A Storm on the Sun

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I awake with a jittery head and a fuzzy mouth. Am I hungover? I drank a few glasses of champagne the previous night, but not that many. It must be the emotional fight I had with Rafa that's making me bone-tired. My retinas feel like they've been kissed by a chainsaw.

I stretch my arm to the other side of the bed, expecting my fingertips to land on his chest or maybe the top of his head.

When I touch the pillow and it's empty, I sit up and scowl. He's gone. What time is it?

Scrambling to check the phone on the nightstand, I swear under my breath.

It's eleven. Rafa's flight was at eight. He's on his way to Madrid.

And he left without saying goodbye. I must have passed out hard if I didn't hear him leave.

I slump back into the pillow and think of how my father treated Rafael. How he tried to buy him off. After a minute, I launch myself out of bed and into the bathroom as a wave of nausea travels from my stomach and up to my mouth. I vomit into the toilet. Goddamned champagne.

"Rafa?" I call out hopefully as I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand. My voice echoes through the near-empty condo. He's long gone. Why would I even fantasize for a minute that he's here?

After brushing my teeth and splashing water on my face, I walk around the condo, edgy, my nerves bubbling. A folded piece of white paper with my name written in Rafa's precise handwriting lies on the black marble kitchen counter. Taking it to the sofa, I sit and read, panic rising in my chest.

Justine—

I'm sorry I didn't wake you. It was probably for the best, because it would have been too difficult to look into your beautiful eyes and say goodbye.

I'll be traveling for the next month. As per your wishes, I am not going to close the paper.

The consultants will help you transition to a five-day-a-week digital schedule in the coming year, and we will immediately sell the building. I hope this will save the business, which is your ultimate goal. We will have to reevaluate in six months, and again, in a year. I will be in touch on this through the consultants. They will handle most of the paper's affairs on my behalf.

I wanted to also tell you that the past month with you has been the happiest I've had since college. I wished we could have turned it into a lifetime.

Please know that I will love you always.

—R

P.S. The card for the driver is on the counter. Please call him and have him take you to the executive airport so the jet can fly you back to St. Augustine.

I run to the bathroom and throw up again. When I'm finished, I wash and grab my smartphone to peck an email to Rafael. I'm an imbecile. Why would I sacrifice the person I love for an industry that's dying? In a flash, life seems so clear when it hadn't before.

My hands shake as I try to type. Even though I've written a thousand news articles in my career, I'm having trouble choosing the right words now. It's so important that I must think harder, be smarter, work more, over the coming weeks to make everything right again.

I can fix this.

Rafael—

I woke up and reached for you this morning and you weren't there. Please don't make me go through this every morning for the rest of my life. I've made a horrible mistake. I am sorry. I want you more than I want my newspaper. I just need to figure out how to make it all work—perhaps Diana can take over as publisher when she returns from maternity leave. Give me time to get everything in order so I don't leave the people I love at the paper hanging. I know one thing: I must stop running away from you. Let's talk more. I need you. Most of all, I love you. You should be arriving in Madrid in about five hours, and hopefully you will read this email first. Please call me.

• J



"Dude, you look like hell."

I cut a glance at David, who's across from me at a table on the terrace of the Hotel Atlántico. I'm in a foul mood because the people at the table next to us are smoking. Everyone smokes in Spain. Or perhaps everything is annoying me tonight.

"Thanks. I appreciate your honesty."

"Didn't you sleep on the plane? I slept like a baby in business class. Those new pods on American are like a cradle. A couple of drinks and bam!" David snaps his fingers. "I'm out like a baby."

I shake my head. "I don't think I've slept in forty-eight hours. Or more. I can't remember."

On the flight to Spain, I'd seethed and argued with Justine in my head for a solid five hours until we landed in London. There, I'd tried to focus on business and barked orders on the phone for two hours before catching a flight to Madrid. Usually, I blasted through jetlag. Tonight I feel like a bull has run roughshod over my body.

"Someone's in a mood," said my assistant, Maria, when I snapped at her during my London layover.

"It's not you. Sorry. I apologize. You don't know the half of it," I growled.

Once I arrived at the hotel in Madrid's city center, I thought I could get some shuteye. But when I read the email from Justine, my heart practically jumped out of my chest.

Then I got mad.

I cursed her, called her names, deleted her number form my phone.

Then I restored it, because of course, I know it by heart.

I tried to sleep for a few hours but was too wound up. Now it's ten at night, an hour or so before people come alive in Spain. We're among a handful of people on the terrace, and I'm glad I wore a leather jacket because it's cold compared to Florida. I shoot a glare at the smokers.

