Careening Toward the End

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It's been five days since I spoke with the PI, five days since I returned to St. Augustine, and every day—hell, every hour—I've been thinking about telling Justine that I love her.

Something inside me has blossomed, going from revenge to acceptance to a measure of regret that I haven't tried to patch things up with her before now. Maybe it was finding out about my mother. Like the PI, Justine also asked me if I wanted to return to Cuba, and I'd maintained my usual stance—no way in hell—but truth be told, I've been thinking about it more and more.

Maybe it's because Justine and I are getting along with all of the ease of a warm knife in soft butter and I can see a future with her. Somehow I want to make peace with my past.

All of my past.

I don't tell her any of this. And she doesn't let on how she's feeling. Plus, we're too busy acting like hormonal teenagers.

"I still don't know how you make me so horny just by kissing you," I whisper one night, after we've left the paper and are on our way home. We pull over to watch the sunset over a river, and I take her face in my hands. The contrast between her pink cheeks and my golden brown skin steals my breath with its stark beauty.

She makes little mmm noises as we kiss slow and deep in the car.

We're getting along so well that I don't want to raise the topic of the paper just yet. That's the wild card. There's no way the Times can survive in its current form. Justine's father spent way too much money that he didn't have, and advertising and circulation never caught up.

Funny how I'd thought Edward Lavoie was such an astute businessman when I met him. How I'd been intimidated. Now, he just seems pathetic. Fuck him. This place is mine, and Justine will be soon, too.

Maybe this weekend in Orlando I'll tell her I love her. It's a great place for a happy ending, with Cinderella and all that. Maybe I'll ask her to move in with me, come to Miami, and leave all this crap behind.

I'm certain she'll want to. And maybe we can think about starting a family—she's been talking non-stop about Diana's shower and the baby, and then she fixes those big eyes of hers on me and my heart just fucking melts.

I want to give her what we lost.



The days drag and the nights fly, careening toward our inevitable end. By our third full week together, we've settled into a routine that looks strangely like how it used to, except with a thick layer of luxury and more expensive booze. Work. Cooking. Sex. Laughter. More sex. We sing along to old Elvis Costello songs and decide to start watching a new vampire show.

"You didn't used to love sci-fi or paranormal stuff." I pause with the remote in my hand as we're on the sofa. Who is this man, and how did we become so compatible with each other? And if we're embarking on watching an entire series together, that must mean we're staying together, right?

"Neither did you." He slings an arm around my shoulder and pulls me close.

When Rafa works from the villa or goes to daytime appointments with other media properties in the area, he texts me. My heart leaps just reading his words.

I'm ordering from your favorite pizza place and getting a bottle of wine. What would you like?

I'm waiting for you so we can go jogging together.

I'm in the conference room. Meet me at the front of the building so we can take a break. I want to buy you lunch.

So domestic it's almost sickening. So domestic that I begin to fantasize a future with him, something I'd expressly forbade myself from doing.

I kiss the bridge of his nose every night before we go to sleep and in the morning when he wakes up. And one night, I'm not sure if he whispers three words to me in the middle of the night or if it's only a dream.

Now it's Friday afternoon and we need to get on the road to Orlando. I'm giving a speech to a newspaper convention. Rafa's coming with me, of course. As usual, he's calmly in control and has delegated tasks to his minions in Miami, it seems. His mind is on me, and my mind, for the moment, is on my work. We're both in my office.

"Babe?" he asks.

I look up quizzically and push my glasses up my nose.

"Maybe we should go to a water park this weekend in Orlando. That way I can see you in a bikini all day," he says.

I tap my finger with my chin. "Hmm. I'd rather to go to Animal Kingdom. I've heard there's a baby giraffe. I'll give you a private bikini viewing."

He grins. "Animal Kingdom, it is. Let me see if I can arrange a private tour."

"You're a doll. Would you mind getting me a tea? I'll be done soon, okay?"

"Absolutely." He grins and leaves.

I sigh contentedly then turn back to proofing the article. Life couldn't be better.



I'm in the café across the street, and Justine's trying to finish proofreading the migrant farmworker project.

