Page 95 of The Girlfriend Agreement (Conwick U #1)

No hay mal que dure cien anos - There is no evil that lasts a hundred years

Translation: Bad times don’t last forever. And it feels like things are finally starting to look up.

Sunlight beams in through the cabin windows, searing my eyelids and wrenching me from sleep. This morning has clearly chosen violence, but I guess it’s my own damn fault for forgetting to lower the blinds in here last night.

Sighing, I push up onto my elbows, and look out through the glass panes at the bright cerulean blue sky beyond.

After the shitshow with my parents on Wednesday, I couldn’t bring myself to go back to campus, so I came here instead—to the Lucia , where I could hide away from the outside world for a while, and lament how completely I’ve blown up my life.

This is my fault, I know that. My parents might have had a hand in pushing me to this point through sheer emotional neglect, but the choices I’ve made are what put the nails in my coffin, so I really have no one but myself to blame for whatever comes next.

I’ve tried to think what that may be—shit, with nothing to do the last three and a bit days except think about it, you’d assume I’d have a plan or even a slight inkling of an idea.

But I don’t. It’s as if, one moment, I was reading the completed novel of my life, and then the words were suddenly wiped from the page.

Now, I’m just left with a cliffhanger and no way to access the subsequent chapters to find out what’s going to happen, good or bad.

I can’t stay on the Lucia forever—my parents will eventually realize where I am, and it’s not really stocked for permanent residence—but what else can I do?

I can’t go to my abuela’s. I don’t want to pull her into my mess or force her into a position where she has to choose between me and my dad, her only child.

That wouldn’t be fair. But I can’t go home, and I can’t bring myself to go back to school; partly because I don’t know how much longer I’ll be enrolled there before my tuition payments are cancelled, but also because the thought of being there makes me feel too exposed, too easily within my parents’ reach, even if they’ve made no sign or show of wanting to see or talk to me again.

They haven’t tried to call me, and I’ve been too much of a coward to check my accounts—to see if they’ve followed through on their threat in September to cut me off.

If they have, I’ll be even more stuck than I already am.

Homeless. Floating out to sea, like a raft with no paddle, helpless as I’m carried aimlessly by waves I can’t control.

Every second I spend in this weird limbo seems to only pull me farther from the shore of the life I was settling into, and all I can do now is wait for the tide to either swallow me or leave me stranded in this new, unfamiliar reality.

There’s always Blondie’s house—I know her mom and aunt would take me in without question—but I can’t put that burden on them, and the truth is, I came here not only because of my parents and to avoid returning to school…

but because I’m most afraid of facing her .

Of seeing Blondie and her mom, and knowing there’s nothing more I can do to help them.

I don’t want to run away from Blondie, from what we have, from what we could be, but I’m fucking terrified of letting her down.

And right now, I feel like that’s all I’m doing—like I’m failing everyone in my life, both past and present.

I’m sure she would tell me I’m being stupid—that I’ve already done plenty, especially with the fifty grand I sent her on Wednesday to see them through however many months of meds that will cover on top of what she already has from me, but still…

It’s the future that scares me, the unknown.

The not knowing if I’ve done enough.

Flinging back the heavy gray blanket, I climb out of bed and plod to the kitchen, which is thankfully stocked with nonperishables, so there’s at least something to eat, even if that something is boxed pasta at ten a.m. on a Sunday.

I’m just about to heat the jarred sauce I found in one of the cupboards in a saucepan on the stove when my phone buzzes on the marble counter beside me.

I hesitate for a second before flipping it over to glance down at the screen, expecting another text or call from Blondie—she’s tried roughly thirty times over the last three days, and it breaks my heart to ignore them.

To ignore her , even if I’m not in the right headspace to talk. Not until I figure out what I’m doing.

Instead, I find a message from my mother.

Madre

Please meet us for lunch at noon at Fernando’s. I know it’s been a tense few days but we need to talk.

My stomach curdles at the mention of the restaurant which serves as the backdrop for so many of my worst memories, and at the unspoken expectation weighing on those final four words.

We need to talk.

Talk about what? Their intent to disown me? To strip me of the Navarro name? Well, newsflash: I’m already aware. No need to spell it out for me or rub salt in the open wound.

