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She nods her head. “You could have come home with me.”
I could have, but I didn’t. I don’t elaborate on the topic, but listen attentively to her speaking, which has resulted in an empty coffee cup.
“Diego, your work with the orphanage is great, but let’s face it. It’s not something you’ll do long term. I want you to go out there and find yourself. George can do the right thing by you and give you time. You need it.”
I nod my head. “What about the Japanese deal I secured? Who will work with them? They trust me and they know I will not disappear. I’ve worked too hard on it.”
“Fair enough. You can work on that part of the business. If this is what you want?”
I think about it for a minute. The time I was with Leticia in Tokyo and what went on down there. I don’t trust Jorge to not disappear nor George to not alienate anyone.
“That’s settled, then. Yes, I’ll do that. I’ll be the director of that operation and step down.”
She shakes her head. “You’re too valuable to step down for good. I’m not dismissing what you’ve done here to date. I’m just telling you to take a break. A real one. You deserve it.”
I smile at the idea of her acknowledging the good work I’ve done and noticing that I need this. Something other than work to keep me motivated.
“Mi hijo1,” George chokes, and I realize it’s the first time that I can remember in my life that he recognizes me as his son. “I’m sorry for the pain that I’ve caused you.”
I nod my head. Joe Dispenza and Wayne Dyer talk about forgiveness. The fact that I’ve spent more than two minutes in the room with the man without feeling the need to drink or something is progress, but it doesn’t take away the past.
“Right, let’s call the lawyers in and we can figure out the paperwork,” I say.
The sooner we get this done, then I can be on a flight back to Madrid. There’s one person I need to beg forgiveness from and I’ll do it on my hands and knees if I have to.
1 My son.
48
Leticia
I’ve been ignoring Diego’s messages. He told me that he’s in Madrid and has been for a week. He’s renting an apartment and he’s not leaving until we speak.
Every night and day, I receive the same text messages.
I hope you’re well. If you want to talk then you know where I am.
Doesn’t he have work to do?
“Who’s that?” Cristina asks as she comes into my studio. I’ve been painting a little too much lately. It seems to be my only motivation for getting up in the morning and going to bed at night. It reminds me of my teens. The feeling of wanting to paint and challenging myself, something I haven’t done in a long time.
“Diego. Again.”
“Wow, he’s really serious. I thought he would have gone back by now,” Cristina says. I know she’s hinting and most likely worried about what will happen when she goes back to NY next week.
“I’m fine. He needs to leave me alone. I thought he was some billionaire with some corporation to run.”
“He is a billionaire, but he stepped down and let his dad take over.”
What?
“You’re kidding, the same man he hates.”
Maybe the audio and book links I sent him worked, but then in a week? Nothing works that quick. Not even the hurt I’m feeling about losing Abuela.
“Yeah. Lucas says that they’re talking and it seems as if they’re working together.”
“What about Jorge?”
