Page 20 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

“ Pfft , sure,” my abuela says, rolling her eyes. “Assuming your father doesn’t work you to the bone the moment you start at Hallazgo.”

For the first time since lunch with my parents on Friday, I feel the sharp, unrelenting sting of fear.

Doubt was already setting in, but hearing my abuela speak so casually about my future at the very company she helped my grandfather build has the reality of my situation crashing down on my skull like an anvil.

But unlike in the cartoons I watched growing up, there are no little yellow birdies looping over my head. For me, that anvil is a killing blow.

Was my dad being serious? Would he really cut me off from the family?

Worse still…would my abuela let him?

“Damian?” my abuela prompts when I’ve been quiet too long.

“I’m here,” I murmur, but my voice is small.

“What’s with that look? Are you okay? You’re not sick, are you?”

I give a shaky jerk of my head and force my smile—which had slipped in my sudden burst of panic—back into place.

I don’t want to talk about my dad right now.

Or my future at Hallazgo. One, because I may lose my cool and I don’t want to drag my abuela into my mess, and two, because I can’t be one hundred percent sure she won’t take his side.

This is the company her darling deceased husband built from nothing that we’re talking about, and while my abuela might love and adore me, if she had to choose…

well, I can’t say with absolute certainty that she’d choose me.

“I’m just fine. Don’t you worry about me,” I assure her, searching my brain for a change in subject. “How’s Xolo doing? Can I see him?”

Xolo, my abuela’s dog, is a Xoloitzcuintli—a Mexican hairless dog—and he is quite possibly the coolest fucking thing in the world. He looks intimidating as shit, like he could guard the gates of Hell, but in reality, he’s a huge softie, who lives for belly rubs and treats.

I blink at my abuela, waiting for her to call for Xolo, but she just stares at me, looking unconvinced.

“Hm,” she grunts after a moment. “Fighting with your father again, I take it?”

Welp. So much for avoiding that topic.

“Sooo, does this mean I can’t see Xolo?” I ask, but my grandmother, ever the bullshit detector, just lifts her brow again.

“Damian.” Unlike my father, she doesn’t have to raise her voice to get my attention. Just from her tone, I know she means business.

For half a second, I consider ending the call if it will allow me to escape this conversation.

But I can’t do that to her—not because I love her, and she’s the sweetest person in the world, but because if I do, there’s the very real possibility she’ll fly here just to whoop my ass for being disrespectful.

Man, this weekend blows.

I scoff. “I’m surprised you can’t hear his disdain for me from all the way in Mexico.”

My abuela flinches at my tone, and her face immediately softens. “You don’t mean that, mi nieto.”

Oh, but I do.

“Hey, maybe I’ll move down to you once I graduate.

That would be nice, wouldn’t it?” My mission: distract her with the idea of seeing her only grandchild more often—every grandparent’s dream.

Although, at this rate, it’s more of a reality than a dream since I’ll probably have to move in with her as I won’t have anywhere else to go. “Then you could see me every day.”

She clicks her tongue. “Don’t even joke about such a thing. Le vas a romper el corazón a tu abuela.”

I press a hand to my chest, feigning offense. “How dare you. I would never break your heart, abuelita.”

Her responding sigh makes my stomach flip. Oh, boy. I am not going to like what she says next.

“My door is always open to you, mi amor. You know that. But this rift with your father…” She gestures to the space just in front of the camera as if the rift in question is a physical thing we can see. “You need to fix it. Whatever the issue is now, maybe try seeing it from his perspective.”

My lips press into a scowl, and in a sulking tone, I snap, “What about my perspective?”

She gives me a sad, pitying look. “He knows, Damian. He knows you’re hurting. We all do. But at some point…necesitas seguir adelante.”

You need to move on.

She’s not wrong. I know it’s not healthy to hold onto the past the way I’ve clung to it the last four years. But how do you move on when letting go means forgiving something I don’t have it in me to forgive?

How do you move on when letting go is so fucking painful?

“Yeah,” I mutter, lowering my eyes, unsure what else to say.

“Are you still coming to visit for Día de los Muertos?” she asks in a gentle voice after a long moment has passed.

I meet her gaze again and nod. “Of course, abuelita. I wouldn’t miss it.”

And then, because she knows me well enough to sense I need some space, she says, “Good. I’ll see you then, mi chiquito. Te amo.” She waves and blows me a kiss, and I blow one back with a tender smile.

“I love you, too. See you soon.”

I stab my finger down on the red end call button, and my abuela’s face vanishes, returning me to the last window I had open before she FaceTimed me. My Craigslist ad stares back in silent judgment as if taunting me for what I’m beginning to realize was a really fucking stupid idea.

I pull up my email app again, my heart pounding behind my rib cage in anticipation and hope.

Hope that, for once, something will actually work out the way I want it to.

But just like all the other times I checked it this morning, there are no new messages.

Only more spam. Only more offers for unnecessary penis enlargers.

Jesus, I seriously need to sort out this email.

“Fuck!” I shout, throwing my phone across the room and collapsing back onto the bedspread.

I am royally screwed.