Chapter Forty-Two: 22 Days

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**

As if it was any surprise, Claire fired me.

Well technically, I fired her—she was under contract with me, so she is no longer my client.

After Thanksgiving, we both agreed that it would be smart to no longer work together; it was clear business was mixing too much with pleasure to the point of it almost becoming one.

With today being December first, the festivities finally have a reason to commence. But for me, majority of December will be spent working for others—for my clients, for Sebastian and his promotional campaigns and most importantly, for the Quintanilla Christmas party in several weeks. My fingers never stop; the emails are incessant. Tomorrow, I'm going to the Quintanilla household to add my input on the decorations and most importantly, the guest list. Many important people are invited. And not important in terms of solely social stature, but important politically; society as a whole. They want this to go well, as do I. Honestly speaking, I'm being paid handsomely to ensure that this party is receiving the best publicity it can possible get. Many have RSVP'd so far, so I'm content that part of my job is done. The other half lies in making sure the party runs smoothly; that relationships are formed. Alliances are made.

Sebastian is definitely going. I've forced myself to rid his name out of my mind the last three days like he's the plague, but it's nearly impossible. Now that I've come to terms with the feelings I have for him (and after Thanksgiving—this year's feast has gone down as one in infamy) my mind won't stop. The longer I go without seeing him—without hearing his voice—the more I miss him. I sit at my desk and put off the work I have to do, the places I have to go and the people I have to meet because I can't concentrate. I feel like I'm committing adultery, the way I think of him while I'm still with someone else.

Sarah suggested that I pick a day where I can talk to him and tell him how I feel. This was when everyone was making to-go plates, covering them with tin-foil while Dad's carried crying children out the door, upset they had to leave their cousins for the day. Claire and Sebastian were gone by this time. They left early.

"Sit down, have some coffee—someplace private," Sarah said to me. "Tell him what you've been thinking."

I placed some left-over roast into a Tupperware I brought. "It isn't that easy. Today just made shit even more complicated."

"You think it gets easier from here? It's only going to get worse. Claire was fucking bold, and she'll only get bolder from here."

"I have a feeling that we won't be working together after this." I ended up being right.

"You'll think it'll end there?" Sarah rolled her eyes, leaning in to avoid the group of ladies who walked in and tried to decipher what we were speaking about. "Talk to him. Now. Before shit gets worse."

I thought briefly about what Oma had told me hours before on the back porch and knew Sarah had a point. Now, as my fingers tremble over my phone, I can't help but think of excuses to talk to Sebastian in person.

Despite my judgments, I pick up the phone and call him. Ava, his secretary/receptionist/Wonder Woman answers. I ask to speak to him, in which she tells me he's in the middle of an important meeting.

"Oh." I spin in my chair, as if that will help conjure up something to say. "Well, can you tell him to call me back as soon as he can?"

"Sure. Did you want to leave a message?"

"No, that's fine." I want to try my luck; Ava and I are friends. We go way back. "Do you know who he's speaking to?"

"A woman," she whispers. Her voice, her sighing, indicates she scared to tell me this sacred information. "She's from Colombia. Her name is Julia Castellanos. That's all I can really say."

I didn't expect to hear so much. I thought he would be talking to one of the Board members. A financial advisor, maybe. It's my nosiness that pushed me to ask. But all at once, I receive information I don't know what to do with.

I don't ask for more. I thank Ava and hang up. Impulsively, I look up the name—Julia Castellanos—and am not surprised when the search comes up empty. I shouldn't be feeling so curious about a simple meeting, but it's hard not to; "Colombia" continues to ring in my mind. Is she part of the Quintanilla's business? Does Alejandro know who she is? Ava's secrecy made it out to be something classified.

I grab my purse and decide to walk the two blocks to Harrison Inc. I climb into the elevator, slide my card through the reader for Top Floor access. The elevator doors open, and I clutch my purse to my side as I make my way through. Ava sees me and raises her brows in shock, as if our phone call should have been the end of me.

"I'm just going to wait for him," I tell her. Because if I don't do this now, I'll never have the strength to talk to him. Ava just nods and sits back down; she stood when she saw me. The look on her face makes me weary like my presence is dangerous.