"I feel like death."

David gives me a know-it-all look. "Let me guess. Justine?"

I nod grimly and wave down a waiter. "I told her I couldn't see her anymore." The waiter stops at our table, and I order a beer.

David narrows his eyes. "What? Why? Last I talked to you about Justine, which was, when? Yesterday? The day before? Everything's blending together with the building contract negotiations. Anyway, you said everything was great between you two. What the fuck happened?"

"I was going to propose."

David's jaw drops. "What? Jesus, you move fast. Marriage? She said no to a marriage proposal?"

I make a pfft sound. "No. I didn't even get that far. I was going to bring her here to propose. Things went sideways when I asked her to close the paper and come live with me in Miami. That happened when we went to the islands last weekend. I assumed she was giving the idea some thought and would come around eventually. But then in Miami, she said no, and refused to close the paper or leave St. Augustine."

David's light brown eyes widen in a what-the-fuck expression. He looks like a cartoon lion cub, all big eyes and dorky face.

"I was ready to propose a week ago, on Valentine's Day," I say sourly.

David holds up a hand. "Hold on. Back up. You're confusing me. Why didn't you do it then? You're usually so decisive and prepared."

I heave a sigh. "I know. It didn't feel right at the time. I wanted to treat her with respect and tell her about the business issues first. She is the paper's co-owner. I didn't want to propose and then tell her I was closing the paper. I thought that would seem manipulative. And since she seemed so shocked at my idea of closing the paper, it didn't seem right to ask her to marry me after I dropped that bombshell. It's so fucking confusing, her reaction."

"Women are so fucking confusing."

The waiter returns and pours beer into a frosty glass. "I'll drink to that." I raise my beer to him.

"So, she turned down the offer of getting rid of the paper? She doesn't want to live with you in Miami? I don't understand any of it. I don't know any woman who would do that. Not to you. You told her you'd take care of her, right?"

"Yeah."

David shakes his head. "Dude, you should have proposed first and then asked her to live in Miami. You did things ass-backward."

I shrug. "Definitely not my best decision."

David blows out a breath. "You couldn't fall in love with any normal, luxury-loving woman who doesn't want to work, could you? You had to fall in love with the complicated one, the one with principles. The one who doesn't want to be taken care of."

"Apparently the heart wants what the heart wants." And my heart is a masochist, apparently.

I drink half of the beer in two gulps, and my eyes go to a building across the balcony. Normally I love Madrid with its pulsing nightlife, historic Baroque architecture and underground music scene. Something about it feels like home to me, perhaps because it was the first place in Europe that I'd traveled to. With Justine, of course."So how did you leave things? Did you break up?"

"I don't fucking know. She sent me a message today. She apologized, says she's reconsidered. That she wants to be with me. But she's chosen her career over me twice now."

"Have you responded to her?"

I shake my head. "I don't know what to respond. How to respond."

David raises his eyebrows. "I don't think I've ever heard you express that sentiment. And how are you going to handle the newspaper?"

I roll my eyes. That was another shitshow. "I've decided to sell the building and stop delivery five days a week. Take it digital, keep two print editions on the weekends. See if that makes a difference. I've assigned a couple of the junior guys from the office to deal with it over the next few weeks."

"Funny. I expected you to say you're closing the paper to get back at Justine."

"No. I can't do that. I don't have it in me anymore. I don't know what I want, but I don't want to screw up that part of her life. It's obviously so important to her."

More important than I am.

I watch David eye a passing waitress and a group of women drinking pink cocktails.

"The old Rafael would get back in the game," David says, pointing at the women with his eyes.

I grunt. "The old Rafael was full of shit."

David chuckles, and I sit in sullen silence. More people arrive at the terrace bar, and it's suddenly crowded. All around us, people laugh and drink and eat tapas. I catch a whiff of garlic. The smokers haven't stopped smoking. I have no appetite, the beer's souring in my stomach and laughing seems like a skill I never had.

"Seems like you should accept her apology." David's on his second beer.

I shrug. "She wants me to move to St. Augustine."

"Hmm. I could see why you'd hesitate on that point alone."

"It's not that I can't move. You know as well as I do that I can work from anywhere. But..."

But I can't think of a good reason right now to oppose Justine's plan.

The waiter deposits a small bowl of potato chips onto our table, and David scoops up a few. "Maybe after you compromise for her, she'll compromise for you." He shovels the chips in his mouth and crunches thoughtfully.

