When I walk through the door of my parents’ house Sunday afternoon, I’m still nursing a hangover from the night before. Getting the brushoff from a woman is never fun, but being on the receiving end of Sabrina’s take-a-hike feels different somehow, like my heart is sitting somewhere at the bottom of my stomach and is no longer beating as steadily as it should be in my chest.
I wish I knew what frightened her. Something obviously did. One minute she’s flushed and breathing fast, and I’m fully convinced she’s about to launch herself into my arms, then like a switch has been flicked, something changes—and I see fear in her eyes, hesitation and restraint on her face. I suppose I could be threatening to her somehow, but I can’t figure out why. I’ve always been cautious with her and even though we’ve stepped off that carefully chosen path a time a two and wandered into lusty waters, I knew just by the look on her face that I need to tread slowly. Very, very slowly.
Last night’s binge was certainly no solution and in the light of day, I’m regretting my impulsive choice to drown my sorrows in tequila. Details are still fuzzy, but I do recall spending time with some blonde and in my inebriated state, I had myself convinced she was Sabrina. It wasn’t until she was on her knees in front of me and looked up with a needy, desperate expression that I realized my mistake; I was too far gone at that point, rummy from alcohol and undeniable lust, so I simply closed my eyes and pretended it was her.
Back in the light of day, I’m literally wincing at the choices I made the night before. I know I have no reason to feel guilty, but I do. The answer to getting blown off by one woman is not to allow another one to blow you. I guess it just goes to show that I’m as shallow as I’m accused of being from time to time.
“Hello, Mama,” I murmur as I enter the kitchen. She’s standing at the stove, her usual post on Sundays, stirring something in one of the three pots in front of her.
She turns to face me, blue-green eyes dancing as I pull her into a hug. “Hello, my sweet boy.” I tower over her just as my brothers do, but there’s never any doubt about who runs the show in this house. My mother is a firecracker, a Spanish beauty who is passionate about her family, her food, and her faith. She’s a mini female version of Cruz and Marco with her thick black hair and eyes like the sea. Isabella is the only other sibling who resembles her, while my baby sister Sophia and I share Papa’s lighter coloring and brown eyes, something he loves to boast about from time to time.
“Smells good.” Pulling out of her arms, I peek inside each pot and sneak a few tastes before she’s slapping my hand away and shoving me toward the living room.
Papa is seated on the couch, watching some old western movie and nursing a glass of iced tea. We share a hug, a kiss on the cheek, and then I drop down next to him with an exhausted sigh.
“Rough night?” he asks, grinning as if he knows the answer before I acknowledge it.
“Oh yeah.” My stomach gives a nice, hearty roll as a reminder and for a moment I consider that maybe I should forego eating altogether.
Papa glances over my shoulder. “No girlfriend today?”
I chuckle. “No, Papa. No girlfriend.”
His eyes meet mine. “Good. Finally coming to your senses, are you?”
Slightly shocked, I consider his question. My father is the strong, silent type and content to let Mama control most everything and allowing her to be the center of attention. He rarely gets involved in our lives but is always available to listen if need be. Funny, but I never considered that he might be irritated by all the strangers I’ve been bringing home over the years. I’ve never considered how it must look to my entire family. They all probably think I’m nuts or nothing more than a flighty guy who can’t make up his mind. Either way, I’ve paraded my indiscretions in front of them, time and time again, with no regard to how it may or may not have affected them.
“Yeah, Papa, I guess I am.”
My other siblings stroll in a short time later, first Marco and Amita, then Cruz and Mia, and finally Isabella comes flying in, apologizing profusely for being late. There’s a flurry of conversation, some in English, most in Spanish. Eventually each of them make their way toward us, and we exchange greetings.
“No companion today?” Amita smirks, plopping down next to me. I toss her a dark look and remain silent. I’m sure hers won’t be the last question today, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy having my bad decisions thrown in my face.
Isabella, who has gone by her shortened childhood nickname of Bella most of her life, strolls over and plops down on my lap, tossing one arm around my neck. “You look hungover.”