I sit down on one of the white leather couches and stare at my hands for a minute before opting for staring out of the window. There's nothing but skyline; buildings are boring to stare at.

Sooner than expected, I hear chatter coming down the hall from Sebastian's office. It's hushed, secret. I get up and walk near Ava's desk, and that's when I see them. Claude, Penny and who I assume to be Julia. I hope they don't see me, but they do. Claude smiles uncomfortably at me before rushing her along—Julia. But I get a good look at her before she leaves, and she gets a good look at me. The way she looks at me only heightens my suspicions, and I make sure to memorize every detail in my mind as she walks by. I feel like a police officer reading over a criminal's description—blonde wavy hair (very unkempt) with hints of brown at the roots, black eyes, small nose, tall, skinny. Mean face, but probably just the way her features come together; not intentional.

We watch each other grow farther; she looks at me like she knows me, or like I should know who she is. A commanding presence, for sure. I wonder who she is. As she enters the elevator, I keep wondering.

The elevator doors close, coming together over her figure. Sebastian exits shortly after and pauses when he sees me. Like our first encounter on Thanksgiving, I don't know whether to take his surprise as flattering or insulting. I shouldn't blame him, though. Since June, we've been infamously taking long periods of time to not communicate, especially when something happens. It's almost like we're slowly losing memory of each other, each time we take an hiatus from each other's presence.

"Leslie," he says, breathing out my name like it's a relief.

"Hi." I shift between my heels like an anxious child asking for something. "I'm sorry for dropping by; Ava told me you were in the middle of a meeting—"

"Oh no, it's fine." Sebastian glances briefly at Ava, in which she returns with a nervous grin, almost sloppy. "I'm...I'm just surprised to see you."

I want to tell him that I know he's surprised, and that he was never good at hiding how he feels, but I steer clear from it and remember why I'm here.

"Did you want to talk in my office?" he asks me. He sounds like a teacher. More like a professor, actually.

I oblige. He leads me to the tall steel doors at the end of the hall and opens them for me. The office is almost a new sight, given how long it's been since I've sat in here. The windows are larger than I remember; everything seems bigger than before. Sebastian's silhouette walks forward to the couch set in the center of the office. I sit down, and he sits next to me.

"Sorry," he laughs, scooting away; we were only inches apart.

"It's fine." I figure it's best to just come right out and say it. "I wanted to talk. To you."

"Oh," his face is reminiscent like he knows exactly what I want to talk about. But I hope he doesn't; I hope he doesn't have a clue.

"If you're not busy this week, maybe you and I could go get coffee or something and talk."

"Like a date?" he says jokingly, laughing when I try to defend myself. We both know it was a joke; we're both in relationships.

Or our own ideas of relationships.

He sees how rattled my nerves are, asking this of him—just us two, in a private place, where we can just "talk." We haven't "talked" in such a long time. I don't even know how I'll start the conversation off, or how he'll react when I tell him. What if he doesn't believe me, or worse, has gotten over the same feelings?

"Why don't we go now?" His mood is light like he's happy or hopeful. Is he ignorant about what I want to talk to him about?

I stutter at the idea of "now." "Now?"

"Yeah. I actually have a free afternoon. Tonight, I'll be out until the sun is up."

He's so earthy; giddy like a child. What was that meeting about?

I don't know what to say because I wasn't expecting so soon. He speaks for me.

"We could have a drink at my place?" he holds his hands up like he's offended me. "I promise. Just a drink."

"Yeah, sure," I blurt out because at this point I don't know what to say. Everything is happening so fast, and I feel that my only option is to just ride along and see what happens.

"I'll drive." He winks at me, and I don't know how to react to it, so I just stare at him like he's a phantom. His smile is unsure, but he ignores my odd behavior and invites me to the garage. I clutch my purse, the grip slipping under my damp palms, and follow him to the elevator, down into the garage. I breathe deeply, counting, breathing again while Sebastian strolls along uncaringly. We get into the car, but that's that—we just enter the car. We don't move, nor does Sebastian even put the key into the ignition. I shakily put fly-aways back into the confines of my hair bun and wait. The car smells of expensive leather and pine. Sebastian's cologne, too. Hudson used to wear this cologne—Armani. My favorite.

