Page 97 of Cara

Always a quiet guardian for his friend, Dante made sure I understood the struggles my future husband had faced to get me to the altar. He introduced me to a sense of normalcy in a suffocating world, reassuring me that my life would only get better beyond the restrictive walls of my childhood home.

As Dante lets me go and Bo takes over the warm embrace, I realize these two helped Xavier rescue me from hell—a challenge that must have seemed impossible to pull off.

If it weren’t for all three of them, I’d be gone. I know it.

“Bo,” I cry, clutching the weathered leather of his jacket. When I reach out, Bo's grip remains firm, and without hesitation, Dante’s hand fits into mine, his palms as rough as my husband’s. “Dante.”

The giant of a man enfolds us, hooting. “Can you fucking believe this? The group is back together! Get over here, X.”

Xavier’s uncomfortable sigh is to be expected. He’s a man skilled at keeping his cool, but he listens.

I feel his warmth against my back, feel his tattooed arms surround us, gripping both of his brother’s shoulders.

Together again.

I really don’t know how I lived without this.

“Eat something. Here, I got the greasiest food I could find. Your favorite.”

“Who the hell bruised you? Tell us, and we’ll fuck them up. Tonight, tomorrow, doesn’t matter.”

“Zeke is cutting through traffic as we speak. Delli’s hauling over two dozen roses for you.”

It’salllove. Nurturing love surrounds me as soon as I step inside Dante’s and Mimi’s one-bedroom apartment.

There’s barely room to walk, with everyone touching and acknowledging one another as they navigate the narrow paths of the kitchenette and move around the mauve velvet couches. My eyes greedily follow them, drinking in the spectacle.

I could smile, cry, lose my absoluteshit.

Instead, sitting on the stool at the kitchenette counter, I lean into Xavier’s body, which is always within reach, inhaling the sea breeze mixed with citrus laundry detergent lingering on his sweater. It’s such a poignant scent, evoking images of us heaving against each other in bed, all tangled limbs and Egyptian cotton sheets.

Madrid feels like a nightmare, some dream I’ve woken up from. Reykjavík, even more so. It’s nearly possible to convince myself that the past four years have unfolded this way, swathed in warmth and friendship… if it weren’t for how Xavier’s eyes brighten whenever he sees me smile, the way he won’t let go of me as if I might suddenly vanish.

His thumb lightly grazes my scarred wrist, hovering over my racing pulse. “Okay?”

If I spoke, a torrent would flood out.

Xavier must realize that because his arm wraps around my neck, letting me sink into his firm chest, revealing the erratic rhythm of his heartbeat. We are quite alone in a room full of people, falling right into this private love that I'm convinced no soul on Earth could understand.

Once the Chinese take-out is devoured and the beer is drained, I’m so at ease with this familiarity. I no longer flinch when touched unexpectedly. I don’t disassociate when the noise borders shouting.

When Mimi begins distributing fortune cookies, the doorbell rings, and I'm the only one taken aback by it.

“That’s her.”

“Bout time!”

I set my glass down and turn on the stool to catch Xavier’s subtle smile, as if he’s been anticipating this moment all night. Meanwhile, already quite drunk, Dante flings open the door, his broad shoulders obstructing the visitor's entry.

Xavier gives my fingers a light squeeze as I plant my feet on the ground, hearing that familiar voice. A voice that disrupts all the calm I had maintained—making my throat tighten until Dante shifts to the side, revealing the woman who raised me.

“Courtney.”

Her buttery eyes are widening, framed by deep creases that have formed during the years I’ve been gone. She wobbles from the force of my embrace, from how quickly I crash into her. Memories flood my mind as I inhale the scent of her hair, the perfume on her skin, and that subtle tinge of cleaning liquid that clings to her from housework.

“Sophie,” she sobs softly, her voice trembling. “Oh, God. Sophie. You’re here.”

In an instant, I'm six, drifting off to sleep to the soothing sound of her voice. Thirteen, wincing while she cares for my arm, broken from falling out of a decayed cedar tree. Twenty,numb as she yanks me out of a tub, shrieking at the ghastly sight of my wrists. And twenty-four, tears filling my eyes as she adjusts the hem of my wedding gown. It captures everything—a lifetime shared with the closest thing to a real mother.