Page 34 of Careless Whisper (Modern Vintage Romances #11)

Reggie

I didn’t open the letter right away.

I kept it in my pocket, the edges softening with the heat from my body, the paper curling slightly at the corners.

I didn’t know why I waited. Maybe because once I read it, I couldn’t unknow what was inside.

Whatever Elias had poured out in his jagged, surgeon’s-scrawl—it would change things, even if I didn’t want it to.

I opened the letter that night.

The clinic was quiet, and I’d stayed late, saying I needed to sort files in the back room. I sat on the edge of a supply cabinet, fluorescent light buzzing faintly overhead, and slid my finger under the flap.

Reggie,

I’ve tried to write this a hundred times, and each time I’ve failed. I’d get caught up in what sounded good or what I thought you’d want to hear. But that’s not what you deserve. So here it is—the real thing. The hard thing. The bleeding truth.

I didn’t believe in love.

I didn’t believe in it because I didn’t grow up seeing it—not the kind that stays. In my house, love was a transaction. Affection was measured in expectations met, reputation protected, and appearances preserved.

My parents don’t talk—they perform. They don’t hold space—they fill it with silence.

I was raised to believe vulnerability was a weakness. That duty outweighed desire. That legacy mattered more than happiness.

And then I met you. And it wrecked me.

You were everything I didn’t know how to be.

Open.

Brave.

Willing to bet your whole heart on people—on me. And instead of rising to meet you, I chose the familiar. The safe.

I chose to believe someone who spoke in clinical absolutes rather than the woman who looked me in the eye and told me the truth—even when it cost her everything.

I let you fall, Reggie. I didn’t catch you. Not once, but twice.

And that’s on me.

I hurt you because I didn’t know how to not hurt someone I loved. Because I didn’t know what love actually meant until I lost the only honest version of it that I’d ever felt.

You made me feel like more than the sum of my training, my title, my past, my family name.

You made me want to stay—and I didn’t know how. I broke what we had because I was too afraid to believe it could last.

There’s no world where I can make what I did to you okay.

But I need you to see me—unbuttoned, uncertain, fucking wrecked.

Because the man you once trusted? He’s still here. And he’s learning.

I’m not writing to ask for your forgiveness. I’m writing to say I’ll keep showing up even if all I ever get to do is stand outside the door of your life. Because the thing I didn’t understand then—but do now—is that love isn’t a feeling you fall into. It’s a choice you make.

And I choose you for the rest of my life.

—Elias

When I got home, my mom was in the kitchen at the breakfast nook with a pot of tea and a book on Mayan symbolism.

She closed the book and slid it next to the lit tea lamp. “You read the letter.”

“How do you know?” I asked suspiciously as I sat across from her.

She poured me a cup of tea without asking if I wanted it. “Remember when we went to see Mum without Papa…the time we went to see Annie on Broadway.”

“Of course, I remember. It was my first musical.”

“I’d left Ignacio.”

I gaped at her. “ What ?”

She nodded and then made a what can you do face.

“We had a big fight. Papa had promised that we could settle down in New York after he finished his time in Mexico City. But Bush was starting his second term, and things were tense geopolitically. They wanted him in Amman. Middle East peace talks, quiet backchannels. He said he couldn’t say no.

I told him that I was done . He could travel the world, and I was going to live in New York with my children. ”

I drank some tea and waited with bated breath. My parents always seemed to be such a close and tight unit that I never thought they’d ever had trouble in their marriage.

“He said he was helping save the world. I said he could go fuck himself. I was going to save myself.” Mama traced a pattern on the table and then gave me a sad smile. “We were in New York for a month, and I was a mess…probably a lot like you were a few months ago.”

I tilted my head in acknowledgment.

“Apparently, Mum contacted Ignacio and told him that Bush had other diplomats, but I had only one husband. That got through to him. But I was too angry to let this go. Every time I’d given, and he’d taken, and now, when I finally told him we were done, he just let me go.”

