Page 42 of Mending Hearts
Rafe Ortiz address SF.
Steel Saints residence.
Rafe Ortiz San Francisco.
Nothing usable comes up, which I’m not surprised by. He’s private when he wants to be.
My pulse spikes with frustration. I can’t just call him. There’s no universe where he answers that call. And even if he did—what would I say?
“Hey, I just got served divorce papers. Please don’t do this. Please forgive me. Please still love me.”
No. I need to look him in the eye. I need him to see that I’m not hiding anymore—even if I’m still terrified, even if I still don’t know how to be brave in all the ways that matter.
I need to try.
My phone buzzes with a notification, and for half a second, my heart leaps stupidly?—
—but it’s just a calendar reminder for my flight tomorrow morning.
Tomorrow. No. That’s too late.
I swipe back to the browser and type his band name instead, more out of desperation than logic.
Steel Saints charity event tonight…is the first thing that pops up, and I stare at the screen.
Tonight. Los Angeles. Private charity gig.
My pulse spikes. I don’t think or hesitate. I text Eric with the link.
Me: I need into this event. Tonight. Steel Saints charity gig in LA. I don’t care how. Please.
Three dots appear almost immediately. Then disappear. Then appear again.
My bag is zipped. My coat is on. I grab the divorce papers off the counter, hesitate, then shove them into the side pocket of my bag like they’re proof I might need later.
The car arrives downstairs. I’m barely seated before I’m back on my phone, searching flights. There’s one. One seat in ninety minutes. I book it without looking at the price.
My phone buzzes again. Thank fuck it’s Eric.
Eric: Jesus Christ, Ollie. I can get you in—but it’s going to cost you.
I type back fast.
Me: Whatever it takes. I need in.
I stare, waiting for his response. Hopefully the delay is him making something happen.
Eric: Done. I had to buy a table. A whole table that didn’t exist five minutes ago. Please tell me you’re serious.
I let out a shaky laugh that sounds more like a sob. I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.
Me: I’m serious.
The reply comes seconds later.
Eric: You’re in. You owe me an explanation later.
I drop my head back against the seat and stare at the ceiling of the car, lungs pulling in air that feels sharp and electric.