“Probably because I am.” Bella and I have always been very close and sadly she knows me better than I know myself. That’s not to say I’m not close with my other siblings, but the guys and I have always had this silent competition between us, and my baby sister Sophia has always been particularly close to Cruz. Bella and I have confided in one another since childhood, and yet I’ve never once talked with her about my infatuation with Sabrina—as if putting myself out there will only reinforce all the bad decisions I’ve made with women in the past decade or so. The thing is, Bella is the perfect confidant: never judgmental, always willing to hear me out completely, and only offering advice when asked.
With an exasperated sigh, I realize that there’s really no point in considering a potential conversation about Sabrina. Whatever brief amount of time I had with her is now gone. She made it abundantly clear yesterday that this—we - are not going to happen. And whether she’s stepping back because of fear, because of a commitment she’s made to someone else, or simply because I’m not the man for her, I have to respect her decision and move on.
“You okay?” Bella whispers in my ear, cautiously not allowing the other siblings to hear.
“Yeah.”
She shoots me a doubtful look. “No you’re not. Talk to me.”
Glancing around the room at the happy, smiling faces of my family, I consider for a moment how good I really have it. We’re so fortunate to have one another to rely on whenever life gets tough and in the last year or so that’s been put to the test more than once. Papa is finally on the road to good health but after nearly losing him to blocked arteries, and then a scare with a bout of pneumonia, it has certainly made us all reevaluate our own lives. I’m a lucky man to have all this, and even though I’ll be the first to admit that there are some gaping holes in my life, if this is all I’ll ever end up with then I know I can count myself as one of the lucky ones. Sure, my siblings and I might have our issues but at the end of the day if I need any one of them, they will drop everything and come running. Now, with the addition of Mia and Amita to our family, there are two more reasons for me to count my blessings.
Running my hand over Bella’s hair, I press my lips to her cheek and murmur, “I’m good. No need to worry.”
She will. She always does. And even though she’s two years younger than I am, she’s always been my protector. She’s repeatedly—and loudly—voiced her objections about the women I’ve brought around, telling me time and time again that empty, emotionless sex will eventually catch up with me. I hate to admit she’s right. I’m fucking exhausted by it all. I’m done with the Romeo bullshit, the fake charm, the meaningless hookups that only last a few weeks. I know I’ve said it before, but this time I not only mean it, I feel it in my bones … way down deep where it counts. At twenty-nine I’m ready to call it quits and concentrate on my career, my family, and the future. As far as my love life goes, well if yesterday is any indication, putting that on hold for a nice long time is probably a really good idea.
By the time we settle around the table to eat, I’m getting a variety of concerned and curious looks from most everyone. Marco, sitting across from me, gives me this devil-stare, as if he’s silently trying to pull information from my head. Because my relationship with Cruz is still slightly bruised from his threat to fire me, he won’t come right out and ask what’s bothering me. He does, however, spend a good amount of time darting concerned looks my way, ones I can only interpret as “I’m here if you need me.” I do appreciate their concern, but I don’t appreciate being the center of attention. This is the reason the Romeo façade worked so well. Everyone just assumed I was shallow and empty and because of that, they left me alone.
Ignoring the weird looks takes a strained effort but eventually the attention fades from me to other more important topics. As usual, Mama holds court at her end of the table, the queen on her throne, while Papa sits silently at the opposite end, head bowed while he wolfs down his meal. It’s the same as it’s always been and yet … not. Things are changing and whether or not I want to admit it, life is going on around me, but I’m still just as stagnate as I was five years ago. Before I know it I’ll have nieces and nephews running around. Soon Marco will convince Amita to marry him, and I’ll have added one more sister to this crazy mix. Even Bella, who tends to be cautious where men are concerned, has been holed up with her doctor friend Damian for the past few months. Though she’s remained tight lipped where he’s concerned, I can tell there’s a bit more to their relationship than she lets on.
With a heavy sigh, I set my fork down and reach for my wine glass. Alcohol is the last thing I need right now, but I simply can’t stomach food any longer. I wish I could say my unsettled stomach was the result of last night’s binge but the sad truth is that it’s nothing more than the result of a lot of self-evaluation. I’m looking inward and not liking what I’m seeing. I gotta admit that’s a real hard pill to swallow for someone like me, who has strolled through life wearing my confidence on my sleeve.
