Page 93

These thoughts sound dramatic, even to my own brain, but they ring true.
“You love her,hermano,” Carlos whispers beside me, nudging my forearm with his shoulder.
I have no idea how he manages to know what I’m thinking even when we’ve gone years without seeing each other in person.
“I do,” I whisper back, and the thought of saying those three little words has my chest fluttering and my hands sweating.
“Does she know that yet?” he asks, peering up at me with a knowing look on his face. We’ve had a similar conversation to this before, but I haven’t gotten myself to tell her since then.
I shake my head. “I’d hope she knows, but I haven’t told her in so many words.”
Carlos lets out a loud snort, reaching up to pat me on the back. “You’re an idiot, Rafa. You better tell her soon. There’s no reason to wait.” He nods his chin to where Elise is leaning over the kitchen counter, rolling out dough formedialuna, her head tossed back as she laughs loudly at something Mamí is saying. Warmth spreads through my chest watching the two of them together.
Carlos’s smooth, hushed voice draws me back to our conversation. “She’s not going anywhere. Tell her how you feel so she can return the favour and put out that fire burning a hole in your chest with worry.”
I don’t bother asking how he knows this feeling because it doesn't matter. He’s right.He usually is.“I will.”
“Promise?”
“Yeah. I promise.”
CHAPTER SEVENTY-ONE
MONDAY, JUNE 9
“You’re a shit driver,you know that?” Rafael asks through gritted teeth, one hand braced against the dashboard with the other white-knuckling the “Oh shit handle.”
I roll my eyes and stick my tongue out at him like the massive child that I am. “I don’t have a car, in case you’d forgotten. I’m not a bad driver, I’m just a little rusty. Besides, there’s no one on the road here anyway.”
“With the way you talk about drunk drivers, I’m surprised you don’t also considerthisreckless.”
“Listen here, big man. I’m not drivingrecklessly. I’m going the speed limit; I’m making turns at a reasonable speed and using my turn signals too. There is nothing reckless about theway I’m driving—youjust have a control problem,” I blurt out, not even a little afraid to call him on his bullshit.
“I’ll give you that,” he huffs out, “but in no world are you agooddriver. Can we at least agree on that?”
“Well, duh, is anyone really agooddriver? I think that’s subjective,” I say, nodding my head so he knows this conversation is over.
“Whatever,mi vida.At least if we die in this car, we’ll die together,” he says, his tone taking on a flirtatious quality that is more likely to get us in a wreck than anything else that’s happened in this car the last half hour.
“Yeah, remember that sentiment later, okay?”
Rafael lets out a little growling sound that has me practically cackling from the absurdity. “Stop growling, you whiny baby. We’re almost there.”
And luckily, wearealmost there. According to the GPS, I’ve got one more turn to make and then we’ll be at the place that could either end our entire relationship and the fragile trust we’ve developed these last few months or make us even stronger. For Rafael’s benefit, I’m willing to take the chance.
It’s hard to tell whether he’s upset or not because his body language has been on edge this entire drive, and I’m not sure that much has changed as we pull down the muddy trail, parking out front of the wooden treehouse.
I put the car in park, turn off the engine, and lean back in my seat, waiting for the big reveal of his emotions as bees swarm my stomach, climbing up my oesophagus and stinging their way up.
He releases his hold on the handle, but I can’t say that “relaxing” into his seat is the right word for what he’s doing. “Resigning” might be more accurate.
He turns to face me, his skin a touch pale, forehead already beading with a light sheen of sweat, and his lips are pulled taught in a straight line.
“Elise, no,” he says adamantly, shaking his head. “We arenotgoing up there. Absolutely not. How could you think this was a good idea?” he asks, his voice raw with emotion. I let him sit without saying another word for a solid two minutes as he has his moment to freak out. He slumps against the seat, and I unbuckle myself, climbing over the centre console to straddle his hips.
I press my warm palms over his cheeks, drawing his attention to my face before speaking. “Mon amour, do you remember when you asked me to help you deal with the guilt? To finally recognise that what happened to Carlos was never your fault?”
His silent nod is his only answer.