I stared at the blinking cursor, a sharp pain digging right through the center of my chest and burrowing deep. I didn’t want to talk about Foster. Couldn’t. I was barely keeping myself together as it was. But before I could think of how to respond, my phone dinged again.
He came home. Nothing happened w/ Bret.
I rolled onto my back, finding it a challenge to draw in a full breath—the elephant-sized weight of everything pressing down on me again.
None of my business.
If ur not happy there, u should come back.
My job is here.
Even if my heart wasn’t.
U know he would cover u while u looked for another job. Even if u aren’t together. He’d take care of u.
I let the phone sit against my chest as I stared up again, the flecked ceiling blurring with fresh tears. Of course he would. And that was part of the problem. It took me a full minute before I could even attempt a response. I lifted the phone.
I don’t need to be taken care of.
I just needed Foster. Not as a bodyguard or a parent or a master. Just him.
But being with Foster meant being with his dominance—all parts of it—and if I didn’t think I could live that way long term, it wasn’t fair for either of us to drag it out.
I’m happy here.
Lie.
This time it was Pike who took a while to respond. I shifted back to my side, wondering if he was going to say anything else when the final text came.
I’m glad ur happy. U deserve to be. Good luck w/ everything.
There was nothing else to say back to that except thanks and good-night. Continuing to lie to him would only make the yawning crack in my heart spread wider.
“Yep, that’s me,” I said aloud to my empty house, my voice hoarse with tears. “So freaking happy.”
I tossed my phone onto the nightstand, curled up around my pillow, and tried to pretend it didn’t hurt so bad.
THIRTY-THREE
ONE MONTH LATER
“Marcela!” My father’s voice boomed from the other room, echoing through the hall.
“Coming.” I sighed heavily as I scrubbed my hands. I was so not in the mood for that tone. I’d already had two emergencies this morning, plus had been faced with a devastated family when I’d had to put down their beloved fifteen-year-old tabby. The only thing I wanted right now was to take a lunch break and get a MexiCoke from the store next door to drown away my stress with cane sugar.
But I dutifully headed to my father’s office. I leaned against the doorjamb. “Yes, Papá?”
“What is this crap?” he asked with a scowl. “I told you what to order for the Whitcombs’ Rottweiler.”
I nodded at the little tube of ointment he was holding in his hand. “That’s a better treatment. It works faster and he’ll only need a few doses instead of two weeks of applications to clear up the rash.”
“Just because it’s the newest, fanciest cream doesn’t mean it’s better,” he s
aid, tossing it onto the desk like it had dirtied his fingers.
“I realize that,” I said, trying to keep my patience. “But in this case, it is better. Plus, he’s my patient now. I make the call.”
My father looked up, his glare holding warning. “Order what I told you to order. I still make the final call in this practice. And I don’t need my clients spending more just to get a brand name when something else works.”