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After what felt like only a few minutes later, my alarm went off, jarring me from the hazy memories of training with Romero. It was the time I managed to land a hit to his jaw, and he’d grinned at me with pride.
Maybe I did miss the high the physical exertion gave me.
I sat up, tugging off the duvet as I yawned. Light streamed in from between the dark purple curtains beside my bed. The day was bright and vibrant—a stark contrast to my gloomy mood.
I’d dressed as quickly as possible. I glowered at my reflection in the full-length mirror before sweeping on a light coat of mascara. After brushing out the knots in my hair and running a flat-iron over it in brutal, punishing strokes that made my scalp sting, I snagged my book bag and headed downstairs.
The house was empty and quiet. I peered into the kitchen, noticing that nothing was touched.
Romero hadn’t come home.
My mind immediately reeled. Where had he stayed? Who had he stayed with?
The flair of jealousy that sparked in my chest made me grumble loudly while I rifled through the cupboards for a box of cereal. I had no right to be jealous. I knew that.
Romero was nothing to me besides the man that tried and failed to save my mother from herself. I was grateful to him, but he was a single, very eligible bachelor and I…I was a child to him.
My body might put fire in his blood but that was only because he was male. He’d likely been lonely since my mother died, though the two had never shared a bedroom. I wasn’t sure if they’d ever been intimate. He’d been more of a caretaker, but they’d at least been friends. I’d seen the way he made her laugh and smile. It had been the happiest years of my life too.
My biological father was just some guy my mom had hooked up with at a party. He was no one; I didn’t even know his name. My younger childhood years my nana had helped out, caring for me while Vanessa disappeared for weeks on end. Nana died when I was eleven, and by then I’d become accustomed to caring for myself.
The promise Romero had made to me when I saw him that first time in my bedroom—that he would give me a better life—haunted me. In many ways, he had. Vanessa had gotten her shit together, however briefly. For a few years, I’d had a real mom. I’d idolized him when I was younger.
Which meant he was way too old for me to entertain any ideas about him and I…being anything, really. If nothing else, it solidified the fact that he didn’t owe me anything, and I certainly didn’t owe him a damn thing. There was no reason for me to remain here.
When I get home from work tonight, I’d find a way to get my money and I’d be gone forever. He’d have the freedom to be with whomever he wanted. He could start a family with a woman more his age.
So why did my chest ache at the idea of never seeing him again? Of him living a life that I wasn’t a part of?
For fuck’s sake, I hadn’t thought about him much at all in the two years I’d been gone, and he’d clearly never thought of me in that time. If he had known I’d slept in my car or on a park bench when my car had been impounded, wouldn’t he have brought me home?
It’s my fault, I reasoned. I shouldn’t have done what I did, and I certainly shouldn’t have fantasized about him. Not that I hadn’t noticed how attractive he was. But I’d never crossed that line until the other night.
I finished my cereal and raced to the bus station down the street. Since I didn’t need car insurance anymore, I was able to afford a city-wide pass. Yay, me.
* * *
“Hey, Jean,” I said as I strode into the stockroom.
The shop owner lifted his head from the sole he seemed to be operating on. Jean didn’t just sell shoes. He made them—custom ones, that is. Grey curls decorated the top of his head, his green eyes sparkling when he saw me.
“Julietta,” he greeted with a smile. “How are things?”
I shrugged. “Fine. Any stock to put out on the floor?”
Jean nodded before pointing to the pallet in the corner of the room. The rows of metal shelves spanned the small space, boxes of shoes stacked by size. I got to work shredding the plastic that wrapped the pallet and took out the new stock, fitting them where I could between helping the handful of customers that came in. Sundays were slow, and the day progressed uneventfully.
I checked my phone at least a dozen times, hoping Romero might have messaged or called. Besides a handful of texts from Arie showing off her dorm room and the Yale campus, my phone was void of any communication from the one person I needed to speak to most.
At five I began to clean up the shop, staying until just after six to make sure not a speck of dust remained. I said goodbye to Jean and headed for the bus station.
When I made it back home, my heart was in my throat and anticipation thrummed through me. But Romero wasn’t there.
The house was just as it had been, and my heart sank.
Up in my bedroom I cracked open my worn, wrinkled copy of my favorite romance book, signed by the author.
The chapter that introduced the main male character, Barrons, made me sigh, despite my having read the book twelve times. Part of him reminded me of Romero, making my chest ache. I set the book down and grabbed my phone.
