Page 13 of Safe Bet (The Final Offer Trilogy #1)

Six weeks later…

The spoon pinched between my fingers chimed hypnotically against the steaming hot coffee mug. I didn’t need this coffee. I was wired. I’d been wired for… forty-two days.

Not that I’d been counting.

Describing this as the longest month and a half of my life was an understatement.

It had been weeks of blow after blow.

Sixty-thousand-four-hundred-and-eighty minutes spent wanting more than the blurring swish of Belmira’s wavy hair pulled back in a ponytail—I hadn’t realized her hair was wavy—as she rushed to disappear from my line of sight when I entered the bakery, complete with the soundtrack of the swing door hinges creaking behind her as a parting gift.

It frustrated me.

I wanted to see her eyes, her face, unobscured by her long bangs.

Anything that gave me some indication, a sign she was still in this with me, no matter how complicated life had gotten.

Initially, I’d tested the waters by calling the bakery, but I was pretty sure her ma heard my voice in her nightmares because she’d hung up at the very utterance of “hello.”

Eventually, I clued in, skipped polite, and went straight to “Can I speak to Belmira?”

From time to time, Cristina Silva—who I learned was her best friend, odd choice—answered, offering me a stiff laugh and the assurance she’d relay the message to Belmira that Felix had called. Again.

I wasn’t sure she did.

I needed something. Insight. An answer. Confirmation it hadn’t been a dream, that it wasn’t just me who felt this, but Cristina, the gossip queen, was surprisingly tight-lipped, an unexpressed apology in her tone I didn’t care for.

Apologies left me wavering, and I couldn’t afford that.

So, I tried church. Yeah. Me. At church.

Seven years of finding every excuse under the sun not to go, and now I was the first person in Dad’s Sunfire every Sunday morning, pushing on the horn in rapid beeps at seven-thirty for them to hurry up. I wanted a good seat that gave me clear sightlines of the nave and crossing and had us back in our aisle after we took Communion to watch everyone else.

I was pretty sure treating Santo Christo Parish like it was the local watering hole was against the Ten Commandments or some shit. Leave me alone. Desperate times, desperate measures. Not that I thought for one second the priest was buying my bullshit attempt to make right with God any more than Ma believed her prayers had finally paid off and her wayward son had found Jesus again.

If I ever had, really. If it had been possible to fail Catechism class as a kid, I would have. It was a miracle they let me take the sacraments at all. I was a little shit who asked too many questions, always looking to debate. Some people thought I still was. Matilda Tavares included. Well, that's not entirely true. She hadn’t called me a little shit.

She’d called me a sacana —bastard—and for the good of everyone, I’d opted not to repeat that to Ma because she woulda hit the fucking roof.

In Matilda’s defense— gag —I’d been pushing my luck anyhow. I’d gone to the bakery four times in one week, and she’d clued in I was only buying enough bread for one day. I liked my bread fresh. What could I say? She’d told me, in no uncertain terms, that my money, my parents’ money, was no good there and banned me from the bakery.

I let her win that one, but it didn’t stop me from sitting parked outside, watching the storefront like a hawk, waiting for my next opening. She could bar me from the inside, but she didn’t own the plaza the bakery was in.

Unbeknownst to me, Felicity had taken a photo of Belmira and me the night of the party—the only picture that had turned out.

If that wasn’t a sign, I didn’t know what was.

An entire disposable camera’s worth of pictures, and none of them had developed properly except the single, immortalized photo of us pressed up close to each other on the dance floor, Belmira’s lips parted, while I stared down at her like I’d finally found the one.

I’d left the photo with Cristina when I’d caught her leaving the bakery. She’d been nothing short of reluctant, staring at the envelope I’d tucked the photo in like I was handing her a grenade. After what felt like forever, she finally relented and accepted it with a short, curt nod of her head. “I’ll give it to her.”

Okay.

Admittedly, all of this was verging, erm— had verged—on the cusp of unhealthy, even for me, but if I wasn’t so goddamn certain about her, I wouldn’t have made the drive out here, placing all my bets on the one person who still had an in.