After a prolonged silence, I turn to him and find Sebastian staring at me.

"Are you alright?" he asks, his tone concerned.

"I'm fine."

"Did you want to tell me what you wanted to talk about?"

I shake my head. "When we get to your house."

I hate when he looks at me like this—prying, deep-rooted eyes staring into your soul, tearing your willpower apart. But he knows I won't budge, so he starts the car and pulls out of the parking spot. That boyish glee to him? It's gone. He's worried now, like I might tell him bad news over wine and scotch. Confessing my feelings for him shouldn't be considered bad news, but the circumstances that surround us might construe it into such.

The drive to his house is long and quiet. I don't check my phone or ask to turn the radio on. No, I sit still, purse on my lap, and stare at the road ahead. I remember a time where being with Sebastian wasn't so damn awkward and air-constraining—Tennessee, in the small-town bar we literally stumbled into after a long day of wandering aimlessly in the wilderness. We shared drinks and laughed and flirted, too. We played pool together, his hands on my hips, his body against mine, both of us blissfully unaware of what was brewing underneath our feet. That night served as a buffer between when I hated him and when I loved him, both times on either side of this buffer equally as complicated.

Finally, we pull up to the gate of his house. He revs through the open metal mouth and into the driveway before putting the car in park; the engine hums smoothly still. I can see his porch and the front door, the tall pillars of the Spanish-styled villa shadowing us. I find his house, his mansion, more beautiful and awe-striking every time I visit it.

He finally turns the ignition off. I take off my seatbelt and pull the handle, only to find the door is locked.

Fuck. I should have known he would do this.

"Can you unlock the door, please?" I ask over my shoulder. My voice is almost malicious.

"Tell me what this is about." He takes his seatbelt off like he's going to get out and leave me here.

"Isn't this why we came here? For us to talk?"

I look at him now. His handsome features turn irresistible when he's upset, but I dare not tell him this. Would he take it as a compliment, me telling him that I think he looks sexy when he's mad? Maybe before. Way before. But now, he probably wouldn't find it flattering; serious situations call for serious reactions.

"We ignore each other for three months, except for work or anything that isn't what we need to talk about. Three months. Then there's Thanksgiving, which was fucking terrible. Three days later, you finally want to 'talk,' but in this...timid, scared way like you're dying or leaving."

I want to scream. Trapped in a car, warm air, clouds accumulating outside—dark clouds. I want to scream; I hate all of these things.

"Don't make me do this here," I say to him; beg of him. This wasn't supposed to be this hard.

"Do what, Leslie?" he asks me. It sounds like a demand. I demand you to tell me what you don't want to do.

We stare at each other like prey and predator, only I don't know who is who between us. Maybe I should just scream it at the top of my lungs: "I love you, you idiot!" But there was a way this was supposed to happen. We were supposed to sit down, have coffee or alcohol or both, and I was supposed to tell him what I'm feeling. Perhaps a bit about my childhood could have been thrown in there to justify my adulthood decisions, but regardless, he was supposed to listen. Then I would tell him how I felt. After that, though, I hadn't planned out. I wanted it to be a surprise; Sebastian is often very unpredictable. He would have drawn the last part in himself. I would break up with Alejandro after this if Sebastian accepted my confession as genuine. I would agree to continue helping with the party, but I would suggest we go our separate ways. Then Sebastian would give a big "fuck you" to his dad, break up with Claire, and he and I would start over somewhere. No one would know our names; we'd be untraceable.

That's what I wanted. That's what I pictured in my head. But this is real life, and real life is inescapable, and it's also cold and dead and hard. It's loveless; you have to add that part in yourself. And it's also filled with bad decisions—immoral ones. Unforgivable decisions. Ironic ones, too; I've scorned those who've done what I'm about to do: cheat, or think of cheating.

