Page 122 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name

Then she saw it: a wooden fence. Then a tree. Then a house. They stood alone in a little cluster, the only vertical things for miles.

She slowed to a halt in front of the gate and turned off the ignition. As much as she wanted to get out and stretch her legs, she stayed seated inside. She closed her eyes. Burned into her eyeballs was the same view she’d been staring at through the windshield all day: shimmering blacktop, endless white lines and a wedge of hazy blue sky. And all around, the flat, empty nothingness of southern Texas.

She exhaled and opened her eyes. Took a sip of water from the bottle on the seat next to her. She knew she was just stalling. Knew she had to get out of this hot car and do what she’d come here to do.

She pushed open the car door, feeling more nervous than she had in a long time.

It had been over eleven years since she’d last seen Daniel. And their last conversation in that prison visitation room had been ugly. He’d said things that had hurt her, in retaliation for the things she’d done to hurt him. But, according to Ryan, he’d secretly bargained for her safety. That gave her hope that maybe he hadn’t hated her at the end.

And that maybe, just maybe, he might not hate her now.

She’d Googled his new name, but the search had turned up almost nothing. No social media accounts, not even Facebook. The only mention of him she found was in an archived article from 2019 in a small Nueces County gazette. It identified him as the best man at his brother Santiago’s wedding. According to the piece, both grooms were doctors at a hospital in Corpus Christi, which was where they’d met. Accompanying it was a photo, grainy and badly scanned. But she’d recognized them both, standing side-by-side in their suits, smiling at the camera. Sebastián and Daniel Castan~o might both go by different names now, but there was no changing their striking good looks. Or, it seemed, the bond the two shared, visible even in that tiny, blurry photo on her phone screen.

She climbed out of the car. The heat of the earth was radiating up through the bottoms of her sandals. She smoothed the crumpled skirt of her sundress, then finger-combed her hair. It was back to its natural blond. She resisted the urge to check her reflection in the side mirror. She was trying not to be presumptuous, or to assume that this reunion would go a certain way.

Eleven years was a long time. He might be married or in a serious relationship. He might be happy on his own. He might not be attracted to her anymore. People change, after all.

And while all those scenarios felt like sucker punches to her heart, she’d steeled herself to handle it. She’d resolved to come here and accept whatever she found. If the best-case scenario was that they could part as friends, then so be it.

She approached the split-rail fence and stopped at the open gate. The house sat at the end of the dusty drive. It was a small white structure, with black batons and a gray iron roof. To the side of it stood a large jacaranda tree, the ground below carpeted in its violet flowers.

Near to the gate was an old red car, half-covered by a tarp and propped up on axle stands. The front fender had distinctive shark fin gills on it.

In the shade beneath the tarp lay an old Rottweiler, panting in the heat. The dog spotted Jessica and pricked up its ears. It turned its head on its side and regarded her thoughtfully. Like it was trying to remember her face. Then it gave a solitary woof that sounded more like a cough.

“¡Tequila!” came a man’s voice from under the car, followed by several mumbled curse words in Spanish. His legs appeared first, then the rest of him. He clambered to his feet, shielding his face from the sun, to look at her.

He was late-thirties. Hispanic. Bright hazel eyes under dark eyebrows. A faded tattoo of a cross on his left cheekbone and the word ALONE barely visible under his stubble. His hair was longer now and curling over his ears and almost to his shoulders. He was wearing a white singlet that showed off thick arm muscles covered in an impressive array of tattoos, and a pair of low-slung jeans that looked like they were on borrowed time.

Neither of them spoke; they just stared at each other. His eyes drifted over her, his gaze like a caress. He took in the ruby ring she wore on a gold chain around her neck. When he met her eyes again, his were charged with such emotion that the air between them seemed to almost shimmer.

And she knew from that one look it was all still there between them. That fire, that hunger. That want and need. That longing. That love.

She rested her hands on the gate and tilted her head at the car. “Is that a 1970 Plymouth Hemi ’Cuda?”

He nodded, still not taking his eyes off her. “Yeah.”

“I heard they’re really rare.”

“They are.” He smiled, revealing a dimple in his left cheek. “Never thought I’d find two in one lifetime.”

He picked up a rag from the hood of the car and started wiping his hands with it. Held one out to her. “I’m Dante, by the way.”

She walked in the gate. Dried her own sweaty hands on her dress. As she placed her hand in his and felt his fingers wrap around hers, she realized it was true: that old saying about people, not places, being home.

“Jessica,” she said with a smile.