During a February Nor’Easter.

On a Wednesday.

But on the off chance you hadn’t clued in, I was bordering on desperate, my brand of pathetic, and driving my family up the wall.

Ma bitched me out for being grumpy this morning.

After weeks of exhausting her and everyone else’s patience, she was officially over my shit.

Without looking up from The Herald News spread out on the kitchen table next to her bowl of cereal, Felicity chimed in, too, reminding me this situation was a direct consequence of my own actions—who had asked her, anyway?—and it was entirely my fault I was up shit’s creek without a paddle.

Okay, something we could agree on, and Dad flicked my ear on his way out and told me to quit smoking his cigarettes.

Sorry, Pops.

I was on a budget, and chain-smoking myself into a nicotine-induced headache was about the only thing keeping me going.

My family was right, and if I was honest, I was pissing myself off, too.

This wasn’t like me.

I’d been nothing short of a twitchy, irritable mess, and any time I thought I’d gotten a grip, saw the situation for what it was rather than what it could be… the intrusive worry this might not actually pan out the way I wanted freaked me right the fuck out and I’d spiral again.

So, I persisted because her ma couldn’t keep me away from her. Not forever. She’d have to relent eventually, and if she wouldn’t, then I’d exhaust every option I had to insert myself back into Belmira’s life somehow. I’d told her we’d do this our way. We’d figure it out together.

I refused to accept that night was where our story ended, regardless of the slice of humble pie my family served me on the daily.

I stared at the pale, overpriced cup of coffee in front of me. Maria hadn’t been exaggerating about Matilda, but “domineering”

felt too weak of an adjective to describe the woman who’d married into their family and birthed my future wife.

My restless legs twitched in agreement under the table as I picked the mug up, sipping.

Yep. Still tasted like three-dollar-hot-liquid-dirt.

Setting the mug back down, I scraped a hand over my unkempt jaw.

I was six weeks overdue for a shave, and my hair was, honestly, I wasn’t sure what the hell my hair was doing.

Felicity said I was well on my way to looking like Silent Bob from Clerks .

If it had been Dougie or Sean doing this… no.

This wasn’t the same.

Belmira wasn’t the girl I’d overlaid with vellum and spent years obsessing over, idealizing rather than seeing who she was, who wouldn’t give me the time of day, or someone who was trying to force me into marrying her when I wasn’t even sure I loved her.

And she wasn’t just another girl familiar with the backseat of my car.

She was… something .

Something more than that.

I’d known that within minutes of reacquainting myself with the grown-up version of her.

Any night I hadn’t drifted off to sleep immediately after wiping the ropes of cum painting my abdomen I’d wrung from my cock in what felt like seconds, I was in future-planning mode—right down to what street we’d live on.

She’d probably wanna stay in Fall River… bullshit.

No one wanted to stay in Fall River.

New Bedford or Dartmouth it was.

Shit, I’d consider Boston, and I hated the city.

Then again, she struck me as someone who appreciated quiet, quaint, small-town living.

Anyway, Belmira could pick out the welcome mat and paint colors because I didn’t have an eye for that kind of thing… did she want that minivan?

Right.

I was skipping steps again.

Start from the beginning.

What kind of ring did she want? I’d saved five hundred bucks so far—no small feat for me when there were temptations everywhere.

Resident Evil 2 released a few weeks ago, and I didn’t jump on it.

I’d reduced my pull list at the comic shop by more than half, and I’d kept walking when I saw a window banner advertising the latest Air Jordans.

I had the impulse control of a kid when it came to spending money on shit I didn’t really need, so this felt like a big deal.

I wanted to be in a financial position to get her whatever she wanted, and if it still wasn’t enough, then… I’d get another job or sell the Excel. My old bike was still in the shed. You could live off one kidney, right? What was the going rate for one of those on the Black Market?

Nothing was stopping me from locking my girl down. Not the weather, my spending problem, and definitely not my future mother-in-law.

