El Paso in the dead of summer is just as dry and scorching as he said it would be, and I wilt the moment I step out of the cool airport and into the parking garage to pick up my rental car. My curls cling to my shoulders and forehead and I tug at the neckline of my tee shirt, praying that it will be enough to cool myself as I wait for the air conditioner to kick in before I take off. Once some of the heat dissipates, I grab the steering wheel, wincing because it still burns the palms of my hands. My lips quirking slightly because I remember the story he told me—the one about his melting dashboard. As the GPS guides me turn-by-turn to my hotel, I return my sister’s call, speaking to her over the car’s Bluetooth.

“—you up and decide three days ago to put in for vacation. And why the hell you’d use your time off to go to El Paso of all the fucking places is beyond me.” She pauses for dramatic effect. “Are you listening, Twin B?”

“Mostly.” I slam on the brakes before a traffic light turns red and tilt my head toward the mountains in the distance. “Maybe I decided to come to El Paso of all the places because it’s beautiful here.”

That’s not even a lie to console my sister. It’s the opposite of Boston—a red and gray desert landscape beneath a clear sky—and I hate it that I’m here for something that’s not pleasure. “Whatever, Jamie. I’ve just never known you to chase after a man.”

“Who said I’m here for a man? I just wanted you to know where I was so you wouldn’t worry.” A year ago, I could have skipped town for a month or two and Bella wouldn’t have noticed. Since she’s settled down with Leo, I’ve heard from her more and more. She calls for parenting advice, which still blows my mind since I don’t have children and she’s relying on my years of babysitting and working in the NICU.

Scratch that, I didn’t have children yet.

Knots tangle in the pit of my stomach, but I square my shoulders because I can’t let the panic swallow me whole today. I clear my throat. “Don’t you have to get back to work or is the ER slow today?”

“I have a little time,” she says. “Didn’t you tell me before that’s where the attorney’s from? Bailon?” She drags out his name suggestively—Bah-Lone. I grit my teeth and confirm that what she said is true, and she lets out that sound she makes when she’s proven right. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. Which brings me back to my first point: I’ve never known you to chase after a man.”

“I’m not chasing him, Bells. I need to talk to him. There’s a big difference.”

That’s not good enough for my sister because she launches into a list of scenarios that would warrant me traveling 2,500 miles from home to speak to a man I’ve said I was through with. It doesn’t take me long to get fed up with her questions—her last is a list of STDs and ways to de-ball him for catching them without getting arrested—so I draw in a breath through my teeth.

“I’m pregnant, Bella.” I’ve said those words aloud to myself so many times since finding out last week that it should be like breathing now, but it’s not. I’ll probably admit myself to the hospital in thirty-one weeks still sounding dazed.

“That was going to be the next thing I said, but I figured that you of all people—” She pauses again, but she’s not even being theatrical this time. I rarely manage to shock my sister, and I’ve just done so with three words. “Fuck, Twin B, are you—”

“Serious? Yes.” Since I’ve already gone over this with Lucy, it’s easier to get straight to the point with my sister. “Yes, I’m keeping the baby—any other alternative is not an option, not for me. No, I haven’t told Mom and Dad, and I’m begging you not to say a word to them until I’m ready. And yes, I’m here to verbally de-ball Bailon for this so I can get home and get back to work and my life.”

When I finish, my chest rises and falls as the breath explodes from my mouth. The GPS tells me that my hotel is a half a mile on the left, so I change lanes quickly then grip the steering wheel until it feels like it’s going to sink into my skin. “I won’t tell Mom or Dad,” Bella says carefully. “I would never do that to you, you know that.”

I know she wouldn’t because, despite our differences, my twin has always had my best interests at heart. “Thank you.”

“When are you going to see him?” she demands. When I tell her tonight—after I’ve gotten a chance to rest and clear my thoughts—she lets out a heavy sigh. “You’ll let me know what happens? And do me a favor. When you’re de-balling him, make sure you give his junk an extra punch from me.”

“I said verbally,” I say through a tight smile as I turn into my hotel’s parking lot, but my sister claims that physical contact is always the best contact. “And it takes two to get into a situation like this.”

“And when it happens, it’s always the woman’s job to figure shit out.” My sister snorts, and I hear her say something to someone in the background. She returns her attention to me, groaning. “I’ve got to go back in because my break is about to end, but I meant what I said. Let me know what he says—after you strangle the motherfucker.”

“I will,” I promise. We end the call, and I stare at the screen of my phone for a long time. I had texted him again this morning before my flight left Boston at 6 AM, but he hasn’t responded. Not that I’m surprised. He had told me when we started this game what he expected—what we were—and I’m not the least bit surprised that he no longer responds. At last, I tuck my phone into the side pocket of my purse and leave the rental car to check in to my room.

* * *

I rest well for the first time in days—no dreams or waking every fifteen or twenty minutes after I fall asleep. I sleep long and hard, and it’s dark out when I finally open my eyes. I slide to the edge of the queen-size hotel bed, curling my toes because the AC-unit in my room has worked double time while I rested. Yawning, I tug my phone from beneath my pillow and sift through my missed messages. There's one from Lucy. Two from my sister, asking if I've had a chance to talk to Mateo yet and, if so, how did it go. I text her back and let her know I overslept but that it’s the first thing I plan to do tomorrow and she responds almost immediately.

9:34 PM: I love you, Twin B.

Smiling, I tell her that I love her too then I glance at my final missed message, and as I read it aloud, I feel like my heart stops beating in my chest.