When I kiss him, I know I shouldn't. It's as simple as that. I know I'm doing something bad. We are both with someone else, and thus I am cheating on my boyfriend. How I could have seen myself as anything other than a cheater when I slept with Sebastian in Scotland is beyond myself; he was with Claire then, and I consented to sex knowing this, which made me a product. But now I am with someone, too. I'm cheating; this is the first page of adultery.

I kiss him, and he kisses me back. His lips are soft, like a memory of mine. I need to stop, but I can't. I miss this more than flowers miss rain or the sun misses the horizon at day's end; I crave it. I climb on top of him, my heels dangling on my feet. There's tongue—lots of tongue. Moaning, too; he wants more of me. His hands trace the outline of my body hungrily, landing on my thighs, then underneath my skirt, pulling my panties off. I need to stop, but I can't.

I push the seat back, unbuckle his belt and unbutton his pants with fumbling fingers. The car is hot; it was warm, now it's hot, and we're both sweating. I'm so close to easing into him, I just need to lower my hips. My heart is beating through my ears as I move my mouth against him, both of us panting like there's no air to breathe, breathing in, intoxicated by each other's scent. He doesn't know what he does to me. It's maddening. How dare he remove the bind on my heart without even realizing it? It should be a crime. A fucking crime; it should be a crime, how in love with him I am. At once, these feelings pour out of me like a river, and I feel content with committing this crime.

And the next.

"I love you," I whisper. This is the "next" crime. Sex isn't the "next" crime because we don't have it; it never happens. We freeze when the words come out, and he opens his eyes, and I know that sex won't happen. He looks at me, stares at me, almost confused. Dismayed.

What have I done?

I back away from him, wait for something more from him that never comes. I figure out how to unlock the doors from his side of the car. The click is freedom. I get off of him, pull my panties up, gather myself and my belongings before getting out of the car. The sky is dark and it looks like it might rain again. I don't know how I'm going to get home, but I'll walk if that means getting away from here.

"Leslie," Sebastian calls after me. I don't look back; I'll be tempted to stop walking away.

"I'm sorry," I say to him as if he's in front of me. "That was a mistake, what I said. I shouldn't have done that. Any of that."

"Slow down." He ignores everything I said because he knows it isn't true. "Please."

"I need to go, this was a mistake."

"I'm sorry." I don't know why he's apologizing. "I didn't mean to react like that."

Then I feel his hand wrap around my arm, spinning me around until he has a grip on both of my shoulders. I can't turn away from him now.

He lets go slowly and looks into my eyes. Before, he was guarded and defensive. He didn't know what I wanted from him, but now he knows the reason for us being here and is understanding. He's eager, too. Anxious. He wants to hear more.

"It wasn't supposed to happen this way," I explain. "We were supposed to sit down a-and talk and I was supposed to tell you how I feel because according to Oma, I keep my feelings in here," I pat a fist over my heart. "I keep them all bottled up in here."

Sebastian's looking at me like I'm a madwoman not making any sense.

"Leslie, what are you—"

"I love you," I blurt out at him, but my face is sour and distraught. "I love you and it's been eating away at me for months because every day my heart just fills up more and more but everyday life gets harder and harder. It feels like the world has always been against me ever since I was little, and you come along and say the opposite of what everyone has been telling me my whole life and I-I just don't know how to react."

He listens intently, grasping onto every word. It's been a long time since someone has listened to me this way.

"I'm scared, Sebastian." I wipe tears from my eyes, refusing to let them fall. "I'm a mess and I don't have any of the answers. I just feel hopeless; I feel like I don't deserve you."

"Leslie—"

"I'm scared," I say again. "I don't have my shit together..."

"I don't have my shit together either," Sebastian tells me before I can say anything else. He wants me to see that we're the same, him and I—we're both fucked up, but instead of scaring me away, he wants me to know that it's alright. And I thought I had what I wanted to say sort of planned out, but my silence tells me I don't; it's my turn to listen.

His hand drags across his face, not tiredly but just out of impulse. He then shrugs, like what he's about to say is of little importance.

"I'll wait," Sebastian says. I don't understand him at first; he looks hesitant to say anything else.

"What?"

"I'll wait. For as long as it takes for you to feel like you're in a better place and have

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