My attention flicked to the window. Snowflakes whirled in a dizzying pattern, contending with the wind. Students huddled in their coats, fixing their hoods in place with gloved fingers, trudging against the accumulated dusting lining cobblestone roads.

This was the only time Maria had before her last class of the day, and apparently Harvard didn’t give a rat’s ass about “inclement weather.”

I didn’t care I’d paid an exorbitant amount for campus parking, that it was likely going to take me five hours to get home because everyone forgot how to drive when the roads turned to shit, especially when it was dark.

I forgot how to drive.

But I’d risk it all for some fucking answers and a glimmer of hope.

Plus, Maria had asked.

“If you don’t mind driving out here, I could use a familiar face right now that doesn’t look like mine and doesn’t want to talk about my dad.”

Discussing John was off the table.

But I wanted to. Just as much as I wanted to talk about her cousin, I wanted to talk about her dad, too. Ask how she was holding up because her family wasn’t.

Sean had regressed into a child.

Any moment he wasn’t at school, he was on the site, hovering as if he were John’s shadow.

No matter how frustrated his dad got with him, how many times he waved him off, Sean doted.

Water. Hot tea. A tissue. Food. Insisting John sit down when he got a bit winded.

But reality hadn’t fully set in until two days ago.

Sean’s panicked, “Dad!”

still echoed in my ears. John’s pained, coughing fit had him bracing himself on his knees, crimson splattering the crisp snow with every distressed hack. The job site had never been that quiet.

Dougie already had his car keys out. “We should go to the hospital.”

I took off my hard hat. “I’ll drive.”

Dougie’s tires were bald, and I’d watched him spin out on a patch of black ice that morning when he’d taken the bend in the road too quickly.

Sean, paler than the unblemished snow, nodded.

“No one’s going anywhere but back to work.”

John wiped his mouth, dismissing us with a wet harrumph. “I’m fine.”

John wasn’t fine. From the sounds of it, he’d known he hadn’t been “fine”

for awhile and just ignored it.

The bell over the door of the coffee shop chimed.

Lifting my head, I straightened at the sight of Maria’s tall frame clearing the threshold.

She wasn’t dressed for the weather, and how she had coped with the bone-chilling cold in just her maroon Harvard crewneck sweater and puffer vest on top of it was beyond me.

The only sensible part of her attire was her tightly laced boots and mid-rise, straight-fit jeans.

Snow had gathered on her shoulders, flakes adorning her chestnut hair, the roots frizzing.

Stomping her feet against the mat to clear the snow and salt from under the treads of her boots, she scanned the coffee shop with dull, tired eyes, and my stomach bottomed out with remorse at the sight of her.

Her hand dusted at the melting flakes gathered on her shoulders, recognition registering in her makeup-free face when her eyes caught mine.

I held out a weak hand to her.

Maria weaved across the coffee shop, adjusting her hold on the straining JanSport backpack hooked over one shoulder, the base sagging under the weight of her textbooks.

She said nothing when she reached the bistro table.

Her eyes tipped to my coffee mug.

Ditching her backpack on the floor, she gestured at the barista for a mug, mouthing her thanks . Freeing her hair from the trap of her vest, she unhooked the chair, practically collapsing on it.

Maria’s elbows met the table, and she leaned forward, burying her face into her palms, an exhausted sigh billowing freely. The coffee mug being set down in front of her had her drawing back.

Her shoulders dropped a little as the acrid perfume of coffee hit the ceramic while the barista poured with a steady hand, mumbling a cool “enjoy,”

before retreating to the busy battlefront behind the counter.

You’d think the weather wasn’t terrible, given this place was brimming with college students hunched over textbooks or deep in conversation.

I supervised while Maria made quick work with the sugar in a dispenser, and a packet of cream, her spoon clinking against the side of her mug.

She brought the mug to her bare lips, taking a meditative sip, putting it back down on the table.

Neither of us was in any hurry to break the silence.

Speaking meant addressing it , even though she had said she didn’t want to.

It was all over her face.

The struggle to contain it. The demand to free it at the same time.

