My father is a good man in many ways. Charming, warm, generous with his time and attention.
Every summer I spent in Brazil, he was present. Teaching me to surf in Florianópolis, taking me and Tiago to football matches, staying up late to talk about life and dreams and what it means to be a man. He never missed a birthday call, never forgot to ask about school, never made me feel like anything less than his beloved son.
But he destroyed two families with his inability to stay faithful. First Tiago’s mother, then mine. He loved mãe, but he loved other women too, and couldn’t seem to stop himself from reaching for whatever was in front of him.
Mãe had cried for months after she found out. Then packed up everything and moved us from Brazil to Miami to get away from false promises and to start over.
I was ten. Old enough to understand what had happened and to hate him for it, even as I still loved him.
Lousy husband. Present father.
Is that my fate too? Is there some genetic inability to commit, be loyal, and be the partner someone deserves?
I’ve never cheated on anyone. Never even been tempted, really. But I’ve never been in love either, though I came close once. A girl named Beatriz, whom I met one summer while visiting my father in Brazil.
Since then, I’ve kept things casual, kept my options open, kept one foot out the door in every relationship I’ve ever had. And now there’s Jasmine... and a baby.
Last night she’d said she was scared, but she never said of what. Scared of me? Of being a single mother? Of disrupting her life?
I have no idea what goes through her head. She left that morning without a word, and for months she’s acted like Vegas never happened.
Jasmine stirs as I turn onto the private road that leads to my property. Her eyes open slowly, taking in the trees, the glimpses of water through the branches.
“How long was I out?” Her voice is rough from sleep.
“About an hour.” I take the exit, following the familiar curves toward the lake. “We’re almost there.”
She straightens in her seat, wincing as the movement pulls at her bruised ribs. “You didn’t have to bring me here.”
“We’ve established that you can’t stop me.”
“I’m too tired to fight with you right now.” She closes her eyes briefly. “I’ll try again tomorrow.”
“Looking forward to it.” I pull into the driveway and cut the engine. “Welcome home. Temporarily.”
The house stretches out in front of us, all five bedrooms on a single floor. I bought it three years ago when my accountant said I needed more real estate holdings and mãe said I needed a retreat.
Turns out I’m terrible at retreating. The place has sat mostly empty, maintained by a weekly cleaning service.
“It’s beautiful,” Jasmine says.
“Thanks.” I kill the engine. “It’s quiet, at least. Good for recovering.”
I’m out of the car before she can respond. “Wait here. Let me grab your bag.”
“I can walk.”
“Don’t move.”
She scowls but stays put. I round to the backseat, grab her duffel, and sling it over my shoulder before heading to her side of the car.
When I open her door, she’s already trying to maneuver herself out. She moves stiffly, one arm wrapped around her midsection to brace her ribs. Every shift, every breath look like it hurt.
“I will carry you,” I say.
The look she gives me could curdle milk. “Touch me and die.”
“I’m not asking for permission.”
