the sidewalk, and I pull open the passenger door to climb in.
“Hey, man,” he greets, glancing at me as I buckle up. “You look a little less weighed down than usual. Meeting go okay?”
“Yeah,” I answer, scrubbing a hand down my face. “It helped. They usually do.”
He nods thoughtfully, pulling out onto the street. The soft vibration of the engine fills the silence until he clears his throat. “How’s that friend of yours?”
I glance sideways at him. “Yvonne?”
“Yeah. You mentioned she crashed at your place a while ago. Everything okay with her?”
I sink a little into the seat, head tipping back against the rest. “Her roommate’s a nightmare. Loud fights, petty arguments, slamming doors. Some nights she doesn’t want to go home, so she crashes on the couch.”
Roger raises an eyebrow, amused. “And that’s all it is?”
“Yeah,” I reply firmly, staring out at the passing blur of streetlights. “That’s all it is.”
He hums. “She’s cute. Seems like she really cares about you.”
“She does,” I admit, my voice quieter now. “But it’s not like that. Yvonne’s family is in New Jersey, and her other friends don’t have space. I do and don’t mind her being around.”
Roger doesn’t push, but I feel his curiosity like a pressure in the SUV. I know what he’s thinking—that it would be good for me to be dating again. To connect and move on from the disaster I caused. Only, I don’t want to move on with Yvonne.
I stare out the window, my reflection in the glass a pale imitation of the man I’m trying to become. It’s been two weeks since I kissed Vaeda like she was my entire world, and it’s been two weeks of silence.
I’ve kept my distance, not because I stopped wanting her—that would’ve been easier—but because she asked me to. Her boundaries were clear, even if her eyes begged me to stay that night. So I gave her the space, but it hasn’t made me miss her any less. Hasn’t made me stop thinking about how her voice drops when she’s tired, or the exact way her fingers curl when sheholds a clipboard. How she smells faintly of rose water and sweat after a long day of dancing. How her eyes can go from steel to silk in a single blink.