Instead, she slid someone’s abandoned crossword from today’s newspaper left on the edge of the table, pouring over it for missing answers.

Frowning, she murmured something under her breath, futzing around in her book bag for what I assumed was a writing utensil.

Coming up empty-handed, she patted her vest down. “I hate when they write in pen.”

Ironically, Maria unsheathed a pen from her pocket, punching the thrust spring. “Especially when the answers are wrong.”

Her brows pleated with concentration. “Thirty across, ‘a water sign’ six letters—they wrote Pisces, but…”

she tapped her long acrylic fingernail with a chunky white tip against the newsprint, “thirty down, ‘the twenty-second letter in the Greek alphabet’ isn’t Phi, it’s Chi.”

She worked the correction against the paper with the pen. “Which means thirty across isn’t Pisces, it’s…”

her voice petered off, the pen hitting the paper with a soft thump.

I swallowed. Cancer.

“Fucking frequency illusions,”

she murmured, sloping in her seat.

“How you doing?”

I hedged. Dumb question, but it was the only thing I could think of saying.

The intrusive, loud whir of the coffee grinder afforded her a temporary reprieve from the question I had no doubts she was sick of answering. The grinder ceased, and she lifted her chin, the pendant light above the table catching against the dark circles staining her under eyes. “My dad is dying.”

She shook her head with disbelief. “I’m a lot of things.”

My chest squeezed. John Tavares had always been invincible in my mind. Nothing could kill him. Not even cancer. Doctors were wrong all the time. But there it was. Straight from her mouth. A sobering reminder sucking all the air in the room like someone had flipped the switch on a vacuum cleaner, leaving the filtered truth in its wake.

The prognosis was bleak. Chemotherapy would only delay the inevitable, and surgery wasn’t an option at this late stage. His oncologist was confident he’d die on the table.

Now, it was about making him comfortable and allowing him the opportunity to live out his remaining days until he was too weak to keep going.

It still felt like a really bad fucking dream. The kind you couldn’t wake up from no matter how hard you tried.

Maria licked her dry lips. “Anytime I talk to my ma, it ends up in a screaming match, and she brings up the dumbest shit.”

Scowling, she scraped her hair behind her ears roughly. “And believe it or not, I hate fighting with her. Especially right now. It feels so pointless.”

Her nail pinged against the mug, drumming a pensive tune. “Sean is having panic attacks. He keeps paging me in the middle of the night because he can’t breathe, so what little sleep I am getting is awful, and when I’m not on the phone with him, I can’t sleep at all because I can’t fix it.”

Her emotions tested the strength in her shaky voice. “I can’t make my dad better, and I can’t protect my brother or sisters. I hate being this fucking helpless. I feel like I should be at home, but my dad won’t let me, so then I end up arguing with him… and I don’t want to be any angrier with him than I already am for keeping this a secret for so long.”

She eyed the ceiling, rocking her jaw tersely to keep her emotions at bay. “We’ve decided to keep Livy and Trina in the dark for as long as possible, and let me tell you,”—her mirthless laugh chilled me to the bone—“pretending everything is okay when I talk to them is a special kind of torture I wouldn’t wish on anyone because I feel like I’m betraying them, too.”

She met my stare, blinking furiously until her composure returned. “But that’s not why you’re here and not why I wanted to meet in person.”

“Maria—”

“If you tell me you’re sorry, Felix, or any variation of an apology, I’m gonna punch you in the fucking face.”

I’d let her if she needed an outlet for the buildup of emotions. Her fingers tensed against the table before she relaxed the digits. “I don’t want to hear it because it reminds me it’s real.”

Glancing toward the Atrium outside, she expelled a shaky breath. “School is about the only thing I have distracting me. So, when you called…”

She sighed. “I felt normal for a second. It reminded me the world was still turning outside of my scope, and it was nice to think about something else for a change.”

She half-shrugged. “Someone else’s problems.”

I winced. This was hardly a comparable situation, especially since its results were entirely my fault. But I got it. A distraction was what she’d been after by asking me to come in person. I didn’t get the sense that anything had changed since high school, and she was still introverted and very short on friends.

