When I open my mouth to protest, or defend myself, she holds up her hand. “You’re too far into this mess for me to talk you out of it, Artemis. It’s not my life, my business, or my decision.”
My chest eases just enough to suck in a breath. So… what is she here for?
“But I can help you.”
What? I blink at her.
“I’ve already spoken to the board members. Your father seems to have forgotten that I introduced him to some of those crotchety old men. You have their unwavering support, no matter what Alonso does.”
The shame comes sharp and fast. I’ve been bleeding alone in a room full of people quietly holding Band-Aids I refused to ask for. And Mamá is a metaphorical, grossly over-qualified, trauma nurse with a pocket full of bandages.
My jaw drops open, but she throws me a glare and that wagging finger mothers do best. “But if you fuck it up.” She shrugs. “You’re on your own. Your circus, your monkeys. All I got them to agree to was giving you a shot.” She leans in toward me. “Truth be told, some of them are over your father’s management style. They’re looking forward to some fresh blood in the mix.”
She jerks her head at the door leading to the living room. “On the other side of that door, there’s an army of support waiting to help you.” Her thumb sweeps circles on the back of my hand.
An army implies strategy. Backup. Survival. I’ve been fighting a war with a behemoth like it’s a duel. I’ve been bringing a knife to the battle, when what I need is a taskforce.
“But you have to try to let them. Just this once, let someone else come to your aid for a change.”
I think of Xavier digging his heels in, refusing to let medetonate my own life out of fear. The parallels are uncomfortably loud.
She must notice the bristle that rattles through my body because she laughs. “I know, it’s hard to accept help, but it’s not failure to need someone’s assistance every now and then. No matter what your father instilled in you over the years.”
She sits back, still not letting my hand go. “He might have taught you many things,mi amor, but I taught you love, with your whole fucking chest. And even the smallest amount of love is stronger than any amount of hate that man harbors in his heart for the world. But if you go at this alone, you might well fail. Or kill yourself in the process.”
The silence between us stretches out like miles of interstate.
“He doesn’t deserve this much of your energy. But if you must win, and we both know you’re not backing down at this point, then at least let us help you get over the line. You’re not alone, you have never been alone, and you won’t ever be alone. But you need to let us in, let us help.”
I sit with her words for a long moment, truly sitting with them.
“Those people out there would give their lives for you, Artemis. Just like you would for any one of them, without question. Maybe it’s time you let them.” She pats my hand. “There, I’ve said my piece. Better late than never.” She smiles. “What do you have to say for yourself?”
Something inside my chest loosens. It’s not fear or resolve, it’s my firm grip on control. And letting go of it doesn’t feel like failure. “I don’t know how to do this without becoming him.”
I swallow. “But I know I don’t want to do it alone anymore. I can’t.” Admitting it out loud feels like I’ve already lost, but her quick smile is devastating. She leans in, presses herforehead to mine, gripping the back of my neck like she’s sharing her strength with me.
“I don’t know how to do this without being afraid.”
Mamá smiles. “Brave doesn’t mean fearless.”
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I don’t feel like I’m bracing for impact. When I open the door to the living room, I don’t stand on the threshold hovering on the edge of the room. I step fully inside. My gaze finds Xavier immediately. I don’t hesitate. I don’t overthink it. I cross the distance between us and take his uninjured hand.
Running has never saved me. Maybe staying might.
CHAPTER 48
Xavier
I’ve never been in a corporate war room before, but I imagine that it’s a little like this, with fewer sofas and not as many snacks.
Artemis’s living room is full of his siblings—including Scott—and the more I eyeball the door, the more alluring it becomes. I shift on the sofa and immediately regret it. My shoulder sends up a hot, vicious warning, like it’s reminding me I don’t belong anywhere right now—not on the ice, not in this room, not in my own skin.
That burns more than my injury.
There’s an air in the room, a get-shit-done vibe charged with energy that’s making even the oxygen molecules crackle. My shoulder hurts, my head throbs, and even though he walked right in and took my hand, I’m not sure this is where I should be right now.
As if the de la Peña problem wasn’t enough, I have problems of my own. Concussion I can handle in a couple weeks, but separated shoulders take four to six weeks to heal. I’ve never been quick at recovery, so when they giveme a time frame like that, I always assume the worst, so let’s say ten for the sake of argument.
