The One Who Got Away is Back

Present 18 ♡ Farewell To An Old Love

The whole incident made it to the papers beyond just Miami's. Jean Paul, whose real name turned out to be Peter Garcia, was booked on attempted murder and a slew of other charges that very likely would secure him behind bars for a long, long time. Or as Angela put it, if that didn't, then her following up with a lawsuit would.

This had unleashed the untamed beast within her. She now spoke in terms of f bombs and s bombs that were so unlike her previous self, that even I felt like clutching my pearls.

Miguel was supposed to keep his leg immobilized for a few weeks, which meant he couldn't do Crossfit. One evening, where he was in bed complaining that he was going to lose all his muscle tone, I decided to give him a thorough workout. Mindful of the injury, of course, but at the end he was still as exhausted as if he'd gone to the gym for an entire session of punishment.

I tried to keep it together at work, despite the fact that all of us were rattled. Our two owners decided to hire a therapist who could help us process through what we'd lived. It was nice, but at least for me the best therapy was work. That was my refuge for weeks after, just pouring my energy on the app, on the wedding dresses that I'd been booked for, and trying not to think about the conversation Miguel and I were going to have in a year.

"You lucky bitch," Ayrton told me once over the phone, while I multitasked working on Jessica's dress. "I better be your maid of honor."

"Sorry," I told him. "I'm going to have to divide that role between Vera, Poonam and Page."

"Outrageous!"

"But," I said with a smile. "I have a better plan for you. I'll tell you in a year."

I enjoyed the genuine outrage that came at me after that.

About a month later I received a call from Gregory Schmitt, half chiding me and half demanding that I drive up to see my father. I wasn't sure I wanted to, but Miguel gave me a single look that convinced me. It reminded me that life was short and my father's days were numbered. Visiting him meant extending a courtesy to him that he'd never given me. But it was true that in his own, strange way, he'd tried to make amends.

Schmitt confirmed as much when I walked into the hospice, saying, "Your father mentioned that he hadn't seen you in a while."

"Not a lie," was all I told him.

I was shocked at how much my father had wasted away since I last saw him. My heartstrings pulled in all the wrong ways, the kind that made my eyes water and my chin tremble. He was asleep when I walked in and I didn't want to disturb him. I sat on the chair by the window and looked at him, his sunken cheeks and the papery thin skin that covered them. At the wisps of white hair atop his head, and the way his bony hands clutched as his bed sheet.

Father grunted in his sleep. Of course he wouldn't do something as common as snoring. When he stirred and opened his eyes, he caught me smiling at the same time as tears trickled down my face.

He coughed once and said, "You've always been a crybaby."

Yep, that was still him.

I sighed and wiped my face with some tissue. "Should I ask how you're feeling?"

"No, that's a boring topic."

He coughed some more and I helped him get seated to drink some water. He needed help even for that much. It broke my heart to see him like this, even though I remembered him as the strongest, most authoritative man on earth.

As he settled back against the pillow he said, "I want to hear all about you."

I didn't question it. I told him everything about me from where we'd left off in my last visit. I told him about working at Tropicana and about the circumstances surrounding my promotion.