I sigh. The thought of compromise makes me feel raw and vulnerable, and I'm tired of talking. I thought I'd compromised a lot for Justine and the idea that maybe I haven't doesn't sit well in my mind. Maybe I'm the asshole in this situation.

"We'll see. I'm headed to the room. I'm going to collapse."

"Yeah, it's probably for the best, bro." The relief in David's voice tells me that I'm in desperate need of being alone and hopefully, sleep.

Upstairs — my suite's on the tenth floor — I go to the window. The Grand Via is below, and even this high up, I can hear the sounds of the city. I'd chosen this suite so she'd be comfortable. So she'd spend a week in luxury, with the deep tub and the gazillion-thread count sheets and the sparkling water and chocolates on demand. It would have been a place for her to get away from the paper and its problems, in a city we'd both loved back in college.

I had it all planned out; she'd go to museums when I was in meetings, and we'd try different places to eat each night. I even had reservations for one of the Michelin-starred restaurants and had reserved a spa day for her.

How stupid could I have been? Why didn't I see her hesitation? Looking back on her expression while at dinner on the island, her tears when she held Diana's baby and her sour face at the party, it was so fucking obvious.

I'd read her all wrong.

Stripping off my clothes to feel freer, I wash my face, scrubbing at my skin. My reflection reveals deep circles under my eyes, and my skin looks sallow and not its usual golden-brown. I'm a fucking disaster. Glancing into my toiletry bag, I see the black velvet box.

It's where I'd shoved the diamond ring when I left Miami. Why, I have no idea.

My stomach does a flip as I pick up the box and open it. The diamond is brilliant, perfect, and I wished I'd asked Justine sooner.

Eleven years sooner.

When I'd left the condo, I paused in the doorway of the bedroom, looking at Justine. She'd wrapped herself like a burrito in the white comforter, and only her freckled face peeked out. She looked young and pretty, and I'd wanted to shake her awake because I was so angry. But I didn't. I let her sleep and left without saying goodbye.

Now, I can't even muster anger.

Snapping the box shut, I figure I should at least put it in the hotel safe — having a forty-thousand dollar diamond mixed in with the toothpaste and the aftershave probably isn't the best idea. Normally I'd never be so careless with something so expensive, but I was out of my mind when I left Miami.

I stash the ring in the safe along with my passport and turn out the lights. I climb in bed and check my phone. For the hundredth time, I re-read her email, thinking of her sky blue eyes, the little furrows between her eyebrows, how she bites her lip when she concentrates on typing.

The thought of never seeing those things again slays me, she wrote. Please don't make me go through this every morning for the rest of my life. Give me time to get everything in order...

I groan out loud.

I need you. Most of all, I love you.

Does she, though? Her rejection's created a chasm of doubt in my mind. Is she being unreasonable for asking me to go to St. Augustine, for not coming to Miami? Or am I being stubborn by insisting she give up her life?

Who's right? Maybe we both are. Or neither of us.

Is a compromise possible?

I'm so fucking tempted to call her right now, and my thumb hovers over the call icon.

But I stop myself. As much as I love her, I need this time to think. Time to figure out what's best for me, and what's most respectful to her. And she needs to think about what she wants. A little part of me, the spiteful part, also wants her to feel what it's like to live without me. Let her feel hollow and sad for a while because it's what I'm feeling, too.

I throw my arm over my face and try to sleep, hoping the nightmares don't make an appearance. I've been free of them for the past three weeks, but my conscious mind knows all bets are off with my subconscious now that everything is emotionally chaotic.

I shift on the bed. The Madrid streets have bubbled to life. I get up and whisk the gold curtains closed, hoping they'll block some of the city noise. Inky darkness overtakes the room, and I can still hear traffic, horns honking, people chattering.

I grunt out loud. Everything's annoying tonight.

A flop left. A flop right. How about on my back? No, lying down doesn't feel right without Justine next to me. My nose in her hair, and her warm neck. My arm around her body, her fingers intertwined with mine. The perfect curve of her ass and those little sighs of satisfaction when I pulled her close and held her tight.

"This is what I missed most," she'd whispered one night in St. Augustine, her body entangled in mine, "us, glued together, like this."

I'm driving myself insane thinking of her.

My phone buzzes with a text and I sit up, startled. Maybe it's her.

The noise sounds like a mini chainsaw, and I grope for the phone on the nightstand.

It's a text from Carlos, the private investigator from Miami.

I have the information you requested.

____

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