Bella reaches for my hand under the table and gives it a squeeze, telling me without words that she’s in my corner. I wish it were enough. I wish I could unload all this shit inside my head onto my little sister and have that simple act make everything better. Sure, I’m feeling sorry for myself and yes, I’m still nursing the bruises from yesterday, but the fact is I want Sabrina and contrary to what Marco thinks, I do believe I’m in love with her. I sure as hell don’t need to date her to know that. It’s something I feel on a physical level, like the way my heart picks up speed whenever she’s around or the electric shock that slides over my skin when our eyes meet. We have something tangible to build on, I believe that without a doubt. I just wish I could convince her of that. Unfortunately, she’s made her decision, and that decision does not include me.
The minute the meal is over I take my leave, escaping just in the nick of time—before I start getting bombarded with questions again. I point the truck toward my favorite beach, knowing I need the peace and tranquility of the warm sand and blue seas to help me get my head together. Between the residual hangover effects, the persistent concern of my sister and other siblings, I’m feeling decidedly closed in and antsy. Knowing I have to face Sabrina at the office tomorrow sure as hell doesn’t help, and I can only be grateful that the majority of my time this upcoming week will be spent out at the job site.
The moment my bare feet touch the sand, I start to relax. Shoving my flip-flops in the back pocket of my cargo shorts, I walk to the water and let the warm Atlantic spill over my toes. With a sigh of relief, I begin my trek down the white sandy beach, lights from the hotels spreading out across the sand to guide my way.
What the hell is happening to me? In the matter of a few weeks’ time, I’ve completely imploded, going from romantic playboy to pathetic whiner. If this is what love really is, I’m not quite certain it’s for me. Sure, it was frustrating lurking in the shadows and admiring her from afar, but I think I’ll take all that instead of the immense frustration and snippets of anger I feel now. My life is discombobulated, uncertain and unpredictable, and for a long time that worked for me. Not anymore. Not once I got a taste of what life could be with someone I really care about.
Damn. I wish she’d given me a chance to prove myself, to take her out to dinner or even out for a cup of coffee. Believe it or not, I really do want to get to know her. I want to know all the good and bad. I want to know what makes her tick, what turns her on, what pisses her off. I want to know what she wants for her future and whether or not that could ever include me. But seeing as how she basically told me to fuck off yesterday, maybe the smartest choice I can make is to walk away.
So why does the idea of doing so sit so uneasily? And is it possible to love someone, when you barely know them at all? Dick that he is, Marco does make a valid point. Sabrina and I haven’t even dated so how is it possible for me to believe that I’m in love with her? Do I even know what love really is for that matter?
I can only take what I know and build from there, and my parents have set a good example for all of us as to what constitutes true love. Then there’s Cruz and Mia, the forbidden love of a boss and his assistant, something he fought to attain right up until she walked away and he realized the enormity of what he could be losing. And Marco, a playboy like me, convinced he was content with his crazy one-night stands until Amita waltzed into his life and turned it upside down. Is that what real love is … fighting and clawing and convincing yourself you’re worthy of it? Does the struggle to get there make it more meaningful or can it still happen when it sneaks up on you and hits you out of nowhere?
When I reach the end of the two-mile stretch, I take the beach access back to the street, slide on my shoes, and stroll back to the truck. Even on a Sunday evening in March, Miami is alive with energy and hopping with tourists. I’d love to say I could easily get sucked into it all but the simple fact is I’m exhausted. I want nothing more than to head home and sleep all this chaos away.
Up ahead is one of the many eateries boasting outdoor seating. It’s a place I’ve been to a time or two with Bella. The place is filled with patrons laughing over margaritas, sharing whispered confidences over appetizers. Seated at the end is the one woman who I can’t seem to quit thinking about, the one woman determined to avoid me at every turn. Her eyes widen with surprise as I stroll up to her table, eyes shifting nervously from me to her female companion.