She leaned back in the bench, resting her head against the wall of the nook.

“It took him most of the summer to get his head out of his ass, and then he showed up. Calls, apologies…I told him I didn’t trust him.

We had a deal and he backed out of it. It went on for weeks.

I even signed you and Carlos up for school in New York. ”

“But we came back to Mexico City,” I reminded her.

“Yes.”

“So, what did he do that made you reconsider?”

“He wrote me a letter.”

I furrowed my brows, perplexed.

“That letter…well, that made all the difference. Since then, we’ve never asked the other to crush their dreams. We’ve just made sure to carry them together. Sometimes, his aspirations took the lead. Other times, mine did. But we never walked in opposite directions again.”

She paused, watching the light flickering in the tea lamp between us.

“It’s not always neat. It’s not always fair. But it works—because we learned how to make space for each other’s purpose. And when that space didn’t exist, we built it.”

I nodded and poured myself more tea, taking slow, measured sips as I processed what she told me .

“Eli’s letter…also makes a difference,” I admitted.

“But?”

She knew me so well!

“But I’m not ready…not for all of it. I just…I can’t get hurt again like that. I can’t just lie on G’Mum’s couch waiting for the pain to ease.”

“I know that couch,” Mama reassured me gently. “But holding onto fear, mija , comes with a cost.”

I glanced at her, the candlelight catching the silver in her hair. “You think I should forgive him.”

“I think forgiveness isn’t about letting someone off the hook.” She smiled softly. “It’s about deciding what you’re willing to carry. What is worth keeping. And what is only going to weigh you down.”

I finished my tea and then got up. “I’m going out.”

“Okay.” Mama opened her book.

I kissed her cheek. “You are the best parents in the world.”

She patted my cheek. “We know, and we’re very proud of it.”

Elias was in a pair of loose linen pants and no shirt, a towel slung over his shoulder when he opened the door. It was almost like he did it on purpose, to look…well… hot .

He stepped aside and let me in.

His apartment was tiny . It had an ancient fan and a view of someone’s laundry line. But it was way cozier than his place in Boston that had all the appeal of a post-modern hotel room.

I held up his letter. “You write all your apologies on recycled paper?”

His smile twitched. “Only the important ones.”

He led me to the living room, which had a comfortable leather armchair, a table made out of bricks in front of it. On the makeshift table was a plate with two tamales and a glass of beer.

“New interior designer?” I asked drolly.

He laughed. “Yes! Me.”

“You like living with no furniture?”

“I like that it’s minimalistic but colorful.”

The cushions on the armchair were bright and so was the rug on the floor. He’d put up framed street art and I had to admit, the place was charming.

“Sit.” He waved a hand to the armchair and walked to the small balcony and brought a metal chain in.

“Put on a shirt,” I said before he could sit down.

He looked at me, all feigned innocence. “Why?”

“You know why.”

He flexed his muscles, and I rolled my eyes. “Does my naked chest distract you, Gigi?”

“You wanna talk or you wanna fuck?” I asked. Please say fuck because…I could so fuck you after reading that letter.

The letter had reminded me of the Elias I fell in love with. The man who would commend me on a good shift, who’d get me coffee just because, who’d buy me a massage gift card…the man who made me feel cared for.

“Baby, I’ll fuck you all day every day,” he said haughtily. “But I think this one time, I’m going to cover up so you don’t throw yourself at me.”

With that parting shot, he walked into what I assumed was a bedroom. He came back with a loose linen shirt on.

“You stole my father’s moves.” I waved the letter at him.

“Yes.” His face softened with vulnerability. “Did it work?”

My eyes filled with tears. “Yes.” I swallowed hard. “But…I need time.”

“Take all the time you need.”

“But?”

“But nothing, Gigi.” He crouched in front of me and put his hands on my lap. “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise?” I asked, feeling like a fool.

“I do,” he murmured and then kissed me.