“So can we please…”

Maria forged on, her eyes glimmered with unshed tears, mouth straining into an embarrassed slant. “ Not talk about it. If I don’t have to talk about it, then I don’t have to think about it, and can pretend it’s not happening for a little while longer.”

She sniffled, swiping under her eyes quickly, clearing her throat. “Besides… I want to be able to show my face here again.”

Maria scanned the coffee shop, sneering while she uncurled her posture. “I can’t have these pretentious little fucks assume it’s the workload crushing me.”

She lifted her chin, fixing a weak albeit proud smile on her face. “Okay?”

Any words of hope I’d intended to peddle evaporated. If she’d let me, I’d hug her, but she’d made her boundaries clear. John was still off the table. I had to trust she’d voice if she changed her mind. Still, I considered the gravity of her ask for the longest time, peering at my tepid coffee.

John had been a permanent fixture in my life from the moment he and Dad had met years ago at a religious festival my parents had participated in.

Dad was an expert, having walked the procession dozens of times, but John was a first-timer in Fall River.

Between Dad and John, they’d shut the after-party festivities down, a small mountain of unrolled raffle tickets piled in front of them at a table, cheap prizes nearby, and one too many bottles of wine.

Felicity, Maria, Sean, and I fighting sleep, even when someone turned the lights on, while Ma and Connie insisted it was time to leave.

It wasn’t unusual to be at their house a few times a week.

Cookouts and beach days in Somerset in the summer.

Shared church pews on Sundays.

My parents spent almost every New Year’s Eve with them, and John always ordered enough pepper bushels for my parents every fall to make their own pimenta moida —pepper paste.

Hell, he’d been the one who fished the tip of Dad’s index finger out of the old-school grinder when he’d accidentally sliced it off.

While Ma’s face bleached, and she panicked and tried to slow the bleeding with her apron, Connie retrieved gauze and a bag of ice for Dad’s finger so the surgeon could reattach it.

Dad still didn’t have any feeling in the tip, but at least the surgeon had been able to re-affix it.

I wouldn’t have known what to do in that situation, but John did. He always did.

I’d bummed a cigarette off him when I was sixteen. After he’d lectured me about how bad smoking was and how pissed my parents were going to be when they found out, he’d handed me his engraved Zippo and told me to keep it. “You didn’t get this from me,”

he warned around a raspy chuckle, driving his knuckles against my head.

My parents pretended his initials weren’t engraved on it when they eventually caught me.

Where my dad had demonstrated how to be a good husband and father, and offered me life skills like how to balance a checkbook or install a bathroom mirror, John taught me how to change a tire, how to frame a building, and pour concrete, but above all else, how to not take myself so seriously I forgot what mattered in the process.

“Money doesn’t go with you when you die, Felix. Save what you need and enjoy what you don’t. The only guarantee we have is right now.”

I’d never considered the wise words as foreshadowing. I couldn’t imagine showing up to work one day and him not being there.

He was a core person in my life. But it didn’t compare to what Maria or her siblings were experiencing. I was losing a role model. They were losing their dad.

“Okay,”

I finally agreed, nodding.

Relieved, Maria cleared all lingering traces of emotion from her face, crossing one leg primly over the other. “So, Belmira. No changes?”

I sniffed, fidgeting in my seat. “Nah.”

Her fingernails beat against the table. “You’re an idiot, you know that, right?”

“Yep.”

I popped the ‘p’.

“You shouldn’t have?— ”

I held up a hand, stopping her. “ I fucked up.”

We both knew that. So how did I fix it?

“What have you tried so far?”

“How about what haven’t I tried?”

For the first time since she’d sat down, Maria laughed, recalling something, the sound hardy and full. “My dad said you told him you’re going to marry her.”

At least she was relaxing a little, even if it was at my expense. “Yep.”

After I’d watched Belmira leave with her ma that night, John ambled over, deliberately unhurried, hands in his pockets, face etched with twelve different shades of disappointment I was in no hurry to re-experience ever again.