Page 73 of It Happened on a Sunday

Sly

I don’t think it says anything about my courage to admit that I almost spin around and walk away. Any time abuela Ximena wants privacy for a conversation, it never turns out well. And right now I’m not sure how much more I can take before breaking.

But if twenty-seven years as her grandson have taught me anything, it’s that one way or the other, she’s going to have her say. Considering I don’t think I can feel any lower than I do already, I might as well get whatever this is over with.

“After feeding Sloane’s team, all I’ve got left is turkey or roast beef,” my abuela says as soon as I get near the table she and my sisters have taken over.

“Turkey’s fine,” I answer, because I really don’t give a shit.

Abuela Ximena tosses me a turkey sub, then motions for me to sit down. Which I do, reluctantly.

Lucia hands me a bottle of water I’m not interested in and a bag of chips I don’t want, but for the sake of expediency, I take both.

I just want to get through whatever the hell this is so I can go back to Sloane. Surely fifteen minutes will be enough time for her team to cycle through and see her. If not, Pauline can take a walk or something because I’m not leaving again.

“Eat your sandwich,” abuela Ximena orders.

I start to tell her I’m not hungry, but she’s giving me the look , so I do as she says and immediately regret it when the food turns to sawdust in my mouth.

It takes a minute and several gulps of water, but I finally manage to get the bite of sandwich down. Once I do, Lucia puts her hand over mine and says, “You know this isn’t your fault, don’t you?”

“It’s completely my fault. I thought you, more than anyone, would understand that.”

“Me?” Lucia asks, brows raised. “And why exactly would you think that?”

I start to answer, then bite the words back. Some things don’t need to be said.

Apparently Camila doesn’t feel the same way. Because she rolls her eyes and says, “He thinks he’s responsible for everything. Not just us but the behavior of everyone who knows us—including your abusive, scum-sucking fuckhead of an ex-boyfriend. My psych professor would call it a savior complex.”

“I do not have a savior complex,” I grind out between clenched teeth even as the words hit like the business end of a tank. I’ve proven over and over again that I’m nobody’s savior.

Lucia nearly died because of me, because I was so naive to who Grant really was that he spent years abusing her and I didn’t have a fucking clue until it was almost too late.

And now Sloane is nearly dead at Vivian’s hand, because apparently I haven’t learned a goddamn thing.

Not to mention I’m the worst judge of character on the face of the fucking earth.

If I can’t trust my best friend and my agent, how the hell am I supposed to trust myself?

I couldn’t even keep Sloane safe when doing so was the most important thing in the world to me.

“Fine. You want to call it a god complex?” Camila grabs a carrot from a salad container and pops it in her mouth. “It’s pretty much the same thing.”

“How exactly did this go from ‘get Sly to eat lunch’ to ‘tell Sly what an asshole he is’?” I demand, glaring at my sisters.

Lucia shrugs. “Maybe this is one of those times when you get what you need instead of what you want.”

I narrow my eyes in warning, but she meets me glare for glare. And when I look to my abuela for support, she’s suddenly extremely busy opening her bag of dill pickle potato chips.

“Seriously?” I say, suddenly understanding a whole lot better how Julius Caesar felt. Et tu, Ximena?

“Then what would you call it?” Camila crosses her arms over her chest and gives me her best you’re not wiggling out of this one look. I recognize it because our abuela taught it to her.

“Dad asked me to take care of you before he died,” I start. “It’s—”

“Did it ever occur to you that your father had no business asking that of a ten-year-old kid?” abuela Ximena interrupts.

“Huh?” I would be less surprised if she pulled a wooden spoon out of her bag and whacked me with it. “No, it’s my job to make sure you’re all okay.”

“You know that’s impossible, right?” Lucia asks, taking advantage of abuela Ximena’s sudden preoccupation with me to snatch one of her potato chips.

“It shouldn’t be. If I was just…”

“What?” abuela Ximena asks. “Faster? More alert? Nosier? What exactly do you think it would take for you to actually be successful at that job? Especially considering I plan on dying long before you. Or do you intend to prevent that, too?”

“I would if I could,” I say.

“See?” Camila smirks. “God complex, just like I said.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Then what did you mean?” Lucia asks.

“I meant that I love you and don’t want anything to happen to you!” I reply, shoving an exasperated hand through my hair. “Is that so terrible?”

“Of course not,” my abuela soothes. “But it does become a problem when you think we can’t survive without you. Or that our mistakes are somehow your own.”

I do my best to ignore the uneasy feeling taking root deep in my stomach. “I didn’t say either of those things.”

“You didn’t have to.” Lucia’s voice is softer than before and definitely softer than Camila’s, though that’s nothing new. “We all know that’s how you feel about Grant, even though what happened between the two of us had nothing to do with you.”

“I introduced you. I set you up on your first date—”

“Because I asked you to, Sly!” she interrupts. “I saw him when I stopped by your practice one day, and I asked you to introduce us. Don’t you remember that part? Or have you gotten so good at beating yourself up over my life choices that you forgot that part of the story?”