"What'll it be, man?" The owner, Mark, peers at me.

I'm in a sour mood most mornings, but today I'm feeling uncharacteristically magnanimous. Justine had woken me with a flutter of kisses on my neck and had made bacon and eggs. I smile.

"Double espresso. And an iced chai."

Mark laughs. "She has you fetching her tea?"

Since I haven't been paying attention to anything but my thoughts about Justine and Orlando, and whether I'll tell her I love her at the Waldorf-Astoria or in front of that theme park castle, I shoot him a surprised look.

"Justine. She orders the iced chai."

I nod. "Oh. Yeah. It's for Justine."

"Well, tell her I said hello. And let her know that I'm counting the days for our dinner date." Mark sets the cups on the counter, and I narrow my eyes.

Dinner date? My chest feels like it's in a vice grip. "Dinner date? Well. Lucky you," I reply with a steel-edged voice.

Mark wipes his hands on his apron and doesn't notice the angry vein throbbing at my temple or the way my hands are twitching into fists at my side. Or he ignores it and is smirking at me triumphantly.

Justine agreed to go out with this guy? Has she been playing me the entire time? The betrayal is like a swift kick to the throat.

"Yeah, I saw her on Sunday. She stopped in, and she said she'd love to have dinner with me in a few weeks when she's finished with her...your...deal," Mark says.

Nodding, my hands shake slightly as I take my wallet out of my pocket and withdraw cash. With cold precision, I set the money on the counter and glare at Mark.

"Right. Our deal. She'll definitely be free after that. Who knows? Maybe she'll be available sooner."

My fury rises deep in my stomach, a gripping, sickening feeling. Justine made love to me not long after agreeing to have dinner with another man? After I'd bared my soul about my mother and practically cried in her arms?

Incredible. I'd never doubted her fidelity when we were together, but she's obviously changed more than I thought.

Somehow, I make it out of the café without flattening Mark. It's actually a miracle, I think, that I didn't explode. Instead, I get outside, set the tea and the coffee on an outdoor table, and slip on my sunglasses. My breath comes in short, sharp sips.

I normally don't get emotional. It's how I've become so successful. But I haven't followed my own playbook here in St. Augustine. Emotions. I need to shut them off.

All I need is to walk around the block to compose myself. Recalibrate and get back to basics.

I should pull my support for the paper. No, I can't do that, we've signed a contract. Would she hold me to it? Who knows. I thought I knew Justine, but obviously, I don't. Turns out I don't know her at all.

Or I could cancel Orlando altogether and return to Miami.

No, I should go away for the weekend and toy with her.

All the old feelings of revenge and rage are back, and by the time I stride into her office, I'm smirking and plotting. I refuse to let her see my anger, not yet. After all, she does have the speech to give later, and I don't want to derail her from that. I'm furious, but I'm not about to interfere with her professional success.

Not yet, anyway.

Justine's at her desk, poring over the proofs of the project going in the Sunday paper. I set the tea down.

"Thanks for the tea, Rafa," she coos.

God, she sounds so fake. How did I not notice this before?

"This story's incredible." She reaches for her tea. "Without you, we'd have nothing. God, you got such detail about these kids. How they've gotten sick from the pesticide. How the parents fear being separated from them if there's an immigration crackdown. We're giving you a double byline, probably a first for a private equity finance guy."

I grunt in response. "I need to take care of some at from the house. I'll pick you up at three." I reach for my wallet and take out a stack of hundred-dollar bills. "Here."

I casually toss a thousand dollars on the newspaper in front of me. She gapes at me with big, confused eyes the size of saucers.

I stare at her, unblinking.

Allowing her to get under my skin is my own mistake. How did I not realize that Justine's no better than the other women I've casually fucked, women who desired me only for my money and status? There haven't been many of them, I haven't fallen for any of them, but they've been background noise for years.

"I was jogging by that lingerie store the other morning and thought they had beautiful things. Buy yourself something for this weekend. Don't bother with the white lace, I'm sick of the purity act. Make sure it's extra slutty."

Her jaw drops. Good. I'm going to shock her a lot more before the day's over. I slip out of her office without a kiss or a goodbye.

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