My eyes skim her face, taking in the dark circles under her eyes, the slight pale tone to her already fair skin. She’s dressed casually as she was yesterday, a simple loose tank top and pants. Still beautiful. Still not mine. She nervously bites her lip as she sends me a wary smile, tipping her head back to look at me.
“Hello, Sabrina.”
“Mr. Moran.”
A surge of anger bubbles up in my chest, but I force it down and feign nonchalance. “Having a nice evening?”
She nods. “Yes, thank you. We are.”
Glancing at her companion, I take in the blond, blue-eyed teenager who looks up at me with a curious expression on her pretty face—a face that eerily resembles the woman across from her. Suddenly everything in the past twenty-four hours starts to make sense.
Thrusting out my hand, I murmur, “Hello. I’m Roman Moran. And you are?”
She blushes and slides her small hand in mine. “I’m Emmy.” She stares up at me all bold and starry eyed and holding back a chuckle takes a monumental effort on my part. I bet this little scrap of a girl is a ballbuster and one hell of a handful for the woman she calls mom.
“This is Emerson,” Sabrina states. “My daughter.”
I slide her a sideways glance. “Yes, I see the resemblance.” Turning my attention once more to the young woman, I disengage our hands and reply, “It’s nice to meet you, Emerson.”
She giggles. “You can call me Emmy. Do you work with my mom?”
I nod. “I do.”
Emmy’s eyes dart back and forth from me to her mother. “Um, you should have dinner with us.”
Sabrina starts to protest, which instantly pisses me off, so I direct my response to the less hostile of the two women. “Thank you, Emmy, but I already had dinner with my family. I just wanted to stop by and say hello.”
Emmy shrugs. “Okay, cool. Maybe some other time.”
I smile at her, dimples and all. “I’d really like that.” I turn my attention back to Sabrina, wishing I could get her alone for a moment. Damn, she’s beautiful. Even wide eyed and nervous, wearing little makeup and dressed down, she’s absolutely stunning. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
She nods. “Yes, of course. See you then.”
“Good to meet you, Emerson. I hope to see you again real soon.” I leave the words hanging in the air but the look of shock on Sabrina’s face says all I need to know; she takes the words as the challenge they were meant to be.
“Sure, yeah. I’d like that. Nice to meet you too, Roman.”
“Emmy!” Sabrina scolds.
I wink at the younger Miss Morris. “No worries, kiddo. Feel free to call me Roman anytime.” Taking my leave, I stroll down the sidewalk toward the truck, hands in my pockets, grin spread widely across my face.
Fate has suddenly thrown me a bone by way of a teenage daughter. Now I understand completely why Sabrina has been so skittish, avoiding me at every turn and running in every direction. The woman is a mother for God’s sake, and the last thing she probably wants is some Romeo strolling into her home and giving her daughter unnecessary hope for a replacement daddy. Though I am content to finally understand why she’s so hell-bent on running, I realize more than ever that I really need to consider what the hell I’m doing. The responsibility of getting involved with her has suddenly grown—exponentially. This is no longer about what I want, or even what she wants. Now there is a third person in this potential relationship, a person who could be affected by how I treat her mother.
Knowing that Sabrina is a mother doesn’t change how I feel about her, not one bit. In fact, I’d say I admire her more now … if that’s even possible. I don’t know the history of her situation, but I have to respect a woman raising a child alone. I’ve never been around a lot of kids, but I was a teenager once, and I had teenage sisters. They were like the devil on a good day, possessed by multiple demons on most others. I can’t even imagine how Sabrina can manage one little hellion on her own, although Emmy does come across as a pretty decent kid. However, looks can be deceiving, as I recall from when Bella would bat her eyelashes then proceed to sneak out of the house to meet boys and smoke pot. Man, I wouldn’t trade places with Sabrina for anything.
Heading for home, I take a deep breath and smile. What seemed so hopeless yesterday has suddenly become an interesting challenge today. Whatever I decide from this point forward, I need to be fundamentally aware that each choice I make will affect her child. Time and patience are key, and so is friendship. Of course, there’s always the chance that Sabrina will tell me once again to go fuck myself, but I wouldn’t be who I am if I didn’t give it my all … if I didn’t give her the chance to slowly get to know me and more than anything to trust me.