“I didn’t forget,” I tell her, even though I kind of had. “But I vouched for him. I told you what a good guy he was—”

“And I told you that I got that black eye walking into a tree branch, that I broke my arm tripping on a run. You asked all the right questions, Sly. I just gave you the wrong answers,” she says, and there are tears in her eyes.

“I knew that if you found out what Grant was doing, you wouldn’t rest until I was away from him.

And for a long time I wasn’t ready for that, because then I’d have to admit that I made a mistake. That I chose poorly. Not you, me .”

“I should have seen—”

“No one saw!” Camila explodes. “Lucia isn’t just my sister. She’s my best friend in the whole freaking world, and I didn’t have a clue.” My middle sister’s voice cracks, taking my heart with it. “What makes you so special that you think you should have been the one to save her?”

I don’t say anything to that, mostly because I don’t know what to say. I still feel like I should have known. Camila may know Lucia, but I knew Grant, and I didn’t have a fucking clue what an abusive bastard he was.

The same can be said of Vivian. Outside of my family and the guys I play with, I would have said she knows me better than anyone—and I thought that was a two-way street. The fact that I was so incredibly wrong eats at me. That mistake might very well kill Sloane.

“To be clear,” Lucia says, sliding closer to me on the stone bench so she can put a hand on my shoulder. “You did save me. And the same goes for Sloane. You’re doing everything right to support her. But you are not responsible for why she’s fighting to begin with.”

“I’m not doing anything—” I start, but she cuts me off with a look.

“It may not feel like it, but when I finally couldn’t hide how much trouble I was in, you were the first one there.

You got me to the hospital, you stayed with me the whole time, you kept Grant away from me.

Then you helped me get back on my feet, helped me apply to law schools and build the life I have now.

You did save me, Sly.” She hugs me then, puts her head on my shoulder the way she used to when she was—when we were—little.

“But you aren’t responsible for what you had to save me from. That’s on Grant, not you.”

“And the same can be said for Sloane,” abuela Ximena adds, reaching for my hand and squeezing it tight.

“You aren’t responsible for Vivian’s actions.

But you are the one who performed CPR. You are the one who’s sat by her bedside for the last twelve hours.

And you’re the one praying for her to wake up with every ounce of strength you have.

Focus on that. Keep doing that. Because the truth is, you can’t control what other people are going to do in this world, Sly.

You can only control how you respond to it. ”

Her words make sense, and if she was talking about anything but this, I would believe her. But she is talking about this. She’s talking about the woman I love being drugged right in front of me while I held the fucking glass. The same woman who is still fighting for her life because of my mistake.

How the fuck am I supposed to get past that?

I don’t realize I’ve said the last part out loud until abuela Ximena smacks my arm.

“Stop with the pity party and listen to what we’re telling you, mijo.

Sure, you failed with this situation—but not in the way you think.

It’s not about Vivian and what she did. It’s about what you’re doing even now.

You’re letting shame and twisted beliefs—”

“And a god complex,” Camila interrupts with a snort.

Abuela Ximena gives her the beady eye before turning back to me. “You’re letting your belief that you have the ability to control what happens to everyone you love—”

“Soooo, the definition of a god complex?” Lucia eggs our middle sister on.

“Okay, I’ve got it!” I grumble at them both.

“Do you?” my abuela asks. “Because from where I’m sitting, you’re so busy planning how to punish yourself for Sloane’s death that you’re forgetting to help her live.”

“I’ve done nothing but think about her living for the last twelve hours—”

“No,” my abuela interrupts. “You’ve done nothing but think about her dying. And that’s not doing anyone any good. Not you and definitely not Sloane. You love her, but you’re so busy hating yourself that you’re not giving her anything to hang on to, anything to come back for.”

“What am I supposed to do? She’s unconscious, completely nonresponsive. She can’t hear me, can’t answer me. She’s just—” My voice breaks, and this time I don’t even try to talk through it. I just shake my head and pray for this nightmare to end. She’s just lying there.

“I’m not saying she can hear you.” Abuela Ximena’s voice is much softer now, as is the hand she lays gently over mine.

“I’m not even saying she knows you’re there.

But Sloane loves you, and she wouldn’t want you to beat yourself up for something Vivian did.

And if there is some small part of her that recognizes you’re watching over her, don’t you think you owe it to the both of you to show her more than just your misplaced self-loathing? ”

Abuela Ximena’s words set off avalanches inside me—memories, conversations, and truths I’ve been trying not to feel crashing through the silence she left behind. Memories of Sloane teasing me over the phone the first time we talked.

Of Sloane eating tacos in the park, with the wind blowing through her hair.

Of us splitting a sandwich in bed, her brown eyes shining with sympathy as she listened to Lucia’s story—my story.

Of Sloane telling me that she loved me. Promising me that she wouldn’t take it back, even when she got scared.

But that’s exactly what I’ve been doing. I’ve spent the last twelve hours hiding behind my fear and guilt and shame, so afraid of making another mistake that I’m turning inward instead of trying to pull her back to me in whatever way I can.

That stops now.