Chapter 13

Emily

I don’t know what time I fell asleep. After soaking in the bathtub up to my nose for hours, I dragged myself to bed and collapsed. I wanted to end this nightmare. I couldn’t think because I didn’t want to find solutions or reasons to justify Marcos being a jerk to me. If I did, I might end up understanding and forgiving him.

That’s what months of therapy had made me realize. Apparently, I didn’t want to break the connection with Marcos. I needed to hate him, or else nothing would tie me to him.

“Enough!” I shouted at myself. “I don’t need any connection. My hatred for him isn’t baseless.” I stared at the ceiling, repeating it.

I threw the covers aside, determined to show my dad I wouldn’t give up on him. I’d already lost my mom; I wasn’t going to lose him too.

As I went downstairs, noises from the garden caught my attention. It would be a miracle if my dad had woken up sober and with enough energy to tend to the garden at this hour. If that was the case, it meant he was doing better than I thought and might improve without needing to be admitted to a clinic—maybe just with the help of a support group and therapy.

But my optimistic thoughts stopped dead when I spotted Marcos through the window. He was facing away, working with a rake, clearing stones from the flowerbed where my mom’s flowers used to grow.

What the hell did he want here? He knew I was back in town. He should be avoiding me at all costs, so why didn’t he stay away?

My blood boiled, and before I could think, I ran outside, already shouting, ready to set him on fire if needed to keep him away from my house.

“What do you think you’re doing here?” I growled, catching him off guard.

“Hi, Emily,” he said calmly, looking at me. It felt like he was scanning every inch of my face. “I’m taking care of the garden. The flowers died a while ago, but the soil’s still good. It’ll just take a bit more work…”

“I don’t care about that!” I shouted, cutting off his gaze, which was locked on me and unnerving me beyond reason. “You think I’ll buy this crap? We don’t need you. I can handle the garden myself.” I turned, ready to go back inside.

My voice was already cracking, and my whole body was shaking. I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.

“It was the only way to talk to you,” he said, making me freeze in place. I stood there like a fool, staring at the ground, waiting for him to continue. “You came back to town and still avoid me, running away from me. We need to talk, Emy. It’s been five years; we can’t keep going like this.” Hearing my nickname on his lips was the last straw. I wasn’t going to let his sweet words pull me in again.

“I want you gone, got it? Get out now!” I felt the fury I’d held back for years escaping through every pore.

His clear eyes kept staring at me. Despite his furrowed brows, he seemed calm and serene. I knew he was analyzing me, searching for any crack in my armor. That had always been his game.

“He can stay as long as he wants.” My dad’s hoarse, slurred voice broke the tense standoff locking our gazes. “This house is more his than yours.”

“It’s fine, Mr. Miguel. I should’ve warned you I was coming,” Marcos replied calmly, as if I hadn’t just told him to disappear.

“Nonsense, kid. You’re always around helping me,” my dad muttered, shooting me a sideways glance. “She left you too, and just like she did with me, she wants to do with everyone else. Came back full of demands, son.”

I felt both their eyes on me as I fought not to explode.

What kept me from shouting the truths I had bottled up about Marcos? My desire to leave this place without more trauma. I didn’t want a confrontation with him in my own yard, didn’t need to dig up old problems and suffer alone afterward.

But hearing my dad treat him better than me, his own daughter, wasn’t helping me keep my mouth shut.

“Things are complicated,” Marcos said, trying to rein in my dad. I could tell.

What was he playing at with this act? Showing he’d changed? That he was a better person and regretted what he did? Well, he could go to hell with that talk because I didn’t want to hear anything from him.

“Things are always complicated when it comes to women, especially some who make everything harder,” my dad added.

“You should let me handle him alone,” I said, finding my voice, tired of them talking about me like I wasn’t there. “You’re drunk at this hour in the morning. You should go inside, take a shower, and have some strong coffee.”

“Emy,” Marcos called in a warning tone. He knew things were about to heat up. But he had no idea what I’d been dealing with since I got here, the weight of keeping everything bottled up inside and carrying it alone.

“He’s welcome here. As for you, I already told you last night,” my dad said, his words pushing me out while embracing Marcos, breaking through my self-control.