6:22 PM I tried calling you back. Let me know when you get this.

It's over three hours old and less than 20 words—hell, less than 15—but his words and name on my screen still manages to seep beneath my skin and take my breath away. It's been a long time since I've talked to him. A long time since I've gotten a reply, and I almost expect he won't answer when I call back.

He does, though, and on the first ring.

“Jamila,” he starts, causing a wave of warmth that shouldn't exist to ripple down my spine. My body bows forward, and I rest my elbows on my bare knees because I've missed his voice. I have missed his voice, and that’s sad.

“I got your message…”

One of the biggest tragedies of leaving something unsaid? You always open yourself up for sarcasm. “All of them?” I ask.

The sound that rips from the back of his throat is animalistic. It reaches into me, twisting the pit of my stomach, weaving its way around my heart. “Things have been difficult here.”

Padding toward the window, I rub my hand over my eyes. I remind myself that he’s hurting. Remind myself not to be a bitter bitch. “Sonora told me about your grandmother, Bailon. I'm so sorry.”

“She was ninety-two,” he mutters. “It was bound to happen, but it's been hell.”

I can't imagine. Both sets of my grandparents are still alive and in good health—my mother's parents live in Florida and my paternal grandparents live in upstate New York. “I’m sorry,” I repeat. “I’m so sorry, Mateo.”

“I—” But he stops himself. He inhales deeply then releases his words along with his exhale. “Your text scared me. You said it was an emergency and then I talked to Sonora. She said you’ve been trying to get in touch with me.”

I brush aside the heavy curtains and press my forehead against the cold glass. “I need to see you.”

“I'll be back in Boston in—”

I shake my head even though he can’t see me. “Not in three weeks, Mateo. Not in a month. I need to see you tonight or tomorrow, but it just needs to be done.”

“I'm in Texas.” He sounds frustrated, angry, and he takes another moment to pull in a steadying breath. “I can't leave here until I've settled everything, Flowerbomb.”

Flowerbomb. Is it awful that I’ve missed hearing him call me that ridiculous nickname? That every time I've lifted the perfume to the column of my throat, I’ve thought of him? “I'm here in El Paso,” I admit.

“In El Paso?” he repeats, and when I confirm in a low murmur, he mumbles a curse in rapid Spanish—so fast I'm not even able to translate what he’s saying. “Why the hell are you in El Paso?”

“I need to see you. You weren’t responding, so I came to you.”

His breathing is muffled for several seconds, like he has his hand pressed to his mouth. “Where are you?” he eventually demands.

But I shake my head once more. Even though this is a hotel and not my apartment with its red closet door and familiarity, I don't want him stepping into my space. I don't want to do this in a place that will feel tainted after we're done. “Can I come to you?”

For a moment, I'm sure he's going to tell me I can’t. That we have to do things on his terms. There's a low rumbling noise in the back of his throat, and then he says, “I'm staying with my sister, but she won't mind if you're here.”

He gives me the address—the one I already have, but I don’t tell him that—and I tell him I'll see him shortly.

“Jamie…” he says just before I push the button to end the call. I return the phone to my ear, my eyebrows arching expectantly because I want him to say something, anything, that will give me a boost of courage, but he leaves those words unspoken too. “I'll see you soon.”

* * *

Marisol’s place is on the east side of El Paso—a half an hour drive from my hotel—and I pull into the driveway of the small, corner-lot stucco home an hour after I speak to Mateo. I’ve had enough time to get my emotions under control, so I kill the ignition and immediately head to the front door. If I take my time—hope and pray that this won’t go as badly as I know it will—I’ll talk myself out of it. I don’t want to start again tomorrow, I just want to get this over with now.

A moment passes after I ring the doorbell and then a teenage girl answers.

“Yes?” she asks politely.

“Is Mateo here?” I feel like a child asking if my friend can come out to play, especially when she moves her head up and down slowly. “I’m his … he was expecting me to stop by.”

“He knows you were coming?” She plays with the long black braid hanging over one shoulder, her amber eyes flashing over me curiously. When I tell her that we just spoke, she widens the screen door and gestures for me to come in.

“He’s out back with my mom, but you can sit—” She wrinkles her nose as she sweeps her gaze around the living room. There’s freshly folded laundry on the couch and loveseat, but she quickly scoops up a couple of stacks, placing them in the hamper on the floor. “I’ll grab him for you.”

She disappears through the doorway to the kitchen, and my heart jumps when I hear another screen door slam. Although a couple of rooms separate us, I hear bits and pieces of their conversation over the sound of the TV. A female voice—this one deeper—demands to know if he’s trying to turn her home into his. I know what she means, that she’s referring to the parties, and I hang my head low as he responds coldly.

“She’s not that kind of woman.” He warns her to stay outside. She tells him she’ll kill him if he takes one of his women to bed in her house.

One of his women.

I hate that I immediately wonder who he’s been with and how many since he’s been here, but I force myself to recover quickly because I hear the door clang shut again. I grip the fabric edge of the couch, lifting my chin as he steps into the room.

He looks wrecked. Oh, he’s still beautiful—I don’t think the man can help that—but there are circles under his eyes, and he hasn’t shaved. He’s in jeans and a tee shirt, his feet bare. He takes a step toward me, his shoulder muscles straining beneath the cotton fabric. I compare him to the man I sat across from months ago, the cool and calm and collected attorney who promised to teach me lessons, and I swallow hard.

Rise unsteadily to my feet.

Meet him halfway across the room as he reaches out to me.

“I won’t take too much of your time, Bailon,” I say.