I turn off the burner and slump down onto the stool at the breakfast bar, scowling down at my phone, reading and rereading the message.

My mom doesn’t usually text me. At least, not about the serious stuff.

That’s always left to my dad, the enforcer of rules, the executor of discipline and unrelenting disappointment.

I shouldn’t go. I should stay here where I’m safe and sheltered from their scrutiny and judgment.

I should make a clean break. And yet…there’s a voice inside me that wonders if there’s still a chance, however small, that I can change their minds.

Our relationship might be too broken to fix, but Hallazgo—I don’t want to let go of that.

I don’t want to let go of my abuelo’s dream.

My dream. And I don’t want to just throw away everything Blondie and I have worked so hard on.

I slowly rise from the bar stool, resolved. If this is the only opportunity I’ll have to fight for what I want for my life…

Then I have to take it.

It’s exactly twelve o’clock when I yank open the door to Fernando’s, my palms slick with sweat. Coming here feels like a one-way ticket to heartache, but I have to do this. I owe it to my abuelo and Jamie to not give up without at least trying.

My pulse is a rapid cacophony of anticipation and fear as I step into the large sunlit dining room, the familiar sounds of the arpa jarocha in the corner doing little to settle my nerves, which rake along my insides like nails scratching at the underside of my skin.

I swallow when my eyes land on my parents, sitting in their favorite spot by the window overlooking the marina, though their demeanors lack the usual dismissive sense of calm I’m accustomed to.

My father is tapping one finger against the bright white tablecloth, his eyes cast on the gleaming water outside, while my mother is chewing her thumbnail—literally chewing on it, destroying her three-hundred dollar manicure.

If my manner-obsessed maternal grandparents were here to see this, they’d have a conniption.

My mom’s eyes catch on mine as I cross the room toward them, and her gasp is audible as she anxiously pats my father’s shoulder to get his attention.

“There he is,” I hear her say, like someone eagerly awaiting the chance to meet their favorite celebrity, before she then jumps to her feet with a nervous smile.

“Come,” she breathes when I’m within earshot, hastily pulling out the chair between theirs.

The only other free seat at the round table is in the same position on the opposite side, and I can’t help feeling that was intentional so I can’t put any breathing space between me and them.

Specifically, between me and my dad. “Sit.” Her eyes are imploring, so I do as she asks and plop down on the seat.

Everything I plan to say to defend myself—to make them listen to me just once —evaporates on my tongue when my father announces, “Your girlfriend came by the house yesterday.”

The cogs in my brain screech to a grinding halt as I try (and fail) to process what he’s said. So much for pleading my case, I guess.

“Lexi?” I ask.

I wince at the mocking voice in my head that shouts, Well done, genius. Who else would he be talking about?

As if reading my thoughts, my dad arches a brow and quips, “Do you have another girlfriend that we’re unaware of?”

I practically choke on the breath that escapes me. “What?” I splutter. “No, I?—”

“She’s rather outspoken, isn’t she?” he muses, ignoring me in favor of the fork he now twists between his forefinger and thumb. “Not afraid to speak her mind.”

Is that an insult or a compliment? I wonder. With him, it could honestly be either.

I watch my dad carefully, feeling completely bamboozled, and as my mouth snaps shut, I frown at him, torn over what to say. To do. Did Blondie offend him? Should I apologize on her behalf?

Do I even care?

Fuck that, I decide. I’m not apologizing for shit, and I learned my lesson about doing anything on behalf of my girl. Besides, the only thing I’m sorry about is that I wasn’t there to hear it. I can only imagine what she must have said for them to feel the need to summon me today.

“No, she definitely isn’t,” I murmur.

Ronnie once told me she loves how Blondie doesn’t ever sugarcoat things. Honestly, it’s what I love most about her, too.

My father lets out a thoughtful hum. “We spoke about you, and she had quite a strong opinion on the matter. She gave us a rather impassioned speech, actually.”

I snort. “Yeah, she’s not really known for holding her punches.”

Figuratively or literally.

He nods. “I gathered as much.” Clearing his throat, Dad sets down the fork, then his hand disappears under the table as he reaches for something on the empty chair to his left. When it emerges from beneath the tablecloth a few seconds later, my heart nearly stops. “She also showed us this.”