“Is that ever gonna get old? It’s been like two years!”
Seraphine taps her chin, pretending to mull over the other woman’s question. “Mmm… no.”
“Whatever. What can I get y’all to drink?” Kasey jots down our orders and scampers off, leaving me to ask Seraphine what exactly their history is.
“Ha!” She snorts out a laugh. “Well… before Drake and Azalea got their shit together, he took Kasey out. He couldn’t get over Azalea, though. So, like the shit-for-brains man he is, Drake decided to try and use Kasey to make her jealous. It was a whole thing.”
“Uh huh,” is all I can say while keeping a straight face. It’s times like these that really highlight the age gap between us. She’s still elbow-deep in drama, and I’m… not.
“What?” She shrugs one delicate shoulder. “Those two were messy until they made it official.”
Kasey returns with our drinks and takes our food order—wings for me, a burger for Seraphine. Before I can fully weigh the consequences of my words, I turn to Seraphine and blurt, “You’re a little messy right now, too.”
I brace for impact, expecting her to fly off the handle. Instead, I’m met with a single arched brow and soft but lethal words. “Really? You think so?”
Like every man before who’s made a shitty comment without thought, I give her the age-old excuse of, “That came out wrong.”
Which makes me feel like a jackass, especially when she calmly leans back into her seat and says, “I’m sure it did.”
She stares me down as I struggle to find the right words. After a few painfully long seconds tick by, she gets tired of waiting. “Well, go ahead, try again.”
Dios mio, this woman. She wants to play hardball, so we will—even if it hurts. “No, you know what? I did mean it.”
Her brown eyes widen in disbelief.
“Could I have said it nicer? Definitely, but my poor delivery doesn’t change the facts. You’re letting your grief rule you.” She wants to deny it, to tell me I’m wrong. I can see it in her eyes, but I press ahead. “It ends today, mariposita.”
I can tell she’s gearing up to tell me off, but Kasey arrives with our food before she can. Thank God; maybe after she eats, she’ll be more receptive to my plan.
Our heated conversation pauses as we dig into our meals. The fragile silent truce stays in place until the bill is settled and we’re in my truck. But as soon as I shift into gear, all bets are off, and Seraphine’s ready for war.
“Just who are you to tell me how to run my life?”
“Someone needs to. You’re running it into the ground.”
She glares. “Be that as it may, it’s my life. I can do whatever I want with it.”
My shoulders shake with silent laughter.
“What?” she snarls.
“You sound like a child. Just because you can do something doesn’t mean you should.” I turn onto the road her dad’s shop is on and gun it. Seraphine squeals as I slam on the brakes, bringing us to a jarring stop.
“What the fuck?” she hisses.
“No one else was on the road,” I say.
“There’s a speed limit for a reason, jackass.”
“But my truck can go fast, so...” I’m waiting for her to get my point, and judging from the way she huffs and throws herself back into the seat, she got it—loud and clear.
“Whatever. Why are we here?” The tremble in her voice doesn’t escape my notice. I know exactly how hard this is for her—I’ve been here before and wouldn’t wish this on anyone. Regardless, it has to be done.
“Figured we could ride out and check on everything, maybe make some decisions regarding your dad’s shop.”
“Do we have to?” She fidgets in her seat, looking every bit as pained as I feel.
I pull to a stop in front of the garage bays. “We’re already here; might as well.” The steadiness of my voice covers the wretchedness working its way through me. While I want to help her, and know she needs to do this, causing her even an iota of pain was not on my to-do list.
She unbuckles and throws open her door. “Fine.”
I follow behind her, waiting quietly while she fishes the key out of her purse. I knew coming here was going to be hard, but it may be more so than I anticipated. This shop is her dad’s life’s work. She practically grew up here. Seraphine was her dad’s pride and joy, but these cars, this business, it was his passion. One I know he passed onto her.
Even if she doesn’t openly show it, this big metal building means as much to her as it did to him.
Once inside, Seraphine hesitates. I don’t rush her. If she needs to stand in the pitch-black dark and gather herself, then that’s what we’ll do.
I can vividly recall how hard it was to sift through Imani’s things—especially her art studio. It was gut-wrenching to sell the space, to sell her pieces; it felt like I was giving little bits of her soul to the highest bidder.
Right as my eyes finally adjust to the dark, she flips the switch for the lights, nearly blinding us both. Bright fluorescent bulbs illuminate the garage, bathing the space in light. We’re both quiet at the sight before us.
Everything remains untouched. Tools are littered about, there’s a car on the lift, and at least two cars mid-restoration. It’s as though Dave went out for lunch and never returned.
I place a hand on the middle of her back, rubbing soothing circles. “It’s okay to cry, mariposita.”
No sooner than the words leave my lips, she’s full-out bawling.
“C’mere.” I spin her to face me and wrap my arms around her, pulling her into my chest. I rock us both back and forth, murmuring words of comfort as she lets it all out.
It probably makes me twisted, but some macho part of me wants to roar in triumph over the way she’s willing to be vulnerable with me. Seraphine’s this fascinating mixture of weakness and strength. She’s fragile, yet made of steel. She’s broken, yet a warrior—even if she doesn’t yet know it.
God knows how long passes before her tears dry and she pulls away from me. “I’m so sorr—” she starts, but I cut her off.
“Do not apologize. This place is sacred to you and visiting it is hard.”
She sniffles as she nods. “Honestly, it’s surreal to be here. It literally looks like he left in the middle of the day—except instead of coming back, he…” She trails off as a fresh round of tears start.
“Why, Mateo? Why did he leave?”
I pull her back into my arms and press my lips to her temple. The move’s as instinctual as breathing. “Shh, mariposita. He didn’t want to leave you.”
“He clearly did,” she insists.
I spy a workbench and guide us to it, settling her in my lap. “You know deep down that’s not true. Your dad loved you. More than anything else, he loved you.”
“Then why did he leave?”
A million different answers race through my brain. People are always so quick to call those who end their own lives selfish, even though it’s rarely the case.
“Honestly? We may never know. But him ending his life in no way negates his love for you. You hung the moon for that man, Seraphine. I can’t begin to understand how alone and betrayed you must feel, but please don’t doubt your father’s love for you.”