The little girl in the picture wasn’t his Maria. Not yet. Her cold eyes were a silent testament to that, and to all the betrayal and loss she’d already endured at eight years old. Once he’d heard her story, he’d seen it written in her picture.
That story and that picture had broken his heart.
But hestillhadn’t understood. Preoccupied by his own needs, his own desires, his own demons, he still hadn’t fuckingunderstood.
Maria might not be a child anymore, but that child still existed within her somewhere, and she remembered all too clearly.
One after another, the people she loved had left her alone among strangers.
And he’d intended to do the same. For a job he didn’t even fuckingwant.
If he’d ever loathed himself more, he didn’t remember when.
In that convention hotel room, she’dsobbed.
He’d failed to listen, informed her that he intended to re-create the worst horrors of her life, and then fuckingragedat her when she’d balked. So there she’d been, perched uncomfortably on a too-small upholstered armchair, bent over and huddled in on herself, hiding behind her fuckinghandsas hoarse, broken sobs wrenched from her throat and convulsed her body.
Because of him. Entirely because of him.
He’d done that to the woman he loved more than anyone and anything in this world.
And even then, she’d kept trying to explain to him how she felt, what she needed, again and again, in different words, using different arguments, hoping he’d get it. Finally, finally get it. But he simply couldn’t comprehend how the life he wanted—told her he wanted; thought he wanted; tried to convince himself he wanted—would make her miserable, even if she loved him. Which she did. Only a fool would claim otherwise.
His father should be proud. His boy had grown up to be just like him.
If his mother could have seen him in that hotel room, what would she have thought of him? Why hadn’t he been listening tohervoice in his head all these years? Because Dad hadn’t understood him, hadn’t known how to love him in a selfless way, but she had. And if he’d thought about it, he’d have known exactly what she would have wanted for him.
Not prestige or fame. She didn’t care about that. Not an expensive house, clearly, since she’d willingly abandoned their spacious family home for a dingy apartment and never looked back.
No, she’d want him to have creative work he found satisfying and a partner who loved him as he was and would help him be the man he needed to be.
That was all. That was everything.
And he’d already had it. Then let it walk out the door.
He hoped his blue cupboard was never this soiled again. Digging it out was going to require one hell of a shovel, and Maria might never agree that he’d gotten it clean enough to earn her forgiveness.
But he had to try.
When the screen went dark and the lights in the theater came on again, he barely noticed.
Applause. Another short speech. More applause. More small talk. Handshakes. Exits.
Then it was over, thank fuck, and Nava and Ramón walked him to his car. He embraced them. Promised to call and visit soon. Thanked them for coming. Then drove away.
He hoped like hell they’d caught the sincerity of his gratitude, because he quite frankly had no idea what he’d said to them. Logistics had been occupying his entire brain, and making pleasant conversation wasn’t exactly his forte at the best of times.
But he’d make it up to them back in LA, and when they neededhispatience and forbearance, he’d offer it. Gladly. It was what families did.
He knew that now. Thanks to Maria.
26
For someone who hadn’t lived in Peter’s home especially long, Maria had spread out to a surprising extent. Somehow, without her noticing, her belongings had scattered to every room in the house, and that was before she’d even shipped all her stuff from Sweden.
Good thing she hadn’t finalized those arrangements yet. She wouldn’t exactly have been able to ring up the barge in the middle of the Atlantic and tell it to turn around.
Still, the packing process was going to take longer than she’d hoped. Every minute she spent in Peter’s house was another minute she spent miserable, unable to distract herself from her grief in the setting where they’d spent most of their time as lovers. So she was moving as fast as she could, but the whole endeavor would take about two hours, probably. Which was an hour and a half more than she’d prefer.