“It will kill me,” she whispers. “They say whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, but that’s not true. Whatever doesn’t kill you leaves wounds. It can leave you weaker than before.”
“Not this time.” I kiss her forehead. “Not this time. You’re going to go home and you’re going to make amends in your life, you’re going to face the things you’ve tried to run from, and you’re going to come out stronger in the end. And I’m going to keep doing what I’m doing, knowing every single morning I get up is one morning closer to seeing you.”
“You promise?” she manages to say, her voice so low, so raw.
“I promise.”
I get to my feet, the towel nearly slipping off from around my waist, and then grab her under the arms and pull her up to me. I hold her, hands on her cheeks. “The only offense we have right now is a good defense. That’s the only thing we can control. I’m going to go get changed and we’re going to go to your place and get packed. Bring your stuff here. Then we can be with each other until they make you go.”
“Do you really think immigration officers are going to end up at the door?” She looks terrified.
“I do. They don’t fuck around.” I hesitate. “Or we can be even more proactive and get you on the next plane to Houston.”
She shakes her head vigorously. “I can’t. My passport expired so long ago.”
“I know. And they’re going to give you shit at the airport and you’re going to get banned. But at least this way it is on your own terms. At least this way we’re in control of it. Not them, not my father. It’s really the only thing we have, Ruby.”
She nods slowly, understanding. “Yeah. You’re right.”
So I get changed. I have a bruise forming on the side of my face where Tomás got me in the temple, and I’m lucky he didn’t fucking kill me by doing that. The back of my head hurts too, so I don’t think I’m fine to drive, just in case I have a concussion.
We end up getting an Uber that takes us to her place. Luckily there’s no one there yet. I help her pack and then we go down to her car to get another bag out of the trunk. I take the keys, promising her I’ll take care of the car while she’s gone. It’s such a silly thing, but it gives me some sort of purpose, some piece of her while she’s gone.
All the while I’m searching flight after flight, trying to get her home. Most of the flights heading from Spain to the US leave in the morning, but I manage to find one flight with one seat left that goes to Dallas, then Houston, three hours from now. If we hurry, we can just get her on it, including all the shit she’ll probably go through with her expired passport.
Another Uber takes us to the airport, us together in the backseat, and in the distance I can see the lights of Valdebebas. It feels like an icy hand is reaching up and clawing at my heart.
In my dreams of dreams, I have the team and I have her.
But that’s not life.
It doesn’t work that way.
Life is a fucking crapshoot.
It’s never a straight line.
It’s a meandering, twisting mess that takes you in on one side and spits you out the other.
It’s a short trip in the end, but there are enough chances to make it feel like a long one.
The only thing that really matters is if you have the right person with you, along for the wild, chaotic ride to the finish line.
“I love you,” I whisper to her, a sob rolling through me. “I always will.”
She turns her face to mine.
We kiss.
We cry.
We hold on for the rest of the ride.
Part Four
Madeira, Portugal Three Years Later
“Let it never be said that romance is dead”
– “Ruby” Kaiser Chiefs
Twenty-Four
Ruby
The plane touches down on the island of Madeira, wheels screeching on the runway.
I stare out the window at the dry, craggy mountains, my heart leaping with relief that we’re no longer in the air. The turbulence was insane coming down, winds buffeting us from all directions, and it was at the last minute that I realized half the runway is a platform over the Atlantic Ocean. If I had known that ahead of time, I probably wouldn’t have asked for a window seat.
The plane taxis and we get closer to the tiny international airport. I’m not even off the plane yet and I’m so acutely aware of how isolated this island is. Even though it belongs to Portugal, it’s waaaay down there off the coast of Morocco, sitting all alone in the wild Atlantic with only slivers of other islands for company.
I drum my fingers along my thighs, wincing at the chipped red nail polish. I’d gotten a manicure the other day, but they never last long with me. I got the whole shebang—a bikini wax, pedicure, body scrub, mud wrap, you name it. All the things you get done to yourself when you’re about to see the man you love, a man you haven’t seen in three years.
Fucking hell, I think to myself. It’s been three years.
I did it.
We did it.
We survived it.
There were times that I missed Luciano so acutely, so deeply, it was like a sickness I couldn’t get rid of, one growing and festering inside me. There was no treatment, and the cure seemed so far off. I felt like I’d
